Witch- a single word that could sum up who she was in life. There had been a past to the witch, but it lay so long ago that it seemed like a separate entity, another person- and, to her, it was. There was Eunha, and there was Eunha the witch- two mutually distinct beings. But that was never truly so, and now she was painfully aware of the fact. The Eunha who grew up as the daughter of a blacksmith and who attended the parish every Sunday was the same Eunha who died the victim of mad persecution inside a blazing forest and was then resurrected; who was afterwards taken under the custody of Agnes, the Mother-witch and who, following the death of Agnes, steeped herself deeply into dark magic and all its blasphemies.

  The two were one and the same. That young and innocent Eunha was always inside- she lurked beneath all the layers of her heart, waiting for the time she could finally show herself again. Now, Eunha was confronted with her past and saw it as part of herself. That past was her past, even if for countless years she had refused to think it so.

  It astounded her to see how far she had come. And it saddened her, filled her with regret, to know she did nothing in all those years past but cause pain and suffering to many, just as it had been done to her- without cause, without reason, but on the basis of personal prejudices.

  The mob that burned down the forest with her inside had been filled with fear and suspicion. Surely she had been, too, whenever she thought a person loved her for her beauty's sake when she took the guise of a young woman. And the years, the countless years lived, had taught her how frail and susceptible man is to evil, to those lowly and base impulses seen in the beasts who think only of survival. Nevertheless, even animals show affection for each other. Puppies frolic, run around, play-fight, and whimper whenever they are separated from their siblings or from their master. Are men not greater than dogs?

  Eunha was completely immersed in thought.

  If she could, she would apologize to and beg forgiveness of every soul she injured again and again, but they were gone, each to their place in hell or paradise, and what would be the point if it would never be enough? She suffered for her crimes, yes, but was aware that it did not fix everything; it did not do away with the pain and sorrow those poor souls felt while under her captivity.

  A bittersweet reality, both for the souls and for her. They were finally free, but they would never gain back the time they lost on earth. She was alive, but with a lingering sense of guilt. Adding to that guilt was this instinctive sense that, though her sins were grievous, she had received a pardon from Heaven. Agnes died and went to the pit the moment the feather manifested, but she did not.

  Why? she asked herself. Was it purely mercy? It was because she was human. At the time that Agnes died, Eunha had not taken up magic; she was not a witch; she was not unholy. While humans, at times, bear unholiness, they are still able to turn from it; they are redeemable. Agnes was obstinate, however; she never dreamed of rejecting the dark arts, and thus she remained in a state of perpetual unholiness.

  Now, although Eunha had spent centuries steeped in sorcery and brought suffering to many, there remained a trace of her humanity inside her: a part that longed for something more, something she could not grasp.

  Notwithstanding, Eunha had not yet forgiven herself. Moreover, she had not received Sungyeol's forgiveness. She had not confessed her faults to him. This was what she needed.

  She looked up at him. He seemed exhausted, drained of all energy, but still managed an expression of sorts- a smile marked by incredulity. Sungyeol faced trouble absorbing the unfolding of the truth: that there was only ever a single woman- and that she was neither the young lady who accepted his friendship nor the careworn elder who inspired him with courage to let go of bitterness.

  Eunha saw the trouble he faced and hesitated to say anything at all because of it. It took courage for her to speak. "Sungyeol. I must apologize. I lied to you. This is who I really am, although I wish not to call myself a witch any longer. I have forsaken my craft. If it is to be a part of me, let it be my past." She paused. All of his attention was fixed on her. "Now, I must tell you something. Once you stepped inside the woods, everything changed for you without your knowing. Time moves differently here. Once you leave..." The word stung her, but she continued, "Leave and go outside this forest, the world will have changed." It struck her just how hard it would be for Sungyeol. "You will have been left behind while everything and everyone will have moved on ahead."

  The painter's countenance had assumed a set expression. He had also paled, and was utterly quiet. She had not seen him like this before.

  The erstwhile witch did not stop. "This is incredibly selfish of me, I realize, but will you forgive me? I have sinned against you."

  The look of incredulity returned and dominated his features. "Eunha..." He rubbed his chin and gave a half-smile. He briefly snickered, then ran his hand through his hair. "Eunha." Sungyeol scanned her face. Absolute contrition. He had to forgive her, if only out of pity. Could it be expected of him, though? Part of him felt like he could not. He should not.

  His hunch was correct in the end. Everything was a lie, a great disappointment.

  He surveyed the hut with narrow eyes. Scorn, disgust. He stared at her: a broken woman. Who was she? She was not the one who walked with him through the forest and told him not to be so harsh with himself. And she was also not the woman who touched his heart at the thought of her being concerned for his wellbeing. Neither Eunha, the daughter, nor Eunha's mother.

