"The Lost Moon" is a legend from the British Isles.

Once each month, in a desolate land of marshes and pools of black water, strange creatures slipped out of their hiding spots to play.

On the other nights of the month, the marshy lands were lighted by the moon and no people came to any harm. But on those nights when Moon took her rest, out of the mushy earth crawled the slithery, slimy, scary bog creatures, and people had been known to disappear in the swamps.

That troubled Moon.

So one night when she would ordinarily have rested, she wrapped herself in a black cloak and hood and floated down to earth to see what she could do.

She saw the murky water everywhere and the twisting black snags. The only sounds she heard in the pitch dark were gurgles and slurps, sloshes and rustles. With every step she took, she sank into slime.

Moving from tuft of earth to tiny island of grass, she took care not to fall.

But as Moon neared a huge black pool, she slipped — and grabbed at a snag to steady herself. The moment she touched it, the snag reached out and wrapped itself around her, holding fast.

Moon knew this must be one of the horrible creatures the people feared — perhaps even the Black Annis, the one-eyed crone with claws who hid in a giant felled oak, awaiting victims to devour. Or this could be a boggart, one of the nasty shape-shifters. Just ahead, she spotted the flickering light of the will-o'-the-wisps, spirits of the dead, and heard them cackling at her.

As she twisted and wriggled against the snag's grip, she heard a sound in the distance. It was someone gasping for breath. She heard squishing footsteps coming near, and in the darkness she could just make out the face of a man.

He was lost and terrified, wading toward the light that now and then flashed through her cloak as Moon fought to free herself.

"Poor thing," she sighed at the sight of the man. She fought harder.

As she struggled, her hood slipped from her head and all her shining hair was set free. The marsh creatures quickly slipped back into their hiding spots.

The man could now see his path as clearly as in daylight.

Overjoyed, he ran as fast as he could. He was free!

But Moon was not, and there was no one to help her.

She fell to her knees, exhausted, and her hood came down over her head. The light vanished again, and the witches and spriggans and will-o'-the-wisps and other bog creatures slithered out again and leered at Moon.

"Let's poison her," they hissed. "No! Smother her," they croaked. Creepy, crawly things twined themselves around poor Moon, and began to argue about how to destroy her. When the dim promise of light appeared on the horizon, they knew they must act fast.

They pushed Moon down, deep down, into the depths of the marsh. Just before Dawn awoke, they rolled a huge stone over that spot and pushed it down to keep Moon from rising again.

"She'll not go free," said the will-o'-the-wisps, standing guard.

The next night, the people who lived in the marshland waited for their Moon to rise again, but she was nowhere to be seen. Days passed with no sign of her.

Dismayed, they went to see the Wise Woman, who looked in her brew pot, in her book and in her mirror.

"My guides cannot find Moon," she said sadly.

Still more days passed, and people talked of nothing but the disappearance of Moon.

Then a man from a faraway bogland visited the village tavern and heard the local gossip. He realized what had happened to him days before. He was the man in the marsh, the man Moon had saved.

"I know where she was before she disappeared," he said, and the people in the tavern hurried to tell the Wise Woman.

She looked into her pot again. Now she saw signs. "Go there and look for a coffin, a cross and a candle flame, and you'll find Moon."

So the man and many of the villagers walked into the marshy land, and though they heard the sighing moans and felt fluttering fingers at their necks, they carried on, slipping and sliding toward the spot.

"The coffin!" cried a woman, pointing at a stone half in and half out of the water. Sure enough, it looked like a coffin.

"The cross," shouted a boy, and everyone turned and saw the snag with outstretched arms in a cross.

Flickering light flashed before their eyes — one of the will-o'-the-wisps. "The candle!" cried the man who had been lost.

Everyone knelt in the spongy mud, took hold of that stone and shoved it upward. When that stone rolled away, they saw a beautiful face for a brief moment, but she was so bright and white, they stepped back from the blinding light. When their eyes could see again, Moon was high in the sky, lighting up the paths through the bogs, driving all the slimy things back to their hiding spots.

Ever since that night Moon has understood that though she loves her people, she must still take her rest once each month. And during that time, the people know to stay home, out of the marshy bogs where the spirits rule the night.