We had to hide our beloved cat from a witch who hunted, every Sunday, for souls to feed its insatiable desire for youth.
Mariposa wouldn’t acquiesce to our gentle coaxing off her perch. To sequester her, we would have to swaddle her in a woven blanket of thick, coral coloured, yarn. Her favourite treat in hand, we approached the majestic beast. Her fur a shiny velvet, as smooth as black river stones.
The witch menaced like thunder. “Where is my feast,” she boomed, swishing through the bracken and brush cloaking the bridge. She crossed over to our compound atop a rocky hill. We told Mariposa to stay still, this wasn’t the time to fuss, or play, as she was so eagerly inclined to do at the most inconvenient circumstances. “We have nothing,” we told the witch, who wore a mantle of cool blue, like the colour of distant hills on a clear day.
Mariposa made a fuss, and the witch reached over to grab the cat, salivating over the juicy morsel of soul inside.
Terrified, we forwarded a proposition. “What if we give our souls in exchange for her life? We couldn’t bear living apart. Despite her annoyances and grievances in the middle of night, we love this cat to bits.”
“Poo,” the witch said, her ancient face in a grimace. “Human souls are salty and wicked. They reek and stink, satisfy only for a minute, and then infest their hosts with malaise and drama. An animal soul on the other hand, is as fresh as a jasmine spray at sunset. Invigorating, and as lovely as a hossana. They adore their owners. It’s that purity I desire.”
After her speech she opened her mouth wide. Ivory coloured fangs elongated from its corners.
“Wait,” we screamed. “We have something better. More fitting than these ephemeral gratifications you are after. The witch pulled back her teeth. Mariposa dangled docilely, held by the nape of her neck, the universal kill switch for cats.
“I’m listening,” the witch said, curious.
“We offer you our innate talents from which unadulterated joys flow.”
She contemplated our gifts and said she wasn’t pleased.
“I want your elegy of unfulfilled dreams; a variety of what you’ve learnt to live without. The stuff that makes you resilient, not these glowing golden globules of vanity in your outstretched palms.”
We burrowed into ourselves, through the wayward daze of our biography. Until, finally, we found where our peace resided. In acceptance of ourselves. We scooped up the promises made long ago, when our bodies were elastic and brave, too. Our earned peace, as brittle as dry leaves, as bold as blooming petunias, we presented to the witch who greedily reached over, her body stretching like plasticine while feet stayed in place, to possess it.
——
Image: Camera-man Pixabay cropped