Clementine could hardly hear what Mike was saying with the tension in her head.

“But we can still work together”, she heard. As she breathed in she caught the smell of the delicious Boeuf Bourguignonne she had taken such trouble to  prepare for their anniversary dinner. She felt her knees weaken and sat down at the beautifully set dining table, and heard “… the information you  provide is so useful in preventing crime in the Midlands”.

She wasn’t able to look him in the face, she put up her right hand to support her head and try and control her trembling. She heard the clink of ice cubes in the glass as he drank his whiskey, which she always had ready for him when he got in from work. “So that’s it, no point prolonging it, I’ll be off”. Despite the pounding in her ears, she heard her own voice say “Yes, Mike”, in her usual meek tone, as he turned for the door.

As the door clicked shut and his footsteps receded, Clementine sat still in the fading light with her tattered dreams and remembered how happy she had felt when this man first came into her life. These memories now mocked her as the sense of desolation in her body grew. How could she have been so mistaken, she wondered. She remembered how her heart swelled with joy when he came into the office and singled her out, asking her to get him the information he needed, she, Clementine, the office mouse, and he the handsome Detective Mike Smith. How she rushed to get him the information he requested, helping him be the heroic crime fighter he was, gave her such a thrill. She didn’t even hesitate to give him the barracks stamp when he asked for it to “help an old neighbour who needed some papers stamped”, he said. She admired such loyal community spirit. When they started seeing each other outside the office and their relationship deepened, to Clementine, this felt inevitable and right and forever.

These memories tormented Clementine now and she knew she had to get away. Her first thought was to go to her Great Aunt Clem who was always a safe haven in times of strife. Leaving the apartment exactly as it was, she grabbed her coat and keys, and ran out the door, down the stairs, got into her Mini Cooper and was hurtling down the M7 in no time. Her only thought was to get to her place of safe refuge, her Great Aunt Clementine’s cottage in Togher, the place of so many happy childhood memories.

She was surprised when the sound of the tyres on the gravel of the driveway didn’t bring Auntie to the door with a welcoming smile as usual. So she turned the key in the back door and entered the kitchen. It was cold and dark, the stove had gone out, the paraffin lamp was burning low and there was no sign of Auntie Clem. Then she remembered, Thursday nights were Coven nights and those meetings could go on a bit. She decided not to wait up, but instead, she got out some blankets, went up to the loft and lay down in the spare bedroom. No sooner had her head touched the pillow than exhaustion caught up with her, her eyelids closed and she slept to the lullaby of the pattering rain on the roof.

It was late when Clementine woke the next morning, the house was warm, and Aunt Clem was humming as she pottered about the kitchen. The smell of coffee coaxed her out of bed and down the loft stairs.

“Welcome, dear, it’s so good to see you. So unexpected, I’d have been here if I’d known you were coming, sit down here, have something to eat and tell me all your news”, said Aunt Clem as she encircled her in a warm embrace. As Clementine relaxed in her Aunt’s arms, the tears came and she poured the tale of misery into her Aunt’s ear.

“Well, I never…he seemed so…do have something to eat, dear…who would have thought…”., her Aunt murmured as Clementine told her story.

“ I thought you would know what I should do Auntie”, she sobbed.

“What can I do to help? Let me think, a love potion perhaps?”

“No way, I want as powerful a curse as you can conjure, that snake deserves nothing but toil and trouble”, said Clementine with a snarl.

The change in her niece shocked Aunt Clem, she was amazed by the venom in her niece’s voice and face. “Let’s not be hasty, dear, these things have a habit of rebounding, maybe we could …”, and with that Clementine’s phone rang. It was her boss, Inspector Herriot, “Good morning, Miss Clementine, I’m looking for the barracks stamp, it’s not in its usual place. Do you know where it is by any chance?” It was on the tip of Clementine’s tongue to admit giving it to Detective Smith, but something gave her pause.

“Well I don’t remember seeing it actually, but I’ll get back with you if I remember, Inspector, is there anything else I can help you with?”

“You know, having people like yourself working from home because of COVID is a nightmare, no one to get us reports as quickly as needed, I’m putting in a recommendation to have that changed as soon as possible” she replied.

“Yes Inspector, goodbye Inspector”, Clementine said in her usual meek tone as she pressed the off button and looked at her phone thoughtfully.

