Witch moon

Brid of the raven hair watched freckled-faced Conn out of the corner of her eye, hoping to catch him glancing after her shapely form.

As usual, the lummox gave never a twitch to indicate he knew she even existed.

Instead, Conn was listening to old Benjamin´s droning tale about how they went about catching a wummin’ in the old days.

As if a man knew anything about catching! Not for real, at any rate. The choosing was a woman’s business when all was said and done. Men didn’t know their own best interests.

That’s how she ended up under Conn’s window at the following full moon, with her mother’s best silver sugar bowl full of water from the holy well.

Everyone knew that well water caught in silver and exposed to the moon was a powerful component of all kinds of love potions. It was also surprisingly effective at getting rid of warts and such.

She began the enchantment, sprinkling moon-lit well water round herself in a circle and chanting Conn’s name softly to the wind three times.

Nothing!

No sign the big lummox was even stirring.

After half an hour, a cloud crossed the moon and a slow drizzle began.

It seems that it was not a night for magic.

Disconsolate, Brid tramped across the wet field to her own house, ready to climb the apple tree and reach her attic window.

In a cross mood, she rounded the old tree with less care than usual, only to trip over a dark lump crouching by its roots, stubbing her toe.

The lump uttered a startled curse and dropped what appeared to a silver salver with about an inch of water swirling in it.

"Conn MacCoyle!", gasped Brid, in a choking voice. “Whatever brings you lurking under my window on this moonlit night?”.

Conn hung his head and growled something indistinct, while Brid surreptitiously chucked her mother’s best silver sugar bowl into the underbrush behind her.