  Sungyeol suspired. This was the real Eunha, before him in shame, and neither of the women he imagined.

  He rubbed his chin again. A thin smile was on his face. "Honestly, Eunha. Honestly."

  She parted her lips to speak. What was there to say? She remembered how her sorry could not fix anything. But she had to say it anyway: "I am so sorry, Sungyeol."

  He ignored her apology. "How much of it was..." He doubted the word coming out of him: "Magic?" The word lingered in his head as he still wondered whether to believe all of what had transpired or not. He might have called it a wonderful tale had he not been directly involved in the events over the last day and this morning.

  "Everything. My beauty, my youth. My clothes. As you see, I dress in rags... The luxury I imbued my home with; I sought to impress you."

  He wagged his head in disbelief. "You did that for me?"

  She nodded quietly.

  "I hated the sense of decadence it created, Eunha." She seemed to cower but did not turn away. She accepted everything he said. "Was that all?"

  "I cast a spell over the home that it might appear a simple cabin. In reality, it is more than that, being built out of a living oak. And, while it might not have been sorcery that drew you here, you would never have found this forest had I not removed the veil that cloaks it from outsiders." Eunha saw him mumble some words in astonishment. He raised no question, so she continued her confession. "I also caused the rain- the sudden storm last evening. To keep you from leaving."

  His eyes widened. "The rain," he mouthed. "Incredible... But why? What would you do with me afterwards?"

  A profound sigh exited . "I would have had you live forever besides me as a friend, a shadow being with whom I would endow certain privileges. Not like those souls that I had imprisoned."

  The painter remembered the thick, long shadows of the forest and how he had attributed certain aspects to some of them- aspects that had made him think of them as more than just plain silhouettes. They had given off this feeling of torture, of misery, but he had told himself it was mere imagination.

  It was hard to believe. Eunha, as she was, seemed incapable of even swatting a fly. She looked like a wind could send her tumbling. But he had been wrong about appearances before when it came to her.

  "Why?"

  "Oh, Sungyeol. Now, after having felt their cold vengeance, do I ask myself the same question. They are free. But it was not of my own volition that they were liberated. I would have imprisoned them until eternity. But it was not so. I lost my control over them."

  "Was that the darkness?" he cut in. "The trapped souls wreaking vengeance on you?" His voice had risen. Far too many questions were popping up inside. He was hasty to have them answered. That was the least she could do.

  "Yes," she answered.

  "How long did you have them imprisoned?"

  "Some for centuries... I deserved every bit of punishment they inflicted upon me. It was worse than death."

  "You sure did, Eunha."

  Her head had been bowed in shame, but she lifted it and faced his accusing stare. "Sungyeol. I have to ask you, will you forgive me?"

  His train of thought derailed. That was unfair of her. To ask forgiveness as if nothing had happened?

  "Why did you want to- to keep me as a pet?"

  Her lip quivered. "Not as a pet. But as a friend. You were different."

  Sungyeol saw the emotion welling up in her. He felt constrained to be more patient. "How was I different?" he asked in a more calm voice than before.

  "You are a true friend. You did not judge me based on my beauty. You did not judge me according to how I looked on the outside."

  "On the outside," he repeated.

  His anger was cooled. First, by what he saw as an indirect compliment (that he was not shallow), which seemed genuine, then by something else. Sungyeol became cognizant of how she was wrong. He had judged her based on appearances. He had made this idol out of her and fixed this perfect ideal as to how he thought she should be. Maybe that provided a partial explanation for his anger- because she had not fit into his grand vision of her.

  Eunha was not the realization of the ideal. Far from it. A humble home, closed off from the world? A perfect bond between a loving daughter and aging mother? Not really. These and more were his dreams; they were his desires, and he had been forcing them upon her. He was projecting the type of life he wanted for himself onto her.

  The irony brought a smile to his lips. He buried his face in his hands and was silent, then laughed.

  Eunha was startled, afraid she had caused more harm. "Sungyeol?" She reached out a hand in worry.

  "We're a bunch of scheming swindlers, Eunha, you and I! Or better yet, painters! You're a painter, just like me! Painting images of each other: images that just aren't real."

  Sungyeol explained himself to her, and she was baffled, if not amused. Eunha did not feel offended, of course. How could she feel bitter at him after all she did to him? If anything, Eunha felt relieved that Sungyeol still managed some form of composure. After the long talk, she saw a sincere grin on his otherwise careworn face. It was impossible to hold back a laugh, so the two indulged in their strange humor longer than they thought they might.

  "I forgive you, Eunha. How can I not? You caused me no physical harm" -he patted himself, especially his face- "I'm completely fine. Just exhausted. Utterly spent."