So Mike hadn’t returned that stamp! She wondered why he would keep it.

“Aunt Clem, I need the coven’s help”. “Now dear, the coven will have nothing to do with a curse”, her aunt replied. “I know Auntie, but I need help with something more important. I lent the barracks stamp to Mike some time ago, he said he needed it to stamp the passport of some poor old neighbour, and he hasn’t returned it. My job is on the line if the boss finds out I gave it to him.”

“Ahh, well that’s different, I’ll send a message around to Imogen and ask her to call”.

Aunt Clem decided against involving the whole Coven as Clementine was not a member, and if they suspected she had grudge against this man, they couldn’t help anyway. It had been her dearest wish that her grandniece would follow in her footsteps and join the Sisterhood but young Clementine had other ideas and opted for a civilian job and lifestyle, also she was terrified of broom flying, which was a serious disadvantage in the Craft.

Jasper the Owl went round to Imogen’s with the message “stamp missing, Clementine needs help”. Now as it happened, Amelia and Justine, two Portlaoise Witches, were there when the message arrived. They had been out picking hazelnuts in Dysart Woods and had called in for tea.

“That’s a strange one, why wouldn’t she use email like us all”, said Amelia when she heard the message.

“And ‘Clementine needs help’, that’s a really strange one, she works for the Guards, doesn’t she?” said Justine. “ Well there is only one way to find out about it, let’s go”, said Imogen and the three ladies were on their brooms and down to Togher in a flash.

Aunt Clem arranged the chairs in the orchard to ensure social distancing and while she served tea, Clementine told of her fears of losing her job if the barrack’s stamp wasn’t recovered. She never mentioned her bust-up with Detective Mike Smith. The ladies did wonder why she couldn’t just ask him for the stamp back but they refrained from prying. They realized that Clementine losing her job would be a loss for them all, as her ability to provide them with information regarding Garda checkpoints allowed them to evade detection while flying. Some of them still had provisional flying licences.

After a bit of discussion, the following was decided on: They would set up a surveillance operation using Imogen’s magpies, as they were terrific tails. Imogen would call to his house and ask him to stamp the “off the road “ form for that tractor she hadn’t taxed for years, and see if she could find out where he kept the stamp.

“Let’s go and stay safe ladies. You’d better bring that mobile tracer detector with you, Clementine”, said her Aunt. Clementine’s mouth went dry, she was terrified of broom flying, but she realized there was no alternative, so with her heart pounding in her chest, she gave a little run and jumped on her aunt’s old broom. She found it difficult to keep her balance, but she hung on gamely and followed her aunt’s lead.

Hovering over the Detective’s house, Clementine watched as Justine swooped and slipped a tracer on the Jeep parked outside. A few moments later, as Detective Mike was about to get into the car, he was startled by Imogen’s sudden appearance seemingly out of nowhere, waving a form. “Hello there, Detective, can you help me and stamp this “Off the road” form for my tractor.”

“Afraid not Miss, you’ll have to go to the station”. As he spoke, Imogen could clearly see the stamp on the dashboard. He got in his car and sped away.

Imogen gave the signal to Clementine to follow the car, and Great Aunt Clem got off the broom, saying, “you follow, dear, I can’t keep up with that speed, but you can do it, hurry!”

Clementine was petrified, but hanging onto the broom for dear life, she followed that jeep as it sped up the M7, keeping it in sight. The vehicle turned north and sped along the M50, passed all the exits she knew and on towards Dublin port. Suddenly it pulled off the motorway, at exit 13 ½, passed houses and farms and came to a field with an open gate, it turned into it, where there was a red sports car already parked. There was a dark-haired man, in his thirties, she guessed, wearing a white t-shirt and a black leather jacket. He was smoking a cigarette while leaning against the bonnet. Terrified she would be spotted, Clementine managed to park in the ditch. She called one of the nearby magpies, fitted a camera to its leg and told it to film the goings-on in the field. A few minutes later the red car drove slowly out of the field and turned north. She got the registration number. She stayed crouched in position until Mike Smith’s jeep left the field. When the magpie returned, she retrieved the camera, thanked him and screwing up her courage, she got on the broom and headed back to Togher.

