Pan's Labyrinth: The Labyrinth of the Faun

by Guillermo del Toro

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.

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.”

Vidal’s eyes were narrow with suspicion. He is always suspicious, Mercedes, she thought, calming her racing heart. He liked to watch his gaze spread fear on a face, but she’d played this game often enough to not give herself away. Just a mouse. Invisible. She’d be done for if he ever came to believe that she was a cat or a vixen. “Ask Dr. Ferreira to come down.” “Yes, señor.” She bent her head to make herself small. Most men didn’t want a woman to be tall. Vidal was no exception.

Ofelia had just sat down on the side of the bed, when Mercedes came into the room. “He wants you downstairs,” she said to Dr. Ferreira. He. Nobody spoke his name. Vidal. It sounded like a stone thrown through a window, each letter a piece of broken glass. Capitán. That’s what most of them called him. But Ofelia still thought Wolf fit him much better.

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. She could only see this world, and then, Ofelia thought, only sometimes. It was part of her mother’s sadness to be earthbound. Books could have told her so much about this world and about places far away, about animals and plants, about the stars! They could be windows and doors, paper wings to help her fly away. Maybe her mother had just forgotten how to fly. Or maybe she’d never learned.

Sometimes the objects we hold dear give away who we are even more than the people we love. The glass of the watch had cracked in the hand of Vidal’s father at the very moment he died, which his son took as proof that things could survive death if only one kept them clean and in perfect order.

“She’ll get as much rest as she needs,” he said. “I’ll sleep down here.” That would make things easier anyway. He had grown tired of Carmen. He grew tired of every woman quite easily. They usually tried to get too close. Vidal didn’t want anyone to get close. It made him vulnerable. All order was lost when love moved in. Even desire could be confusing unless one fed it and moved on. Women didn’t understand that.

The captives, one old and one much younger, were as pale as the sickly moon. Their clothes were filthy from the woods and their eyes were dim with guilt and fear. “Capitán,” the younger one said as Vidal scrutinized them wordlessly, “this is my father.” He gestured to the older man. “He is an honorable man.” “I’ll be the judge of that.” Although Vidal enjoyed fear in a man’s face, it made him angry at the same time.

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.

“Your real father had us open portals all over the world to allow you to return. This is the last one.” The Faun gestured at the chamber they were standing in. “But before you are allowed back in his kingdom we have to make sure your essence is intact and you haven’t become a mortal. To prove that . . .” He once again reached into his satchel. “You must complete three tasks before the moon is full.”

Out in the yard one of the soldiers had imitated how the old man had begged for his son’s life. He’d laughed while describing how Vidal had killed them both. Were they born that cruel, all these soldiers slashing and burning and killing? They had been children once like Ofelia. Mercedes feared for her. The girl was too innocent for this place and her mother wouldn’t be strong enough to protect her. She was one of those women who looked for strength in men instead of finding it in her own heart.

She woke with a start when he touched her shoulder and backed away from him, hiding behind a tree, like a deer chased by his hounds. It took Ayuso a while to convince her of his good intentions. She looked like she hadn’t eaten for days so he told his men to bring her food. When asked for her name, she told them she couldn’t remember it, so one of his soldiers suspected she might be a surviving victim of the Pale Man, a creature who roamed the area stealing children from the surrounding villages and dragging them to his underground lair. Only two victims were known to have escaped the Pale Man, bringing back terrible tales of children being eaten alive and a monster so horrible that they didn’t dare fall asleep for fear they’d meet him again in their dreams. However, when Ayuso asked the young woman about the Pale Man, she just shook her head and the expression on her face was so lost, he spared her any further questions, worried they would stir memories she’d been wise enough to forget.

From dusk till dawn that night Alba stayed in the labyrinth, walking its crooked paths, even though her infant son was crying for her milk in her chambers. Ayuso didn’t follow her, afraid the labyrinth wouldn’t reveal the answers his wife so desperately yearned for in his presence. He waited all night in front of the labyrinth and when Alba finally came out, Ayuso saw in her face that she hadn’t found what she’d been looking for. Every month for the next twelve months, on the night of the full moon, Alba went back into the labyrinth, but all she found between its stone walls was silence, and her sadness grew and grew until one moonless November night, she fell gravely ill. She died before the moon was full again, and one hour after she drew her last breath, Ayuso sent five of his soldiers to the witch’s hut. They dragged Rocio through the woods and into the millpond, although the miller begged them not to curse his mill with such a deed. It took three men to drown her. They left her body drifting between the lily pads for the fish to eat. Fifteen years later, Ayuso’s son walked into the labyrinth hoping to find his mother there. He was never seen again, and it took another two hundred and twenty-three years until the prophecy of the witch came true and the labyrinth revealed his mother’s true name when she once again walked its ancient corridors as a girl called Ofelia.

“Did I tell you that I knew your father, Capitán?” the general asked as Mercedes pushed the wheelchair toward the door. “We both fought in Morocco. I knew him only briefly, but he left a great impression.” “Really? I had no idea.” Mercedes could hear in Vidal’s voice that he didn’t like the question. “His soldiers said,” the general continued, “that when General Vidal died on the battlefield, he smashed his silver pocket watch on a rock to make sure his son would know the exact hour and minute of his death. And to show him how a brave man dies.” “Nonsense!” Vidal said. “My father never owned a pocket watch.” Mercedes longed to pull the pocket watch out of his jacket to show them all what a broken, lying thing he was. But instead she pushed the wheelchair out of the room.

