You did not make this. That is the whole virtue of it. Water made it, over a span of time you have no business thinking about, and a holed stone that a man drilled is worth precisely nothing.
Hang it at the bedpost and the hag cannot ride you. Hang it on the stable door and she cannot ride the mare either — and you will know if you skipped it, because the horse will be lathered and shaking at dawn with her mane plaited by something with small clever fingers.
And if you are feeling brave, hold it up and put your eye to the hole.
The stone does not show you anything new.
It shows you what has been standing in that field the whole time, every night, patiently, while you walked past it.