She managed to evade detection on the way home and found Aunt Clem in the garden serving tea. “Just in time, dear, have some tea and tell us all,” she said, pouring her a cup. “Just give me a minute, to catch my breath,” said Clementine. The ladies were agog to hear her news. She sipped her tea, got out her laptop, inserted the chip from the camera and looked at the footage. She said nothing as she watched Mike Smith take the stamp out of his pocket, and stamp a passport for the other man, who then handed him a large wad of banknotes, which Mike put in his pocket together with the stamp. She watched the vehicles leave the field. The video clip ended.

Aunt Clem and the others had been watching the clip over her shoulder. “So, at least we know where he keeps the stamp, but do you think that young man looks like a poor neighbour?” said Imogen. Clementine’s mind was in turmoil, yes, she was angry with this man who had used her and dumped her but still, the culture of silence and looking the other way regarding the behaviour of colleagues ran deep in her. Nobody in the force ever shopped a colleague as far as she knew. But she also knew that there was no innocent explanation for what she had just seen. On top of that Clementine dreaded owning up to her own foolishness and yes, she was worried about losing her job, but she knew she couldn’t leave things as they were. She had to sort it out.

Clementine knew that the old saying: “Follow the money” was probably the best approach in this case and the money came from the slim, dark-haired man in the leather jacket. She could identify him and she knew his car registration. With a sigh, Clementine got out her phone and rang the office and asked for Inspector Herriot.

“Inspector, I have some information concerning that missing barracks stamp” and she told the Inspector the whole story. Inspector Herriot was silent for a minute, “Forward me that video clip and I’ll have that young man checked and we’ll see where that leads, in the meantime please continue your surveillance of Detective Smith. Get back to me if you notice anything suspicious.”

Click. Nothing about Clementine giving him the stamp! A reprieve! But she wasn’t out of the woods yet. She put the phone down and went back into the garden to update the others. “So, keep watch is the watchword,” said Imogen with a smirk. “Well, this is exciting, guarding the guards, such an adventure!”

Clementine knew that there had to be more to this than just stamping passports, otherwise why would Mike ring her so often looking for information regarding Garda checkpoints. Why did he need that information and who was he passing it on to, and how could she find out? She pulled out her phone and noted the dates he had rung her at work looking for such information, she then checked his social media profiles to see if she could find a clue, and there it was hidden in plain sight. On each of those dates, he had a message on his profile: “bad weather expected tonight, practice cancelled” and there were the same six names tagged to the message each time. Well! Clementine knew that the surveillance operation needed to be extended to the six people in question. She had no difficulty persuading the others to help, together with the magpies of course.

It wasn’t long before they had enough information on the activities of the six to give Inspector Herriot a good reason to come calling on all of them one Monday morning with the officers of CAB. They seized papers, bank books, phones, cars, vans and assorted other assets including the barracks stamp! 

Magpie messages

Imogen, the Secretary of the Ratheniska Coven, had a secret that only Beatrice the Coven’s leader knew. She knew that Imogen had no witch heritage whatsoever, but she kept that secret. One day years ago, Beatrice had found Imogen in the field behind her hut trying to make a potion out of dandelions and dock leaves. Being the good witch that she is, Beatrice took Imogen under her wing and tutored her until no one could tell that she was not of witch stock. Then Beatrice proposed her for membership of the coven, and so she was accepted. Imogen took great pride in being the most diligent witch, faithfully keeping and treasuring the Book of Shadows which had all the coven’s recipes, spells and potions. She never felt truly at home in the group, however, always feeling a bit of an outsider.

This feeling was exacerbated when Beatrice’s grand-niece Julianna joined the group. Julianna, although of short stature, exuded confidence. She came from a long line of witchy women, her carrying voice gave her an air of authority which belied her lack of inches, and she didn’t feel the slightest need to work on developing her skills. Julianna was fun-loving and a bit work-shy, and she had an uncanny ability to organize events to support her social life. She thought the mere sound of her voice was enough to ensure the success of her spells! And even if her spells failed, she was sure she could charm her way out of any awkwardness! As the years passed, Imogen’s envy of Julianna’s popularity and light-hearted approach to witchcraft increased and caused her endless heartache.