  Eunha appeared transfigured. A subtle, virtually unnoticeable, glow radiated off her serene countenance.

  An expression of remorse began to develop on Sungyeol's face. His features were touched by disappointment and worry. He realized he had wronged her. "Eunha, I feel compelled to apologize to you. I sought to know more about you, and when I did, I allowed myself to- I'm sorry, Eunha. I was truly a hypocrite. I was no friend."

  Eunha swayed her hoary head. "All is well, Sungyeol." She saw his features relax themselves in relief. "You will always be my friend."

  The painter grinned at her words. He felt she might pass at any moment, and then he remembered something he needed to ask before she would die. He had to.

  "Will I be fine, Eunha?" he asked with trepidation, his voice shaking a little. "If what you said of the world changing when I step outside the forest is true?"

  Sungyeol was sure that Eunha had heard him. He saw her slowly nod in acknowledgement, but when he thought she might respond, she remained quiet. He knew she was not ignoring him, yet he was unsure what to make of her. Eunha seemed to have her sight cast upon the window, or more precisely, the things outside the window: upon the forest lawns that were struck by the morning sun that made each individual blade white with its stark glare, and beads of dew, which hung on the tips of the blades, shine with a stunning shimmer. Her vision was set on the dark shades of trees far ahead. Beyond. As Sungyeol observed her, he recognized in her eyes that intent look of focus he at times had when gazing at something indescribably wonderful, and that, in turn, filled him with inspiration, with that spirit of creativity, which he called the demiurge, that drove him by compulsion to paint. Eunha, he intuitively knew, was gazing at something beyond.

  She let out a deep breath and looked at him. "As I am, I can do nothing but pray for you, Sungyeol. That you may return home in peace, without worry or fear of having been left behind. I have done so." She paused. It was almost as if she had listened to something being whispered in her ear. "And I think my petition was heard. You will be fine, Sungyeol. I know you will; I feel it." She curiously reached her hand out in the air, where a sunbeam that broke in through the window traced the tips of her fingers. A mellow look was upon her face. "It is not magic; it is some other feeling in the air, more powerful than sorcery, and yet not evil but good, divine even."

  Sungyeol made as if to speak, but Eunha laid hold of his hand and squeezed it softly. With a warm voice, she said, "You will be fine. All is well." Her eyes were tender and shone with a certain light. A tear may have been in them. "Thank you, Sungyeol. You are an angel, my angel."

  The painter smiled at the comment. Him? An angel? For simply forgiving her? he thought. No one had ever told him that, not even his mother. This was certain, however. He knew, not by reason but by simple belief, that she was right. Everything will go well for him once outside. He was confident. Wishful thinking? No, but real, substantive hope in a world beyond fearful appearances, stronger than pain, and more wonderful than the mundane. The world of faith. Sungyeol had entered that plane.

  Eunha stopped speaking afterwards and closed her eyes. She looked completely tranquil and at peace with her mortal end. Sungyeol had a gentle look. It was humbling and awe-inpiring, to see someone go before his very eyes. He was not sure what to do or, much less, what to say. Could anything be said or done? Something mysterious was taking place before him. He thought he felt that specialness in the air she mentioned.

  He continued gazing at her sleeping face. Exhaustion was overcoming him. He rubbed his face, and when he stopped, the bed was empty. She had vanished; not even a trace of her was left.

  His features bore a bewildered expression. He asked himself if it should not have been expected, taking her supernatural nature into account. And, following some minutes spent in thought, he yielded to the notion that it truly was fitting for her end to be a strange one, a magical one- as in magic of the good variety, of course.

  Then Sungyeol remembered he had forgotten to ask Eunha something. What of that shining object he had seen, which made him feel as though he would die if he held on any longer than he did?

  He should have asked! He groaned in disappointment but walked around the empty home, trying to convince himself that it was fine- that it was okay for some things to remain unanswered. Is not life a list of questions? One with very few answers? Still...

  With a sigh, the painter took a seat in the rocking chair and began to swing at a pace that inspired sleep. His mind was much too weary to think any further. It was okay for him to take a nap, was it not? He shut his eyes. Sleep failed him. He tried again. Nothing. He raised an eyelid. There was something otherwise inconspicuous that caught his eye and would have gone unnoticed were it not for chance. It was tucked under a mass of old rags and brass kitchen utensils that was near the bed Eunha had slept on. He took a look. It was a dusty, ancient book. A witch's grimoire? No. He skimmed through the middle pages, and it seemed more like a fairytale book of sorts or a book of legends than anything else. It had faded illustrations done in ink depicting dragons, horned devils, and a lone armor-clad warrior on horseback.

  The book was written in Koine Greek.
 
  It began, "All was still, all was calm..."