Little Witch Tales: The Hanged Weaver

There was the age of the yew tree, the age of the eagle, and the age of the old Hanged Weaver.

The girl heard the warnings: If she saw the Old One making her rounds this month, it was best to leave the hooded hag alone. The Old One had a quick temper, and if someone said the wrong thing, she'd respond with icy wind and sleet. The girl heard the warnings, but she also knew if she trod lightly, the Old One had a soft spot for good conversation.

As the rumor went, the Old One knew everything. She was educated in magick and fate and the ways of fairies and the four-footed. She held the secrets of the horned huntresses, hoofed women, and the sisters steering the slippery reigns of time. The Old One was every bit as mesmerizing as she was maddening. She'd answer every question asked of her, although finding reason in her riddles proved near impossible.

The girl had heard the warnings, but she wasn't deterred, not even when she spotted the Old One's cottage, a tired hut just beyond the tree line. She stepped across the wooded threshold and recalled what she knew about the three great ages:

There was the age of the yew tree,

The age of the eagle,*

And the age of the old Hanged Weaver.

The witch was old, ancient even. But how do the ancients count time? How many times had she circled the sun? What was the age of the Hanged Weaver?

The girl knocked at the door, determined to find out.

"Is this because I asked how old you were?" Little Witch stopped writing in her grimoire and looked at Madam Spider. Her mentor shrugged, eyes glued to her weaving.

"A preposterous assumption! Witches know that age is just a number." Madam Spider scanned the room, waiting for a fairy to suggest otherwise. The fairies nodded as they flitted to and fro, ever helpful. Pleased, the weaver turned back to her masterpiece in the making. Little Witch noticed that Madam Spider's tapestry was beginning to look like a self-portrait. The only difference was that the arachnid in the cloth appeared older, and four of her eight legs ended not with paws but dainty hooves. "Not to mention," Madam Spider patted her lookalike on the head, "this is a tale your mother and I have been working on for ages!"

Little Witch reminded herself to check the story's origin with Mother when she returned from the printer. She also wanted to find out if Madam Spider and the Hanged Weaver were related. As the editor, Little Witch believed magick dwelt in the details.

A fairy holding a notebook the size of a button arrived at Madam Spider's side. Using a combination of hand signals, twirls, sighs, and the occasional word sung like a song, Madam Spider explained to the fairy how this first chapter could be improved.

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The sprite jotted down notes, and Little Witch used this intermission to add a new page to her grimoire. She titled it “Age is But a Number” and added a border of mountains and pine trees. She snuck a peek at Madam Spider's antics between doodles and felt a pang of guilt. She hadn't intended to hurt the spider's feelings by asking her age; she only wondered how long it would take her to be as wise as the weaver. She hoped no more than a year or two.

"You do remember that I'm a student, and a student is supposed to be curious!" Little Witch stopped drawing and looked up from her spellbook. "Plus, Mother says there is no such thing as an unwelcome question between friends."

"Your mother is on her way to becoming a sage storyteller and sorceress!" Madam Spider sashayed around the room, occasionally pausing to blow a kiss to her tapestry. "And she speaks the truth, for asking questions takes courage! It's much easier to pretend you have all the answers than admitting to the masses that you're still a work in progress." Madam Spider twirled, reached into her pocket, and produced a handful of tea leaves. "A witch is not afraid to ask questions, but she also remembers to inquire within!"

"But, Mother says you have an answer for everything," said Little Witch, nudging an empty teacup in the spider's direction.

"You better believe it!" The weaver tossed the leaves into the air like confetti and watched as they floated down into Little Witch's cup. "But that has little to do with my age and everything to do with experience. I treat questions as quests, and when you get to my age, you've circled the world at least twice! Hasn't anyone ever told you that answers don't grow on trees? They creep and climb from the vines of practice and patience!"

Three fairies hobbled over with a teapot and poured steaming water into Little Witch's teacup. "And last time I checked," Madam Spider lowered her voice to a whisper, "answers don't come when we call them. Not until we weave some dedication into the web of our priorities!"

Little Witch watched the potion swirl and steep. She turned back to her spellbook and traced some animal tracks into the page's wooded landscape. "Deer tracks," she explained to Persephone as she examined the scene. Her familiar mewed, rolled onto her back and began to purr. "Let me ask." She turned to Madam Spider, "Shall we continue? Have we finished editing this first chapter?"

"Eddittiiiiiiinngg," Madam Spider said the word slowly, letting the syllables hang from her tongue like honey. "Such a dull word. Where's the pizazz? I prefer to call this phase polishing."

Little Witch added a bold, bumpy moon over the pine-covered mountains. "Whatever you call your word witchery is fine with me." She grinned. "But, before we move onto this next scene, I think the audience and the editor," She held up her purple pen, the same color as Madam Spider's cape, "must ask a crucial question before we go any further." Persephone held her breath, the fairies covered their ears, and, for the second time, Little Witch asked Madam Spider, "How old are you?"

"My age?" the Old One mused as she stepped out the door. "Not even I can say for sure. But I've been raising flies for as long as I've been breathing."

The witch motioned for the girl to follow her into the barn and then pointed toward a loft in the rafters. "Each year, I harvest one fly and throw the skeletons up yonder. She pointed to the sagging loft. "If you want to know my age, go up there and count the bones."

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