Last Halloween when the General Witches Assembly asked all covens to recruit and train new witches to help with all the chaos in the world…such as Brexit, forthcoming General Elections, Presidential elections etc., Imogen was thrilled. Here was a chance to shine at last! She was certain she was the right person to select and train Wannabe Witches, what with her knowledge of the minutiae of witchcraft, so she volunteered to run the training course. She got approval to make a start and was asked to report back on progress. Initially, Julianna was quite content with Imogen doing all the work, but when trainees were assigned to coven members for practical work experience, and she learned that she was expected to take responsibility for their actions, she began to hate the whole process, constantly wailing; “That’s not fair, why should I have to do this? I’m busy, I have other plans for tonight”.

As soon as Imogen thought her students were ready for coven membership, she reported back to Beatrice, who was just back from an exhausting trip searching for the out-of-season crocuses which indicated the homes of courageous descendants of the original Dysart Parish Coven of 1769. Despite her fatigue, she proposed a coven meeting to discuss the matter. As usual, Jasper, the Owl, delivered the notice and agenda for the meeting to all coven members. Julianna was aghast to read that Imogen proposed that all “graduates “ of her training scheme be made coven members automatically on graduation! “Not bloody likely! Over my dead body!” thought Julianna, as she sat and drafted her own speech to counter the proposal.

There was a full attendance that night, and Beatrice the Chair, thanked them for coming and explained why the meeting was called. She invited Imogen to speak. Pink faced with excitement, Imogen had uncharacteristically taken care over her appearance, wearing her best flowery dress and red lipstick. “Ladies”, she said,” never has there been a greater need for our skills, what with COVID 19, Brexit, Government formation, Donald Trump… I could go on, but you all know the story. We must expand our membership urgently. The women who have attended my course have been trained to the highest standard using our Book of Shadows; I propose that we do a block membership approval of them all”. She was sure she had the numbers to get her proposal passed, so still flushed with excitement, she took her seat.

“Thank you, Imogen, now before we take a vote, has anyone else got anything to say on the matter?” said Beatrice.

Julianna was on her feet like a shot, “ladies, this is ridiculous, you all know that our craft has been honed over many generations, intentions and attitudes are crucial to witchcraft and are not learned from a book. There is more to spell making than following a recipe! Why you told me yourself Ernestina, that while working with a Diploma candidate and hoping to help the Irish rugby team to victory at the Ireland-England match only a few short months ago, the spell went so badly wrong that English victory was assured practically from the beginning! Better do nothing than cause harm, I say! And what about the time the class decided to help Wizard Simon by clearing the A and E departments because of COVID 19, now everyone is afraid to go near them, and people are dying of other diseases. Ladies, we’ve always maintained that character is more important than knowledge, we can’t allow a block membership approval without the unanimous approval of each individual applicant”.

Julianna could see by the thoughtful look on the faces around the table that she had made her point sufficiently, but before she retook her seat, Imogen was back up on her feet, red-faced as she thumped her wand on the table and shouted: “I can’t believe you are letting her do this, we all know perfectly well that we…”

“Let’s all keep calm and be civil,” said Beatrice, as most of the other coven members shrank into their hats and gowns in the face of Imogen’s rising anger.

“Keep calm? After all the work I’ve put into this?” Imogen was beside herself with rage, her eyes popped, and as she drew herself up, her body seemed to swell with indignation. Poor Beatrice twittered and flapped as she tried vainly to regain control of the meeting. “You told me to go ahead and organize this, remember?”

“Yes but I never…”

“And now, just because “Miss Privilege” here objects, we abandon the plan?” said Imogen. Though it wasn’t her intent, Beatrice knew she had let Imogen down, but Julianna had a valid point.

Julianna, or “Miss Privilege”, as Imogen referred to her, was seated opposite, with her hands steepled and a smug expression on her face. She could see that she had brought around the other coven members to her way of thinking. The idea of bringing in new members to the group just on Imogen’s recommendation! Just because they did her blasted Diploma course! Accepting people with no tradition or pedigree, what next? Looking down her nose, she thought “typical of a parvenu like Imogen to want to take over things”.

“It is our tradition that these decisions must be unanimous, Imogen “, she said quietly, but Imogen could sense her contempt.

“Well, damned if I’m letting this go, we had agreed to expand our numbers based on knowledge and merit, now here you’re going back to the old ways of family connections”, Imogen spat. Beatrice’s voice trembled as she raised it to call for a vote. “Can we have a vote, please. All those in favour of increasing our membership based on Imogen’s Diploma course results, raise your hands.”

