Pan's Labyrinth: The Labyrinth of the Faun(40)

Vidal was the last one to arrive. He knelt at Tarta’s side to examine the dead body while Dr. Ferreira was putting the syringe back into his bag, closing it with the calmness of a man who had done his duty.

“Why did you do it?” Vidal rose to his feet.

“It was the only thing I could do.”

“What do you mean?” There was a hint of surprise in Vidal’s voice. Surprise, curiosity . . . “You could have obeyed me!”

He walked toward Ferreira as slowly as a predator stalking his prey, and stopped right in front of him. It was not easy to stand and just look up at him. But there are many kinds of courage. Ferreira had feared this man for so long—witnessed his butchery, healed the wounds he inflicted—he felt relieved he wouldn’t have to pretend anymore to be on his side.

“Yes, that is true, I could have obeyed you,” he said calmly. “But I didn’t.”

Vidal scrutinized Ferreira like a strange animal he’d never seen before.

“It would have been better for you. You know it. Why didn’t you obey me?”

There was almost a hint of fear in his voice and in the way he pressed his narrow lips together. In his kingdom of darkness everyone gave in to fear, why not this soft spectacled man who barely dared to speak up in his presence?

“To obey . . .” Ferreira chose his words carefully. “. . . just like that, for the sake of obeying, without questioning . . . that’s something only people like you can do, Capitán.”

He turned to pick up his bag, then stepped out into the rain. Of course, he knew what was going to happen, but why not take the moment, the moment of being finally free of fear? He felt the cold rain on his face as he walked away from the barn. Such precious steps, so free, so at peace with himself.

He cast a glance over his shoulder, just when Vidal came out of the barn, with the long-determined stride of the hunter. Ferreira didn’t turn or stop when Vidal drew his pistol. He kept on walking. When the bullet hit him in the back, he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, though he knew the fog filling them was the breath of Death. Two more steps. Then his legs gave way and there was only the mud and the fading rain. Ferreira could hear himself breathing. He was cold. Very cold. No memory came to him, no soothing words. For some inexplicable reason the only thing he noticed was a spider hidden between the stones of a wall a few feet away. The little animal appeared to his eyes, like a miracle: He could see every joint, every follicle, and every chitinous bump. The spider’s architecture, its grace, its beauty, and its hunger all seemed to blend into a single thing: the last thing alive. Ferreira inhaled and drank muddy water. He tried to cough it out, but mid-cough his heart stopped.

One clean shot.

Vidal approached the outstretched body and crushed the glasses next to it under his boot. He still didn’t understand why the fool hadn’t obeyed him, but he was strangely relieved the good doctor was dead and he would never have to look into those soft and far-too-thoughtful eyes again.

“Capitán!”

Two of the maids were standing in front of the barn, their faces pale with worry. Vidal pushed the pistol back into his holster. He could barely make sense of what they were saying. His wife was not well, that’s what he finally picked up from their frightened nattering—and that his son was on the way, while the doctor who had been supposed to help with his birth was lying dead in the mud behind him.





When the Faun Fell in Love


There is a forest in Galicia so ancient some of the trees remember a time when animals took the shape of men and men grew wings and fur. Some men, the trees whisper, even became oak and beech and laurel and drove their roots so deeply into the ground they forgot their names. There is one fig tree especially whose story the others like to tell when the wind makes their leaves murmur. It grows on a hill at the heart of the forest. One can spot it easily, as the two main branches bend like the horns of a goat and the trunk is split, as if the tree gave birth to something growing under its bark.

Yes! the forest whispers. That’s why the trunk is split open like a wound. This tree did give birth, for it was once a woman who danced and sang under my canopy. She picked my berries and braided her hair with my flowers. But one day she met a Faun who liked to play his flute under my trees in the moonlight. He’d fashioned the flute from the finger bones of an ogre and his tune sang of the dark underground kingdom he came from, so different from the light the woman carried inside.

All this is true, and she fell in love with the Faun nevertheless, with a love as deep and inescapable as a well, and the Faun loved her back. When he finally asked her to come with him to his underground world, however, she dreaded the thought of spending the rest of her life without ever seeing the stars or feeling the wind on her skin. So she decided to stay and watched him leave. However, the love she felt filled her with such longing, her feet grew roots to follow her beloved underground, while her arms reached for the sky and the stars she’d chosen over him.

Oh, the heartache she felt. It made her soft skin turn to bark. Her sighs became the rustling of the wind in a thousand leaves and, when the Faun came back one moonlit night to play his flute for her, all he found was a tree whispering the name he had never told anyone but her.

The Faun sat down between the tree’s roots and felt his own tears like dew on his face. The branches he sat under showered him with flowers, but his lover couldn’t throw her arms around him or kiss his lips anymore. He felt such a pain in his wild and fearless heart that when he caressed the tree his own skin—once covered with silken fur—became as rough and wooden as the bark of his lost love.