The Voluspa
Thence come the maids
Who much do know;
Three from the hall
Beneath the tree;
One they names Was,
And Being next,
The third Shall Be
Somewhere, Under the Boughs of the Great Tree
“So much chaos has already befallen the world, yet here it stands” said the first. She appeared to be an old wise woman. She always looked backward, as if there was a troubled memory pursuing her. Her old hands worked quickly, spinning a golden thread with unnatural mastery.
“The web weaves in the way it always has, dear sister” said the second. “It always will, by its own will.” She was much younger, bustling with energy and hope. She always looked forward, as if the current moment was the most important of her entire life. She caught the golden thread in her hands and contemplated the lengths.
“The future holds much good and bad, my darlings. Everything and nothing. The end and a beginning” said the third. She was of average age, held a vibrant book in her hands, and shielded her face from the world by hiding it behind a closed veil. She always kept her oldest sister at her back, her eyes fixated in the opposite direction. She looked at the many golden threads before her, considering each one at a time. Occasionally, she would strum one and produce a lovely vibrant note. Each time as the note subsided, the thread would snap. She would sigh and then after some time, move on to consider the others.
The first looked up at the night sky. The pulsating iridescent energy of the Great Tree hummed in a way that personified the feeling of pure Truth. At that moment, she felt it again; the sudden sense that something was wrong.
“Some days I swear the stars will start to turn in the other direction. I am afraid that one day the sins of their past will come to haunt them, said the first.
The second giggled, playfully twirling a golden thread in her fingers, and says, “Then they will pay for the consequences of their actions when the time comes. Trust, sister, have faith. Everything is fine right now.”
The third considered what her sisters were saying and fingered at the cover of her book curiously. If what it contained was meaningless, then why right it down at all? She knew she could look, but mustn’t. This was one book that could never be opened.
“I fear, dear sisters, that you are both right. Sins of the past have a way of weaseling their way into the future,” said the third. “I fear that the stars may one day change direction. I fear that they will pay for their sins, but they will not be alone. It does not change the fact that we are here to spin these threads and watch them weave.”
So they continued. Spinning the golden thread into many different lengths, tending to them carefully, and occasionally strumming their last note. They did so night after night, doing their best to ignore the winds of change that blew colder and colder. Eventually, they started to see the change in the web that stretched outward, like the limbs of the Great Tree above them, to every corner of the world. Entire sections went slack. Other cords grew thick and strong. Others strained, groaning under stress.
The web was changing and they could only do one thing; weave.
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