The Hag's Hair Oak

She could tell that the twisted magic of time had deceived her. As she reached the threshold to the house, she noticed the edge of the door and the door jam were covered in the old hag’s hair—evidence that she had been gone much longer than she had thought. It was a trick the old woman used to track how long her apprentice had been gone from her responsibilities, and a signal to Raven that she had lost track of time again.

It was easy to get lost in time while wandering in the forest. Raven often spent long hours watching the sun dance on the surface of the stream, as dragonflies seemed to be trying to capture the tiny pieces of glitter on the water. She would rest against the base of a great oak, where its twisted roots wrapped around her like strong arms. The tree was just at the water’s edge. A small slab of bedrock provided a smooth dry place to sit. She dreamed of flying free like the dragonflies.

Clearly the hours had been longer than she realized, as the old hag’s trick of leaving a strand of her hair upon the door to grow and mark Raven’s time away provided ample evidence of her thoughtless revelry.

The long, silvery strands attached to the rough façade of the door, and hung over its facing like the steel cables of a suspension bridge. They were fine, like spider silk, and just as strong as the cables they imitated. Raven knew this. She had read about the strength of spider silk and wondered if the old hag’s hair was equally strong. She had decided to make an experiment of it one day, weaving several strands together and casting a spell on a mouse to walk the strands like a tight rope.

Raven heaved a sigh, anticipating a tongue lashing from the old witch. She had been told, repeatedly, not to wander off, aimlessly into the forest where the Fae lived. Even if she did not slip into their world, the essence of time shifted in their presence and one could get lost for hours. Those lost hours were supposed to be dedicated to working on her studies and her chores—two things Raven found dull and exhausting.

When she thought about reading the passages out of the old spell books for hours on end, and directing cobwebs over the windows to create ambiance for the strangers who happened by to have fortunes told or to pick up potions for this or that ailment, her heart sank. Surely there was a faster, more pleasant way to become the witch she hoped one day to be.

Her mother had been a great witch before she went missing, and Raven had never seen her mother spend hours reading spells to become powerful, nor had she had to basically be a servant girl to others. It was frustrating. Thinking about the unfairness made Raven long for the days before even more.

She slowly cracked open the door, trying to be as quiet as possible. She knew it was useless. The old witch could barely hear a word when you spoke directly to her, but if you were actually trying to be quiet, she could hear every creak in the floorboards beneath your feet and every breath that you tried to hold.

The entryway was dark, and there wasn’t so much as a peep coming from the workroom where the old witch passed her days. As Raven cautiously looked around, she was startled when Two-pence leaped out of the corner at her, and let out an annoyed yowl. The giant black cat quickly wove through Raven’s ankles, nearly tripping her as she tiptoed through the hallway. She stuck her head in the doorway of the kitchen, only to find it empty as well. It occurred to her that the source of the cat’s annoyance was the empty food dish in the corner by the small greenhouse just off the room.

It wasn’t like the old hag to leave Two-pence waiting for breakfast like that.
The house felt stale and old in the silence—even less inviting than usual. Even less than when she had come to live here. She could still remember the day.

The old hag had taken her in after her mother’s disappearance. She had explained herself to be a long time, distant friend of her mother’s family. It was her obligation to care for Raven and direct her studies, the woman had told her. Raven had listened to the news of her mother’s disappearance, and the hag’s “adoption” in stony silence. She knew it was useless to argue. Without her mother, Raven already felt she had lost everything. There was nothing left for which to argue.

Raven corrected the issue of the empty food dish for Two-pence and poured herself a glass of water. As she took a sip, she could not help but immediately spit the liquid out. The taste was stale and old like the house. It smelled of the old hag and her hair, and Raven nearly wretched with disgust.

Something wasn’t right.

She sat the glass aside, and quietly stepped out into the hallway again.

“Hagathelia,” Raven called into the dark silence of the corridor. Her voice echoed against the wood panels.

There was little light in the hallway, but Raven knew where every uneven board in the floor was and how many steps there were from the kitchen to the workroom by heart and by feel. She chided herself as she remembered promising the hag she would loosen one of the floorboards, which had contracted and tightened with the cooler temperatures of the fall. It occurred to Hagathelia that the floor didn’t make quite the creepy sound her clientele was used to and that the jingle in her purse wasn’t as loud as during the warmer months when the whining of the floorboard mimicked the poignant whimper of a wounded banshee.

Raven continued down the hall toward the old woman’s workroom. Usually by this time of the day a cauldron was brewing and bubbling on the counter, a faint smokiness would emanate from crumbled herbs that burned in one of the corners, and a crystal ball would provide a faint glimmer at the table where Hagathelia would tell people’s fortunes for money. She tiptoed into the room, only to find it completely empty of activity. There was no evidence that the old woman had even been in the room today.

