Pan's Labyrinth: The Labyrinth of the Faun

by Guillermo del Toro

It is said that long, long ago, there lived a princess in an underground realm, where neither lies nor pain exist, who dreamt of the human world. Princess Moanna dreamt of a perfect blue sky and an infinite sea of clouds; she dreamt of the sun and the grass and the taste of rain. . . . So, one day the princess escaped her guards and came to our world. Soon the sun erased all her memories and she forgot who she was or where she came from. She wandered the earth, suffering cold, sickness, and pain. And finally, she died. Her father, the king, would not give up searching for her. For he knew Moanna’s spirit to be immortal and hoped that it one day would come back to him. In another body, at another time. Perhaps in another place. He would wait. Down to his last breath. Until the end of time.

So many things lost, the leaves were murmuring as three black cars came driving down the unpaved road that cut through fern and moss. But all things lost can be found again, the trees whispered.

Her mother said fairy tales didn’t have anything to do with the world, but Ofelia knew better. They had taught her everything about it.

Carmen Cardoso believed the most dangerous tale of all: the one of the prince who would save her.

Only her master knew her true name, for in the Magic Kingdom to know a name was to own the being that carried it.

Evil seldom takes shape immediately. It is often little more than a whisper at first. A glance. A betrayal. But then it grows and takes root, still invisible, unnoticed. Only fairy tales give evil a proper shape. The big bad wolves, the evil kings, the demons, and devils . . .

In consiliis nostris fatum nostrum est, the words read. “In our choices lie our fate.”

Ofelia didn’t remind her mother that for her, there was nothing better than a book. Her mother wouldn’t understand. She didn’t make books her shelter or allow them to take her to another world.

Sometimes the objects we hold dear give away who we are even more than the people we love.

Only books talked about all the things adults didn’t want you to ask about—Life. Death. Good and Evil. And what else truly mattered in life.

Sometimes even the healers are turned into butchers by the darkness of this world.

The worst fears are always underneath us, hidden, shaking the ground we wish to be firm and safe.

Her fairy tales were wrong to give evil the shape of a magnificent wild creature. Both Ernesto Vidal and the Pale Man were human beings who fed on hearts and souls because they had lost their own.

Or maybe the labyrinth had been built just for this purpose—to have them all play their part in a story written once upon a time and long ago.

Mercedes stepped back to her brother’s side, the baby in her arms while Vidal stared at the watch’s shattered face, its hands counting away his last moments as meticulously, as it had counted away all the years since his father’s death.

The entry wound cried a single tear of blood. Such an insignificant wound, but Death was nesting in it.

And it is said, that the princess Moanna returned to her father’s kingdom, and reigned there with justice and a kind heart for many centuries. That she was loved by her people and left behind small traces of her time on earth visible only to those who know where to look.