Not a single hand went up. Looking around the table, Imogen let go her breath long and slow, as the colour in her face faded and through narrowed lip she said “Well, I see I’m finished here so”, she closed the Book of Shadows with a snap, kicked back her chair and walked to the door, carrying the Book. Beatrice trailed after her, “please, dear, don’t be hasty, we can…” As Imogen turned the door handle, she distinctly heard Julianna’s “good riddance”. Tightening her grip on the door handle, Imogen opened it, walked out and slammed the door behind her.

Imogen felt her entire body tremble with turbulent emotion, she didn’t know whether it was anger or grief, as she made her way back to her hut in Dysart Woods on her broom, with tear-filled eyes. “After all this time, forty-two years, why, why…” was the thought that kept running through her head. Not even the murmur of the breeze weaving through the tall trees of the Woods soothed her tormented soul. Her restlessness caused her to pace the kitchen floor as she drank a hot whiskey, and then a shaft of silver moonlight fell on the Book of Shadows which had dropped out of her bag onto the table. She sat at the table and slowly opened the Book. She loved everything about it, the smell of the old leather cover, the feel of the vellum under her fingers as she traced the words written many years ago:

“Book Of Shadows”

Ratheniska Coven

Chair: Miss Beatrice, Hon. Sec. Miss Imogen

She supposed the coven members would want the Book back now, and as she considered that her fingers closed around the Book, “Well, damned if they are getting it! “she shouted at the full moon. With her heart full of venom at the injustice she felt she had suffered, she resolved to use her knowledge and skill for her benefit only and to hell with the coven’s reputation. Pouring herself another whiskey, she locked up and prepared for bed.

Morning found her exhausted, hungover and flint hearted. Before her morning coffee, she pulled the Book towards her and flicking through it, she considered the possibilities. There were pages and pages of spells to improve crops, heal warts, find water, change minds and hearts….wait a minute, change minds and hearts, how useful! She thought of the negotiators for Government Formation and what they would give for such a spell! A cunning plan slowly evolved in her head despite the pounding headache. She sent one of her pet magpies to each leader, and also to Miss Mary Louise in case she also had an interest, with the message; “Greetings from Imogen, the spell weaver. If you want a particular outcome in negotiations, I can help. Call me on 27496847 to discuss.”

Confident that she would hear from each in due course, she set about composing spells. She realized that they all would want something different, but she rationalized that some would get what they wanted, and she could refund any disappointed parties. Couldn’t be simpler! And sure enough, the calls came in at about lunchtime. Miss Mary Louise’s came in first, and her request was quite straightforward: “I want a spell to break up those negotiations, so no agreement is reached”. Michael’s was next: “Make a spell that will ensure my election as leader of the country as all the leaders of my tribe have been before me.” Leo’s request was: “ A spell which will allow me to go back to the country without being seen to be the one to cause the failure of negotiations” and Eamon’s request was: “A spell that will scupper the chances of Miss Catherine taking my place as Party leader.”

First things first, Imogen set up the banking for the transfer of funds from the interested parties. Then she gleefully set about her task of composing these spells. She arranged that each individual spell would be delivered that night by a pet magpie.

She sat down at her kitchen table with a cup of coffee, pen and paper.

For Mary Louise:

“Let my spell be spread on air

Nothing may my wish impair

Discord and strife among the three

They’ll do no good, and so it will be”

For Michael she had:

“Let my spell be spread on water

May my greatest wish not falter

May the name I crave come to me

Like all leaders of my tribe before me.”

For Leo she said:

“Let my spell be spread on fire

May my halo all admire

T’was hard to get here so let’s stay

The Central Bank will surely pay.

And Eamon’s spell said:

“Let my spell be spread on earth

Which I wish to save and rebirth

Let Catherine’s coup attract too few

So I might have a go or two.

With that, Imogen put down her pen. She felt strangely unwell, with nausea, dizziness and a pounding headache, she managed to make it to her bed before collapsing.

As it happened, Beatrice had called a meeting of the coven that evening as the Government formation talks were taking far too long. She opened the meeting with a brisk “Good evening, ladies, we all know why we are here, so let’s get started. Any ideas?”

