But the Fairy heard the sand running.
Ofelia was just two steps away from the chair when the door above it slowly began to close.
“No!” Ofelia screamed. “No!”
Gasping, she scrambled onto the chair, but when she reached up, the door was gone and it wouldn’t come back, although she beat her fists against the wall. What made her feverish mind remember the chalk? Maybe the Fairy reminded her with a whisper?
Ofelia searched the Faun’s satchel.
Nothing.
Searching her coat pocket, she was more successful.
The Pale Man’s steps echoed louder and louder through the corridor, and Ofelia’s fingers were so tense with fear she broke the chalk in two. She could barely keep a grip on the small piece left in her hand.
Behind her the Pale Man stepped around the corner. He lifted his right hand to stare at Ofelia. There she was. Oh, he loved when they tried to escape. It was as much about the hunt as it was about the kill.
The Fairy twittered in terror, but she didn’t leave Ofelia’s side when Ofelia climbed onto the back of the chair to reach the ceiling.
Closer. The Pale Man staggered closer and closer, stalking on his skeleton legs, his eyes glinting in his palms.
Ofelia finally managed to draw a square onto the mosaics covering the ceiling. She pushed against the door with all the strength she had left and finally the chalk outline gave way, but when Ofelia pulled herself up, hoping this door would also lead back to her room, her feet lost hold of the chair. The Fairy flitted past her as Ofelia struggled to drag her body up and away from the terrible hands. The Pale Man’s fingernails brushed her legs, but as he used his hands to catch Ofelia he was blind and she finally managed to drag herself onto the dusty floor of the attic room. She pushed the trapdoor the chalk had cut back into place until only a fine line of light gave away the opening that had saved her.
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.
Trembling, Ofelia sat down on her bed to get her feet off the floor, and listened. When the Fairy landed on her shoulder, the warmth of her small body was both comfort and accusation. After all, Ofelia’s failings had killed her sisters.
A last brutal blow came from below.
And then . . . finally . . . silence.
21
No Choice
The day had barely broken when Pedro brought Mercedes and Dr. Ferreira back to the clearing near the brook where he’d picked them up. He was all confidence with the morning light on his face and the air fresh with the promise of new beginnings.
“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 . . .”
Ferreira had witnessed too many failed hopes in his life. Had he really just lived for forty-eight years? He felt a thousand years old, and he was tired of all these young men who wished to fight, even if they did so on the side of right.
Pedro didn’t bother to answer his question. Mercedes’s brother just looked at him, with his fresh young face. What did he see? Probably just a sad old man.
“You can’t win this!” Ferreira snapped. “You don’t have enough guns, no safe shelter! You’ll all end up like Frenchie. Or worse.” He knelt at the edge of the brook to wash the blood off his saw and scalpel. For sure he would need these tools again far too soon. The cold water rushed over his hands. As cold as the world.
“You don’t need more men,” he said. “The ones you have need food! And medicine!”
Pedro still hadn’t said a word. Behind them the rebels were collecting firewood and whatever else the forest could give them.
“America, Russia, England . . . they’ll all help us,” he finally said. “Once they win the big war against the German fascists they’ll help us beat them here in Spain. Franco supported Hitler, but we supported the allies. Many of us died helping the resistance; we sabotaged the Tungsten mines in Galicia, which the Germans need to keep their weapon factories running . . . you think the allies will forget that?”
Ferreira straightened and put his tools back into his bag. Yes, they would forget. He felt so tired and angry. Maybe his anger was mostly caused by his exhaustion and lack of hope. And don’t forget the fear, he told himself. Fear that the good causes never win—that they can only hold up evil for a while.
“What about Mercedes?” No, even though he was annoyed by his own voice, he couldn’t let it go. “If you really loved her, you’d cross the border with her. This is a lost cause!”
Pedro bent his head, as if he were listening to his heart to find out if part of it agreed. Then he looked at Ferreira again.
“I am staying here, Doctor,” he said. “There is no choice.”
His voice was as determined as his face. Not a trace of doubt or fear.
We feel immortal when we are young. Or maybe we just don’t care that much about death yet?
As Pedro left to find his sister, Ferreira followed the young guerrilla with his eyes. Had he ever been like this? he asked himself. No. Or maybe yes. When he was still a boy and the world was black-and-white and there was good and evil. When had the world become less simple? Or was this just the perception of his exhausted heart?
Mercedes was picking berries while her brother talked to Ferreira. The forest offered so much to those who honored it. The woods had never frightened Mercedes, even when she was so little her mother had tried to make her fear it by telling her tales of living trees, watermen, and witches. For her the forest had always meant shelter, nourishment, and life . . . she was not surprised that it now protected her brother. Pedro looked so grown-up by now. As if he was the older one. Maybe by now he was, Mercedes thought, when she saw him walking toward her.
“Sister, you have to leave.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. The gesture betrayed the emotions his voice managed to hide. Mercedes reached into her pocket and handed him the key to the barn. She’d stolen it the day before from the capitán’s drawer while cleaning his room.
“Wait a few more days,” she cautioned. “If you raid the barn now, it will be exactly what he expects.”
Her brother took the key with a triumphant smile. For a moment he didn’t look grown-up at all, but like the eager boy Mercedes remembered so well. “Don’t worry. Leave it to me. I’ll be careful.” He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek.
Careful. He was never careful. He didn’t know the meaning of the word. Mercedes grabbed his hand, prolonging the precious moment. That’s what kept them all alive: stealing moments.