When her husband did not return late in the day, the miller’s wife went looking for him. She followed two sets of footsteps, one of them her husband’s, into the woods and to the pond, where she called his name over the dark water. When there was no response she ran to the village where her parents lived and yelled across the marketplace that the witch in the pond had devoured her husband.
Soon an angry crowd headed for the pond with nets, pitchforks, and clubs. They stopped at the shore where the miller’s tracks disappeared into the water. Something was shimmering in the depths of the pond like sunken silver treasure, and the villagers forgot about the tears of the miller’s wife. All they could think of was the silver and, when their nets couldn’t bring it up, they set fire to their clubs and to every branch they could find on the frozen ground, setting them adrift on the pond until it was covered with flames and the water turned into white smoke.
The villagers kept the fire going until they’d chopped and burned all the surrounding trees, and all that was left of the pond were dead fish and pebbles covered in soot. The lump of silver lying among them resembled two lovers melted into one.
The villagers backed away and the miller’s wife screamed and fell on her knees as she recognized her husband’s features in one of the faces melted together in a kiss. No one dared touch the silver, and the wife went back to the village with the others never to return.
From then on the mill stood deserted, as what use is a mill without a pond? Then, after almost ninety years, a man moved in, who, as rumors said, had once been a famous watchmaker in the great and faraway city of Madrid. His dogs chased every man, woman, and child who came near the mill. Some even claimed he was guarded by a pack of man-eating wolves. A rabbit poacher once managed to peek through the windows without being torn to pieces and, while selling his poached rabbits to a butcher, reported that the mill’s new owner had brought the silver up from the dead pond and was melting it down to make watches.
14
Keep the Key
The heart of the labyrinth still looked the same, a long-forgotten place at the bottom of the world. But Ofelia felt more hesitant to climb down the stairs to the column this time. It is often easier to find something out than to face what you’ve found.
The walls along the steps were covered with niches. Ofelia hadn’t noticed them during her first visit. They looked like votive sites awaiting offerings for a forgotten god, or the bricked-in windows of a sunken tower. Everything in the labyrinth spoke of forgotten things . . . though maybe they weren’t forgotten. Maybe they were being kept safe.
The Fairy was clearly thrilled to be back. She swirled and fluttered around like someone happy to be home. While they were waiting for the Faun Ofelia took a closer look at the column. A girl holding a baby was carved into the stone. She had no face, time had wiped it away, but the figure standing behind her, his clawed hand on the girl’s shoulder, was clearly the Faun, protecting her, holding her—or holding her down.
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.
The Faun ripped off a mouthful with his sharp, pointed teeth and took a few prancing steps toward her.
“That’s me!” He pointed at the column. “And the girl is you.”
He took another bite from his bloody meal.
“And the baby?”
The Faun ignored the question.
“So,” he said. “You retrieved the key.” He bent forward until Ofelia saw her own reflection in his pale blue eyes. “I’m glad.”
He straightened and held his hand out to the Fairy. She landed gracefully on his outstretched finger and the Faun chuckled with delight when she took a greedy bite from his meat.
“She believed in you from the beginning. And look at her! So happy!”
The Fairy fluttered off and the Faun followed her with his eyes as tenderly as a father watching his mischievous child. “She is so thrilled you succeeded!”
He laughed, but Ofelia saw his face was serious when he turned to her.
“Keep the key. You’ll be needing it very soon.” His long hand drew a warning into the night. He always accented his words with his fingers, stretching, pointing, drawing invisible signs, which seemed to reveal more than his tongue. “And this”—he handed Ofelia a piece of white chalk—“you will need as well! Two tasks remain and the moon will soon be full.”
Ofelia couldn’t help but shudder when he caressed her face with his clawed fingers.
“Be patient, Princess,” he purred, smiling down at her. “We’ll soon walk in the Seven Circular Gardens of your palace, stroll over its winding paths paved with onyx and alabaster . . .”
There was something mischievous in his cat eyes. Ofelia wasn’t sure whether it had been there at their first meeting or whether she just hadn’t noticed.
“How do I know that what you say is true?”
The Faun shook his horned head as if she’d deeply insulted him. “Why would a poor little faun like me lie to you?”
He traced the track of an invisible tear down his patterned cheek, but his eyes were those of a lurking cat, ready to pounce.
Ofelia stepped back, her heart pounding. Not with fear. No. Worse. She looked at the gold key in her hand—was it a treasure? Or a burden? She suddenly felt there was no one she could trust, no one in the world. Her mother had betrayed her to please the Wolf, and how could she ever come to believe she could trust the Faun?
15
Blood
The key Vidal used to unlock the barn was not made from gold. For the peasants waiting in front of the withered gates, though, the key unlocked far greater treasure. It was early in the morning, but they were lining up all across the yard, many of them with their children. Hunger was a regular guest at their tables, as regular as their family members and the words bread, salt, beans, or potatoes sounded far more magical to them than any treasure described in the fairy tales of their childhood.
Vidal had two soldiers guarding the barn doors, while another, sitting at a table they’d brought from the house, was checking the vouchers.
“Have your ration cards ready for inspection!” Lieutenant Aznar, who’d been given the task to hand out the vouchers, barked the words with the confidence only a uniform can grant. He didn’t know how it felt to wait in a line just to fill your empty stomach. He came from a butcher’s family, and the worn figures with their tired faces and bent backs looked like an inferior species to him. For sure they were not his kind.
“Hurry up!” he barked at an old man, grabbing the voucher from his outstretched hand. “Your name. First and last.” The lieutenant’s butcher father had never looked like this old man. So exhausted, so marked by life.
“Narciso Peña Soriano . . . at your service,” the old man said. They were all at their service. All their lives.