And I will treasure every second of it by Agustina Kazuyo

Only

There is a witch that lives on the hills, by the river.

She is an old woman, and hardly anyone has ever crossed a word with her. She lives in a hut, some say. Others, say she lives in a palace in the forest.

Sometimes the villagers see her walking far, from the edge of the fields. She carries a basket and a straw hat. She walks slowly and sometimes waves at the farmers, who scurry away in fear.

Some say she’s a good witch. That she knows strange medicine and sometimes desperate parents take their chances and their children to her. Some say this is madness, and when the parents return with their offspring mended, some say they sold their souls to fuel her evil deeds.

They know she’s a witch that entertains demons.

Sometimes, if you walk too close to the place she lives, you will see him. A white demon, all silk and steel. He prowls her forest, hunts for her. Those who have thought to get rid of the witch have not come back to the village.

The demon is a fair sight, like moonlight. He moves with the grace of the ocean, and sometimes you can see him walking by her side, holding her arm and guiding her slowly. The witch has mostly lost her eyesight.

And when you see the witch alone, it does not mean she is by herself. The demon is always close. Watching.

He must be her son, they say at the village. A creature birthed from her union with an evil spirit, created for death and destruction.

Older villagers say he was always by her side, even when she was younger. Perhaps conjured or bound, he has followed since the days before her hair turned gray, when she used to visit the village and wore white and red.

We used to trade and trust her, they say, in the days of the demons. She always consorted with them, and she was banished from the village, in time.

She seems to harbor no resentment towards the humans, though. She is found sometimes by the river, sitting on a blanket under the sun, while her demon fills her buckets with fresh water, or fishes for her.

She is sometimes smiling softly at him, even though she can hardly see.

Sometimes, if you have no ill intent, if you can get close enough, if you are very, very lucky, you can hear them talk. Her voice is gentle and his is like the distant roll of thunder.

She will press a trembling hand to his marked cheek and sigh, almost lovingly.

“Thank you,” she might say, “for a lifetime of joy.”

And although his eyes will betray his sadness, he will be smiling back.