Raven had sneaked out of the house before Hagathelia awakened that morning, but it was mid-day, and she couldn’t imagine that the hag would still be upstairs asleep. In the few years that she had lived with the hag, Hagathelia had never been ill, and she had never missed opening her house to visitors who might reward her handsomely for the right fortune or the right love potion. Hagathelia often muttered irritably about the people who dropped the most coins in her purse, saying they knew nothing of true magic. Raven silently agreed, but would never tell her so.

Raven thought the fortunes and potions Hagathelia sold were shameful and a sign of the hag’s diminishing powers—if she’d ever had any powers at all. Raven would never stoop to selling fortunes, potions and trinkets to get by. And it wasn’t even as if the old hag made such a fantastic living. There was always just enough food and just enough turf for their fire. There was never enough for Raven to have a fine, new cloak or even a pretty new dress. She often wondered why the hag even bothered. If she were a witch of any quality, surely she would be able to acquire anything they needed with her powers.

Thinking of this, Raven let out a heavy sigh. She remembered the days of pretty dresses without tattered hems. She remembered the stories her mother told her, as she quietly drifted off to sleep. She missed her mother. She had never known her father, but had been told that he, too, was a powerful wizard. It seemed unbearable that she had been left behind to worry herself with the whereabouts of the old hag who never had so much as a kind word for her, let alone any sweetness or love.

Nevertheless, she climbed the stairs after finding the workroom empty. If the hag wasn’t working, perhaps Raven would have the opportunity to find Hagathelia in her bed and be able to accuse her of laziness instead. How satisfying might that be?

She didn’t concern herself with sneaking. After all, if Hagathelia was still sleeping, she could hardly reprimand Raven for shirking her responsibilities. She reached the top of the stairs, and made her way to Hagathelia’s door. Respectfully, she knocked and called out to her guardian.

“Hagathelia! Are you well?” Raven stood waiting for a reply, but heard no response.
“Hagathelia,” she called out again—just in case the hag was sleeping too deeply to hear her. Still—no response. Raven slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open, shocked by her discovery.

The old hag lay there, seemingly more than asleep. Raven approached the woman’s bed and attempted to wake her, but the old woman appeared unable to respond. Raven could see Hagathelia’s chest rise and fall with her breath and was reassured that the hag had not passed in her sleep. While she had no strong affection for the woman, she had no wish for harm to come to her. Perhaps years of long work and a hard life had finally caught up with the old hag and she simply could not wake. Raven placed her hand on the hag’s forehead, checking for fever, but withdrew it quickly as she felt that the woman’s skin was cold as ice. The hag moaned as Raven looked upon her in horror.

“Raven,” the hag whispered, but not in her own voice. The voice was like a dream. It was the voice of Raven’s mother. As Raven stood there, she became even more frightened. “I am dying,” the voice whispered.

Raven shook her head violently. Was this some cruel punishment for her dillydallying in the forest? She could think of nothing more terrible than the old hag using whatever powers she might have to mock the pain she felt about having lost her mother. Anyone who would do something so horrible could only be described as heartless. If Hagathelia could inflict this kind of cruelty, Raven would leave to find her own way.

“How dare you speak with my mother’s voice, hag! You mock me.” Even as she tried to sound assertive and commanding, Raven could feel a lump forming in her throat as she blinked back tears that were involuntarily forming in her eyes.

“Child, come close please, and pour me a cup of water. There isn’t much time.”

In spite of her anger, Raven obeyed the sweet voice emanating from the gray, twisted and gnarled hag. She knelt on the floor next to the bed, and brought the cup of water up to the hag’s lips. The hag opened her eyes slightly, sipping at the water sloppily. Raven was disgusted as some of the water dribbled from the sides of the old hag’s mouth, but she dutifully dabbed it away with a rag that was on the bedside table. The woman rested back on her pillow, took a breath and seemed to be trying to collect herself and her thoughts. And then, she finally spoke again.

“When you were a child, you used to wander into the forest,” she whispered roughly, but still in the sweet voice. “You were so beautiful. I worried when you would go away for hours, but I could not tell you no. One day, you left and the sun traveled from one end of the sky to the other. Darkness fell, and you never came home. I ran into the forest, with only the moonlight and the dim light of my wand to guide me. As I stumbled through the forest over the roots of the great trees, I heard whispers. I knew the Fae were there. I hoped that they had not taken you.”

The old hag grew quiet for a moment. Raven lifted the cup to her lips again, and the hag eagerly sipped, dribbling again. Hagathelia took a few breaths before continuing.
“The whispers grew louder and I grew more frightened and more desperate to find you. I was afraid my fears would be realized. I called out into the night. ‘Give her back to me, and I will do what you will.’ The whispers became silence. The only sounds I could hear in the forest were the songs of the crickets and the mocking bird. Long moments passed before I could move. Suddenly, a faint light floated into the forest where I was standing. The queen of the Fae was standing there before me. I shook with fear, knowing that my Raven had been taken from me forever.”

