Celtic Lore ...A Tale of Bewitching

The world is only a little dust under our feet.
—W.B. Yeats

Tree of Life—Druidic Symbol

There are strange things done in the Glens of Antrim.

Stars burn like match heads.

I lean back into the grassy hill and feel myself falling through space.

Pinpoints of distant suns run to lines—and then, I’m at Polaris.

I gather filigrees of frosty fronds, then, I’m back on the hillside, staring into the depths of Alison’s eyes.

“Did you make it?”

“I did.”

“Where’s my bouquet?

I bring my fingers to her lips and she inhales.

“They’re lovely."

Her long dark hair is parted in the middle, drawn aside like curtains, framing her face.

“So are you,” I tell her.

“Do you love me, Fib?” She asks.

“You know I do.”

She laughs—her mouth a black blur in the darkness.

“But I like to hear it. You’re a poet—you need to speak it.”

“I can never summon the words.”

“Am I your Muse?”

“You are.”

“Then, this will help.”

And she kisses me long. Stars rise and set in antique silence. The lone wolf Moon is lost in the woods.

“I think you’re bewitched.”

Hendry Graham looks concerned.

“It doesn’t matter. I want her.”

“Aye, it does matter.” He grabs me by the lapels of my coat. “You’re waltzing in at all hours of the morning, daft and half out of your head.”

“'Tis a sweet madness.”

“Get a grip on yourself, Man.”

“Tis no use,” MC cackles from the pub’s stairway. “He’s gone—far gone.”

“Is everyone here mad?” Hendry moans.

Old McCarty lets go the railing and barely makes it back to his chair. “And she a Vicar’s daughter—she ought to be ashamed.”

“They still practice the old ways here,” Hendry says, pouring me more coffee.

I protest. “Enough, Man—you’ll have me floating home.”

Old MC laughs.

“O it’s past that, young fibber—you’ve stardust all over your coat.”

Hendry’s hand brushes my shoulders. “Just pollen from Hannity Hill.”

“If it suits ye to believe that,” MC chuckles, “but I know what I know.”

Hendry stops brushing and looks hard at the old man.

“Do you know a remedy?”

The old man points to his empty glass. Hendry scowls, refilling it with Three Feathers.

“I’m asking if you know a remedy?”

“Aye, there be such.”

“And I take it the price is steep?” Hendry says, eyeing the amber liquid.

“Mayhaps, young man.”

“And why the doubt?”

“Tis no doubt, if he be willing.”

They both stop and look at me—MC with a bemused grin and Hendry with a grimace of disgust.

“Argh! I can’t stand to see him like this.”

“Then sit down young man,” says old MC, scraping a chair back, “ and we’ll discuss it over a wee drop.”

“There’s still a stiff drink in your glass,” Hendry scowls.

The old man chugs it back, wiping his lips with his shirt cuff. “The last drop in the bottle’s poison.”

“Then, you’ll have had more lives than a cat,” growls Hendry, filling it back up.

There’s a silly grin on my face and I swear my feet aren’t touching the floor. I felt half-in, half-out and weightless to boot.

“Something must be done,” Hendry concludes.

“Aye, but not tonight.”

Hendry fixes the old man with a black stare.

“You’ve been drinking my best rye and now your welching on our agreement?”

“Tis not that—it’s not the right time by the Moon. We have to wait for the solstice.”

“And when is that?”

“Why tomorrow, of course—what son of a self-respecting Druid wouldn’t know that?”

“What’s the plan?” the old man asks.

“Just bring your friend here before midnight, and leave the rest to me.”

“That’s it then?”

“Well that, and ye must keep him from the witch, or she’ll undo everything. We have but one chance this year.”

“So that’s it?”

“It tis—but how do ye intend to keep him from her?”

Hendry eyes me menacingly. “Leave him to my displeasure.”

According to the hands of my watch, it’s noon.

I awaken surrounded by barrels and cases of beer. It’s gloomy as midnight.

I stagger to the door and test the knob. It’s securely locked and the door impossible to budge. I know the storeroom well. It’s as good as the strongest jail.

At six, a plate of ham, eggs and fried potatoes is shoved in the door, along with a cold pint of ale.

“Hendry!” I cry, but to no avail. I’m permanently sealed off from the world without.

I sit morosely on a barrel, eating my meal and drinking my ale.

Were they right, then—old MC and Hendry—could I be bewitched?

I laugh and hear my echo bounce off the strong stonewalls. Preposterous.

But as I sit, I try to picture Alison’s face and can’t. I try to rekindle my thoughts of love. Nothing.

I panic and start to shake. Perhaps, they’re right—perhaps, I am bewitched.

The next few hours are the longest I’ve ever spent.

Before midnight, there comes a rap on the door.

“I’m coming to fetch you out, Fib—and I don’t want to have to knock you on the noggin. Will you comply?”

“I will—it’s okay, Hendry. I need to find out if I’m bewitched or no.”

He cautiously opens the door, sees me seated and enters. Old MC hovers in the hallway outside, nervously peering in.

“What do you have in mind?”

“You’ll see, my boy.”

He pulls MC into the room and then inserts the key. The bolt snaps firmly into place.

“They say this door withstood the assaults of the roundheads during the wars. My father brought it from London.”

Hendry pats it admiringly. “But can it stop the transmigration of souls? That’s a riddle the answer of which, remains to be seen.”

Old MC’s still doubtful.

“How are ye my boy—art well?”

“I’m fine, Man. Come in—I won’t hurt you.”

“You always were a fine broth of a lad.”

He comes close, scrutinizing my face and neck. “Would ye mind removing your shirt?”

It’s all nonsense, but I comply.

“No demon marks on his fair flesh. We can proceed.”

Hendry nods sagely.

“What do you intend to do?” I ask, alarmed.

“Fear not, young man—just drink this brew and we wait till two.’

He produces a goblet containing a concoction of unknown origin—it resembles liquid tar.

I sniff it.

“MY God, that’s foul—you can’t expect me to drink that.”

“Every last drop,” says Hendry firmly.

I eye the two men, but they’re determined.

“Here, drink like this,” says old MC, pinching his nose with one hand and mimicking draining the cup with the other.

I comply. Whatever it is burns all the way down.

Two hours pass. Nothing. We split an ale.

At midnight, Hendry brings out the bottle of rye. We drink until two.

“What did I tell you?” old McCarty yelps, “Tis broken for sure.”

Hendry peers into my eyes. “How are you feeling, Fib?”

“None the worse for the wear.”

His hands fall to his side. “Well, we can’t be keeping him—you’re free to go, Fib.”

I get up, stretch, put on my cap and head for the door.

“Yer not thinking of seeing the witch, are ye?” old MC asks.

“Why not? I’m not under her spell.”

“Best be careful, boy—she’s a glamorous one for sure.”

“You can protect me from enchantment, Con, but not from charm.”

“Well put, young man—and ye have a point there.”

He tips his hat to me and I go out into the moonlight.

The wind is high and clouds are racing. My blood stirs too.

I set off down the moon-washed roadway and in moments it seems, I’m at her door.

I call like an owl, softly, and my low note is borne on the wind.

Before long, she appears in her long white dressing gown and she’s in my arms again.

Her long dark hair is parted in the middle, drawn aside like curtains, framing her face.

Her mouth a black blur in the darkness.

“You’re darker than the woods at night, more mysterious than the tar seas of the Moon.”

She laughs and kisses me long.

Stars rise and set in antique silence. The lone wolf Moon is lost in the woods.

To be continued...

© 2025, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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