On either side of me my sisters sit, but I take no notice of them. I am weaving with nimble fingers the gay threads of reds and golds and greens and the sorrow of browns and grays and blues. Or is it the other way around? I cannot remember anymore. All is one.

I am as old as the earth. I am the earth, contained in a shell strung with flesh, much like the thread on my looms. I am not flesh, but dried red mud, like the pigment that tints my skin.

Though I am in this World, the world of real things, the breeze through the birch leaves, the roughness of stone, the slick pelt of the otter, my vision is often in the spirit world. Billions of people in similar appearances as I, yet they know not the pleasures that the Mother can give to them, if only they step away from their iron-choked cities into our world, of the wet and green and dry brown and red, where the wild flowers and rot and earth mingle as one. They instead choke on their own consequences.

They choose to call me many things. A Fate, God, the Lady. I am all and none. They can not help but give a name to what they are too blind to see. I am.

I twist and pull with rough cotton thread in dull hues, slick silk in vibrant shades, whisper soft wind, sticky mud, and burnt flames, feathers, fur, daisies, and bone. I weave with all that I have and all that I am. Only in the World are we complete.

The spirits blame me, the Lady, God, for the fates that have been weaved for them. These lost spirits do not take into account that by each and every action, they send to me the pattern of their consequence for the design of their blanket. I can only weave with what has been given to me.

There are few spirits who Know, and they shine brightly, like wisps of flame in my sight. They do not blame, but accept the terms of their lives. The others do not want to know that the control is not theirs to have. They remain willingly sightless rather than to admit that they do not Know. But I Know all.

They pray to God, my sister in task, that she may measure their children's lives long. They pray to God, my sister in task, that she may not slip and cut their ending threads too early. They curse to me for the pattern of their blanket.

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Based partly on the Greek Fate Nona, but with a more Native American theme.