“Let’s go through the Book of Shadows for spells and recipes, shall we?” said Julianna with a bright smile, which slowly faded when Amelia said, “You mean Imogen’s Book; do we have it?”

“What do you mean Imogen’s Book, that Book was coven property, common to all”.

“Well, I never saw you write a spell or a recipe in your life.”

“Why would I when…”

Beatrice was quick to put an end to this back and forth saying “Ladies, please, this is getting us nowhere, who’s going to call around to Imogen’s to ask for the Book? Anyone?”

“Of, course we’re not doing that”, shouted Julianna, “she’ll think we can’t manage without her, it’s a matter of principle”.

“Right then, lets each take a sheet of paper and write what we can remember of our own favourite spells and recipes, and we’ll see where that takes us”, said Beatrice as she reached for the stack of paper in the centre of the table and took up her pen. One hour later, the only thing they had to show for their efforts was a wastepaper basket full of crumpled paper. Amid rising tension in the room, Beatrice spoke, “ that’s it, pens down, let’s just go to Imogen and ask for the Book”.

She got up, took her hat and cape from the hook behind the door, and made her way out… “What, and admit we can’t manage without her? And agree to her preposterous plan?” Julianna asked.

“We’ll come up with a compromise, we’ll negotiate, but we do need that Book”. Beatrice left quickly followed by Amelia and Justina. Julianna felt she had no option but to tag along, still muttering about principles and standards.

When they arrived outside Imogen’s door, several magpies were pecking at the window. Beatrice called Imogen’s name as she lifted the latch and entered the kitchen. She took in the scene with a glance: the Book on the table which was littered with crumpled pieces of paper, the fire in the stove to their right had gone out, the paraffin lamp on the counter by the sink cast a shadow over the room and the door to the bedroom to the left of the stove was ajar. There was grunting, almost an animal like sound coming from the room. Beatrice pushed open this door and entered the bedroom to find Imogen sprawled on the bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her back arched as she frothed at the mouth. They turned Imogen on her side, as Beatrice delegated duties. Julianna (under protest) to boil water for camomile, rose and lavender brew, Justina to watch Imogen, Amelia to talk to the magpies and get their story. At the same time, she went through the papers strewn on the table.

“Well, well, so Imogen was thinking about Government formation too!” she thought with a wry smile, “But not in the way we witches would want!” For a moment she thought about collecting the Book and abandoning Imogen, but realized they must get Imogen to recant her spells to reverse the damage, and anyway she was one of their own and two wrongs never made a right.

Calling all into the bedroom, she said: “we must all work together on a spell to heal Imogen”. “As long as it commits us to just recovery and not…” Julianna said. “Come on everyone, wands forward”, said Beatrice, who ignored her, and chanted

“May our spell be spread on air,

Nothing may our wish impair,

Imogen’s good health we all agree

Is our dearest wish and so it shall be”.

As they chanted, Imogen’s body relaxed, and her breath became regular. Her eyes lost that glassy appearance as she sat up, clutched her head and moaned “What happened?”

“What do you think happened? Abandoning every principle that we witches stand for? Going against the creed, ill-wishing people? Working for yourself only? How could you let us down like this?” cried Beatrice.

“You kicked me out of the coven, what else could I do to secure my future and pension?” said Imogen.

“Well you had better rethink your plans; we’ve come to reinstate you, provided you recant those spells. If anyone were to associate the Ratheniska coven with such chicanery, we’d never live it down. Anyway Imogen, surely you don’t want to live like this, producing spells for your own advantage only? You know it has no honour or integrity. We fall sick from the damage it does to us” said Beatrice holding the crumpled paper in her hands, “come on, let’s sit around the table and we’ll help you cancel them”.

“But what about enlarging the coven membership with my students.?”

“Dear, let’s leave that for the present, disband your school, and we’ll seek other ways to extend our influence. We are offering you a chance to redeem your character and reputation by inviting you back to the group. Take the offer”.

she had to do something about it. When she saw Julianna attempt to take the Book of Shadows from the table, she stopped her with: “Julianna, that belongs to Imogen, and it stays with Imogen. I’m sure she will bring it with her to the next meeting”.