Raven heard the words, but was unable to take them in—unable to believe them. Despite her disbelief, she remained silent as the old witch continued the tale she was weaving out of Raven’s pain.

“The queen looked upon me with disdain. ‘You are a powerful witch, what need have you of this simple child?’ The child you speak of is my sweet, baby girl, I told her. I beg you to give her back and I will do what you ask. The queen stood there, staring at me as if she was intrigued by my offer, and I could only hope that she truly was. ‘My people have been kind to your family, Andreya. We have given the daughters of your family their power for generations, and we have asked for very little in return. If we return Raven to your world, you must come to ours in exchange.’ I cannot come to your world, for Raven needs her mother. ‘Then you must return your power, and your life will be shortened. Raven will have you, but she will never know who you are.’ As I stood there, my heart breaking, I could think of no other way to get you back, and I knew I would be even more heartbroken to leave you with the Fae. And so, I agreed to the queen’s conditions.”

As Raven knelt beside the old hag’s bed, she noticed the creases in the old woman’s face were softening and her pale blue eyes were deepening and becoming luminous. The staleness of the woman’s skin was replaced with the sweet fragrance of the mimosa tree. Tears filled Raven’s eyes, as the features of the old hag were being replaced with those of her long lost mother.

“Mother,” Raven exclaimed, as she threw her arms around the woman lying on the bed.
Andreya exhaled fiercely as her jubilant daughter squeezed the breath out of her. Realizing her strength, Raven released her hold and knelt beside the bed again.

“Now we can be together,” Raven said smiling. “Always.”

A tiny tear trailed down Andreya’s cheek. “No child, not for always—only for moments. The Fae demand the rest of their price for returning you. My life is drifting away.”

“It cannot be,” Raven replied, as she shook her head in denial. “It’s not fair.”

“The Fae do not live by what we think is fair. I denied them the joy of keeping you a child in their world forever, and for that, you and I have both paid a price. You have not known me, and now I may not stay with you.”

“What will happen to you?”

“I will become what all powerful witches do when their lives come to their end. The gray, gnarled and twisted body I have inhabited will become my own as I take root by the stream.”

Raven looked at Andreya with confusion in her expression.

“The oak, Raven, I will become the oak you rest against as you watch the dragonflies light upon the stream in the glittering sun.”

Raven could not help but smile through her tears. Though her heart was breaking, she took joy in knowing that her mother had been watching her all along. She was saddened by her own selfishness and her inability to see through the wrinkled grayness of the old hag’s form. Surely she should always have known that her mother was right there. What kind of witch could she be without the power of sight.

“I know what you are thinking, Raven. We are powerful witches, but our power comes from the Fae who are more powerful than you can imagine. They said you would not know me, and you did not. The magic was theirs to command, and not yours to unravel. As I pass, the powers that were once mine will become yours. You may have a daughter someday. I know you will now understand the choice I had to make, and you will forgive me.”

“I hope, my mother, that you can forgive me—for being willful and thoughtless.”
“Raven, I cannot forgive you.” Raven flinched at the words. “Why would I ever need to forgive you for being just who you were meant to be? It’s like the water asking to be forgiven for being wet.” Andreay smiled as she reached for Raven’s hand. “The very essence of who you are is what I could not bear to live without, even if you could not know me. I will remember you and love you forever, my child.”

Andreya squeezed Raven’s hand firmly, and Raven squeezed back. They held hands silently for what seemed like hours. Slowly, Andreya’s grasp began to weaken, and Raven knew her mother was slipping away forever. Her mother’s breathing slowed and finally stopped. Raven wept quietly as the sun slipped below the hills in the distance that she saw through the window.

As the moon rose, she lifted Andreya’s lifeless body from the bed and carried her downstairs, out of the house and deep into the forest. She walked through the dark trees until she found a small meadow of flowers and lemongrass. She laid her mother’s body on the ground and quietly said goodbye. She knew the Fae would come for her mother and she would be left alone.

Days went by, and Raven had not been able to leave the house in which she had lived with the old hag even to go for fresh water and firewood. She had shuttered the windows and doors to keep visitors—Hagathelia’s customers—away. One day, as she sat in the darkness of the sitting room, the front door suddenly flew open. Raven stepped out into the hallway to see what was happening. She heard something drop to the floor and roll toward her feet. When she stooped down to see what was before her, she was surprised to find a beautiful green acorn. Tears welled up in Raven’s eyes.

She ran out of the house and into the forest, not caring about the bushes and tree branches that flew at her as she ran. She finally reached the water’s edge and threw her arms around the old oak. Raven hugged the gnarled, rough tree for a long while, before sitting down against it to watch the dragonflies light upon the water as the sun glittered upon its surface. She could almost feel her mother’s arms around her as she rested within the twisted roots of the ancient tree. She noticed a few tiny, silver strands hanging off of some of the branches. The old hag's hair. Her mother would always be with her, and she would always be known.

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