Ofelia was just touching the weathered face of the baby when the Faun appeared from the shadows. He looked different. Younger. Stronger. More dangerous. “I got the key,” Ofelia said proudly, holding it up. But the Faun just nodded. Ofelia had expected a bit more than that. After all she’d faced a giant toad and saved the fig tree, not to speak of offending her mother. The Faun, though, seemed far more excited about what he was eating. Ofelia couldn’t quite make out what it was, only that it was bloody and raw, maybe a dead bird or a rodent.

“Yes. You’re going to a very dangerous place.” The Faun lifted a warning finger, the lines on his forehead swirling like whirls in a bottomless river. “Far more dangerous than the last one. So be careful!” For a moment he sounded sincerely worried about her. “The thing that slumbers in that place—” He shook his horned head and frowned with disgust. “It is not human, although it may look like it. It’s very old and full of cunning and cruelty—and a great hunger.” He plucked a big hourglass out of the air and dropped it on Ofelia’s bed. “Here. You’ll need this, too. You’ll see a sumptuous banquet, but don’t eat or drink anything. Nothing!” This time both hands drew a warning sign into the night. “Absolutely nothing!” Ofelia looked at the objects on her blanket: the mandrake root, the satchel, the hourglass. Three gifts . . . just like the heroes in her fairy tales often received. These gifts always proved to be very helpful—unless one lost them or used them the wrong way. “Ab-so-lute-ly nothing!” the Faun repeated, his clawed fingers piercing the night. “Your life will depend on it.” And before Ofelia could ask him to tell her more, he was gone.

He hesitated for a moment before he removed the bloodstained bandage. Even after all these years, he couldn’t get used to the fact he often needed to cause pain to help. Managing to suppress a groan, Frenchie shuddered when the bandage came off and Ferreira wondered how many of these men in the woods regretted joining a fight that looked more and more like a lost cause.

Like most of the men, she shut her eyes when Ferreira pressed his bone saw against Frenchie’s swollen leg. “Wait a second, Doctor! Just a second.” Frenchie gazed one more time at his leg. His choice to fight the marching boots would make him a cripple. Ferreira wondered how that made him feel about his decision. Frenchie inhaled deeply, pressing his lips firmly together, as if that would keep the screams inside, the screams, the despair, the fear . . . then he nodded again. This time it was Ferreira who had to catch his breath, to pull himself together for the butchery he was about to perform. Sometimes even the healers are turned into butchers by the darkness of this world.

Ofelia got to her feet. A groan echoed through the floor, the moaning of a hungry bloodstained mouth, and when she stepped back, she felt the Pale Man pushing against the floorboards. The worst fears are always underneath us, hidden, shaking the ground we wish to be firm and safe.

“We’ll soon have reinforcements from Jaca! Fifty men or more.” There was neither doubt nor fear in his voice, despite the despair they’d all seen last night on Frenchie’s face. “As soon as they arrive, we’ll go head-to-head with Vidal.” Ferreira had seen this before: the enthusiasm a new day could bring after even the darkest night. Sometimes it was strong enough to last, but most times it died by dusk. Ferreira himself had not yet recovered from taking Frenchie’s leg. All that pain, the despair of the wounded man and his comrades, his own helplessness . . . “Head-to-head and then what?” he couldn’t help asking. “You’ll kill Vidal and they’ll send another just like him. And another after that . . .”

“Listen to me, Ferreira. . . .” The Wolf’s voice was so cold. “If you have to choose, save the baby. Understood?”

Vidal was taking his time. To question a prisoner was a complex process. It resembled a dance, one slow step back, then a fast one forward, and back again. Slow, fast, slow. His prisoner was shaking and his face was streaked with sweat, though they had only roughed him up a little. His fear was doing most of the work so far, the fear of what was going to come. It would be easy to break him.

Tarta tilted his head back when his captor pressed the cigarette to his trembling lips. “G-g-go to hell.” “Can you believe it, Garces?” Vidal turned to his officer. “We catch one and he turns out to be a stutterer. We’ll be here all night.” “As long as it takes,” Garces replied.

Once upon a time, but not long ago, there lived a Child Eater in an ancient forest. The villagers who picked up the deadwood under the trees to get through the winter called him the Pale Man. His victims were so numerous their names covered many walls in the halls he’d built underground, below the forest. He made their bones into furniture as delicate as their limbs, and their screams were the music that accompanied his feasting at the very table on which he’d killed so many of them. The winding corridors of the Child Eater’s lair had been designed to make the chase more enjoyable. Children could be surprisingly fast, as the Pale Man knew. After all he’d been human himself once, but his murders of children had turned him into something else, faceless and ageless, one of his kind. Cruelty had been his craft since he was a boy. Even then people called him Pálido, for he didn’t like to be in the sun, so his skin was always as pale as a watery moon. He first practiced on insects, then birds, then his mother’s cats. He killed the first child when he was only thirteen—his younger brother, who he had both loved and envied.