With that, she left the hut and got on her broom and as she did her eye was caught by some flowers under the silver birch. Yes, you’ve guessed it, crocus blossoms under the tree! “My goodness”, she thought “how could Imogen have come by one of the magic crocus bulbs, I was sure she had no Witch heritage. I’ll have to check out her ancestry again!” She said nothing to anyone just then, but she turned to Amelia with a smile, and said: “Well it does take courage to admit mistakes and make amends”.

So the Ratheniska coven was reformed and went back to their more traditional concerns and left Government formation to the politicians. I’ll let you know how that works out!

Pat was exhausted from shoving that wheelbarrow around the barracks yard, the barrow that held the body of young Malachy Quinn, a recent victim of the Black and Tans. Pat’s arms ached, and his shoulders were in agony; he longed for rest, but he knew he couldn’t stop, he was terrified. He thought of his wife and small children and hoped that Bridget would keep them safe and that he would survive the night.

The constables had taken Pat’s shoes, and the gravel under his feet was torture. The full moon was slanting its ghostly light over the yard, and a voice shouted in his ear, “keep moving there Paddy and have a good look at your mate in the barrow, that will be you tomorrow night if you don’t start talking soon!” The sight of young Malachy Quinn was enough to strike terror in anyone’s heart. His face was a pulpy mass with all distinguishing features lost, and, blood from his head had dripped down his shirt to meet the bullet hole in his chest. As the body lay crumpled in the wheelbarrow, Pat could clearly see where the soles of his feet had been cut to ribbons. The poor soul must have died in agony.

The terror Pat felt was mingled with sorrow for the poor young man, whom he had known as a strong and cheerful worker on McGinty’s farm and a fullback for the local hurling team. Then rage battled with the fear when he saw how this decent lad, his fellow countryman had been so abused and tortured by these ignorant yobs, whom he knew as the scum of the earth, the “Tans”.

Pat was a teacher in the village for several years now. He had read and written many a letter or message for people over that time, so he knew a lot of secrets and had a reputation as a man who “knew about things and people”. The Tans came for Pat at about seven that evening. He was in the kitchen with his sister Bridget. He was helping her prepare supper for the children, as his wife Alicia had taken to her bed as soon as she heard that the Black and Tans were in the village, and possibly headed their way.

They broke the little wooden gate on the way in, and Bridget could hear them shouting “Open up, or we’ll break down the door!” as they hammered with their rifle butts on the door. Everyone in the kitchen shook with fear, and then the youngest started bawling. Pat got up quickly and went to the door just as the wood splintered and gave way. Bridget picked up the crying child and tried to comfort him, muttering “God between us and all harm”, her usual aspiration in times of trouble. As soon as Pat opened the door, the soldiers grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him through the doorway. He stumbled and almost fell, but the soldiers kept their grip on him and dragged him away through the broken gateway. He looked back over his shoulder and shouted to Bridget “get back inside Bridget and mind the children”. As he said it, he got a rifle butt on the forehead almost knocking him sideways.

Bridget was following close carrying the crying baby. She was plucking at the sleeve of one of the soldiers and crying in an increasingly desperate voice “let him go, let him go, he knows nothing!”

The soldier swatted her off as he would a fly, jeering “republican bitch, get off me!” Regaining his balance, Pat was pushed and shoved along the road towards the barracks, being prodded in the back intermittently by a rifle butt. He shouted again “Please, Bridget, just get back inside and mind the children”.

“Mind the children”, that was the endless refrain she heard night and day. She had come to help out when her brother Pat’s wife Alicia had her third child and just couldn’t cope. She felt reduced to unpaid servant status in the household, and all the healing and herb lore she had picked up from her mother was just wasted. Still, she loved her brother and was beside herself with fear as she watched him being marched away. To see Pat being so abused tore her heart. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and slowly walked back inside, closing the damaged hall door behind her. With an air of calm authority, she was far from feeling, she persuaded the children to stop crying and to sit down and finish their supper.

She went upstairs to answer her sister-in-law Alicia’s summoning bell, muttering to herself, “that bloody bell will be the death of me yet!”

But when Bridget got upstairs, she found Alicia surprisingly calm on hearing the story. Now, Alicia had a funny way of dealing with crises, she took to her bed, and from there, she felt empowered to take control of situations and issue orders! She instructed Bridget to bring the children upstairs so that she could mind them and told her to see if she could get help from the neighbours to free Pat. Bridget looked at her gobsmacked, as she knew there wasn’t a ghost of a chance of persuading any neighbour to take on the Black and Tans! Still, she found herself agreeing to try!

Bridget sighed as she came downstairs after bringing the children to their mother’s bedroom. She could hear Alicia start the rosary, fingering the beads with manicured hands, and she thought to herself as she sat at the kitchen table that it would take more than a few decades of the rosary to sort this one out! But as she sat there, she slowly formulated her plan. She knew that the Tans got their beer from John Maloney’s pub and she knew that John Maloney had a few secrets of his own that he would like to stay secret, making John the most likely neighbour to lend a hand! She went to the pantry and found those henbane seeds she had lovingly harvested that summer for emergency use.

She carefully ground them and put them in a jar and grabbing a couple of sheets that had been drying on the hedge, headed down to Maloney’s pub, where she instructed John to fill the jar with the brew the soldiers normally ordered each evening. “What are you up to, Bridget, you know I’ll have nothing to do with any mischief”, he said. “Ask no questions, and you’ll be told no lies, right?” Bridget replied, “I’d hate if anyone were to ask me where you got your poteen, John”. He quickly filled the jar and offered to get one of his workers to carry it for her.

Little Padraig, who usually cleaned up at night, was volunteered for the job, and Bridget went along with him, advising him to do exactly as he would any other evening. “Right so, I just bring it into the office, put it on the counter, and collect a shilling for Mister Maloney”. “Grand, you do that, young Padraig, I’ll just leave you to get on with it”, as she turned and hid behind an old elder tree just outside the barrack wall. She remembered to touch and honour the elder tree, as her mother had taught her. From there, she watched as Padraig delivered the jug, and came out. The young lad kept his head down and avoided looking at Pat or the dead man in the wheelbarrow, and then ran off back to the pub as fast as his legs could carry him.

Bridget waited patiently until the soldiers started drinking, hoping that the henbane would soon take effect. The moon rose high in the sky and the constable guarding her brother changed places with one of the ones who had been drinking, and went inside to get himself a drink, the second constable poked Pat in the back with the butt of his rifle, and said: “you could join us, Paddy, if you talk!” She noticed he was quite unsteady on his feet.

Pat, with the wheelbarrow and his guard, slowly approached the wall where Bridget was hiding. She knew this was her chance. She covered herself with one of the sheets and started keening. With the help of the elder tree, she hauled herself up on the wall and was silhouetted against the full moon. When he saw her, the terrified constable dropped his gun and staggered back toward the barracks door, shouting “Help! Ghost!” He tripped, fell and lay on the ground.

Pat caught the second sheet which Bridget had thrown in his direction. He had recognized Bridget’s voice, so he wrapped it around himself , and was over the wall in a flash. The two of them raced back to the teacher’s house, shedding the sheets as they went. Inside the gate, they draped them over the hedge in the garden, where they had been earlier that day.

They sat in the kitchen to catch their breath and Bridget, still very much in charge, said: “You’ll have to clear out for a few days, Pat, go back to Father’s farm in Tubber for a while, I’ll send you word when things have settled down here”.

“I have to see Alicia before I go”.

“The children are in her room, if they see you we won’t be able to keep things quiet, I’ll go get your old boots, and you should be off as soon as possible, there is light to see the road and those soldiers won’t wake for hours”.

Pat agreed, and he set off. Bridget went back upstairs as Alicia was finishing up the prayers. She got the children ready for bed, assuring them that their father was alright and would be home soon. When they were settled, she went back to Alicia’s room and told her the story. “Thanks be to God and His Blessed Mother, I knew St. Joseph wouldn’t let me down!”

“Was that him in the sheet then?”

“Don’t be so impertinent, go boil a kettle and bring me up some tea”.

Bridget went down the stairs with a laugh, somehow her sister-in-law’s demands never wore her out so much as they had in the past. Bridget had become herself, and she never doubted her worth again. P.S. when Pat came home again, he brought with him a crocus bulb from his mother for Bridget, and said: “Mama told me to tell you to be sure and plant this, Bridget, she didn’t say why”.

Bridget just smiled to herself, knowing that she was the one to carry on an old family tradition.