فصل بیست و دوم

22

The Kingdoms of Death and Love

Vidal hadn’t slept well, and while he scraped his freshly washed skin with the razor, he caught himself hoping the blade would rid him of both his dark stubble and the troubling dreams that were still nesting in the shadows the morning painted in the dusty room.

The shaving cream turned the water as white as milk as it washed off the blade. Why did that remind him of his unborn son and his bleeding wife? Next to the bowl lay the pocket watch ticking away his life. Death! the silver dials seemed to warn. Maybe death was the only love in Vidal’s heart. His greatest romance. Nothing compared to it. So grand, so absolute, a celebration of darkness, of finally giving in completely. Even in death, though, there was of course the fear of failing, of fading away unnoticed and without glory, face in the dirt—or worse, ending up like his mother, in bed, sickness eating away at her body. Women died like that. Not men.

Vidal stared at his reflection. The remaining shaving cream made it look as if his flesh was already rotting. He lifted the razor so close to the glass the blade seemed to slit his throat. Was there fear in his eyes?

No.

He abruptly dropped his hand, summoning the mask of confidence that had become his second face, merciless, determined. Death is a lover to be feared and there was only one way to overcome that fear—by being her executioner.

Maybe Vidal all alone in front of the mirror, courting her with his razor, sensed that Death had come to the mill. Maybe he heard her silent footsteps on the stairs to the room where his pregnant wife was tossing restlessly in bedding drenched with sweat.

Ofelia heard Death’s footsteps too. She was standing by her mother’s bed caressing her face. It was as hot as if life were being burned to ashes inside her. Was her unborn brother afraid too? Ofelia laid her hand on the curve his tiny body made under the blankets. Did he feel the heat of his mother’s fever on his tiny face? Ofelia was tired of being angry with him. It was this place that made her mother sick, not him—and the only one to be blamed was the Wolf. In fact, she caught herself yearning to have her brother for company, to hold him and take care of him the way the girl carved in the column in the labyrinth took care of the child in her arms. Sometimes we need to see what we feel so we can know about it.

Ofelia had come to her mother’s room to do as the Faun had told her. She’d brought a bowl of milk and the mandrake he’d given her, although the root still disgusted her. It began to stir the moment it touched the milk, stretching its pale limbs like a newborn. Its arms and legs were as chubby as a baby’s; even the noises it made resembled the muffled squeals of a newborn. And when Ofelia’s mother moaned in her bed, the mandrake turned like a child toward the sound, as though listening for its mother’s voice.

Ofelia had to smile despite her disgust. It kept squealing softly as she carried the bowl over to the bed. It wasn’t easy placing the bowl underneath without spilling the milk. Ofelia had to crawl under the bed to push the bowl out of sight and for a moment she was worried the mandrake would wake her mother as it started crying like a baby. A hungry baby. Of course! Ofelia bit into her finger and pressed it until two drops of blood spilled into the milk. Only then, as she lay under the bed, did she hear footsteps.

Someone came in and stood by her mother’s bed. Ofelia was relieved to recognize Dr. Ferreira’s shoes.

But Ferreira hadn’t come alone.

“Capitán!” Ofelia heard him say. “Her temperature is down! I don’t know how, but it is.”

Ferreira was very relieved. Since the girl had found her mother bleeding, he’d been worried she’d soon be an orphan and that they would lose her unborn brother as well. Ferreira had tried his best to hide these worries from Ofelia, but he had seen the fear in her eyes, eyes as dark as her mother’s. And he knew he wouldn’t be able to protect the girl from the man standing by his side, if her mother died. The girl who was lying under her mother’s bed, her heart racing . . .

“So? She still has a fever.” Ofelia heard neither relief nor worry in the Wolf’s voice. Or love.

“Yes, but that’s a good sign,” she heard the doctor say. “Her body is responding to my treatment.” Ofelia felt her mother moving in her sleep above her.

“Listen to me, Ferreira. . . .” The Wolf’s voice was so cold. “If you have to choose, save the baby. Understood?” Ofelia couldn’t breathe. Her heart was screaming. Each word the Wolf uttered was a slap in her mother’s feverish face.

“That boy,” he continued, “will bear my name. And my father’s name. Save him. If he—”

A sudden explosion silenced him. Ofelia was sure it came from the forest. Death was not only inside the mill.

When Vidal stumbled out of the house, he found his soldiers gathered in the yard. A fireball was rising from the canopy of the trees, painting gray smoke into the sky.

Ofelia heard two more explosions when she crawled out from under the bed. She didn’t care. Her mother’s face was peaceful for the first time since her nightgown had been soaked with blood, and Ofelia gently pressed her ear against her mother’s pregnant belly.

“Brother!” she whispered. “Little brother, if you can hear me, things out here aren’t too good. But soon you’ll have to come out.” She was so tired of the tears, but they filled her eyes nevertheless.

“You’ve made Mamá very sick.”

If you have to choose, save the baby. The Wolf’s words brought back her anger, but Ofelia didn’t want it. From now on it would be the three of them against him. Mother, sister, brother. That’s how it had to be.

“I want to ask you one favor!” she pleaded. “For when you come out. Just one. Please don’t hurt her.” Ofelia’s tears painted wet spots on her mother’s blanket, as if all the sadness and fear she felt had become liquid. “You’ll see when you meet her,” she said. “Mamá’s very pretty, even though she’s sometimes sad for many days. And when she smiles . . . I know you’ll love her. I’m sure you will!” There was no answer, but Ofelia believed she heard her brother’s heart beating underneath her mother’s skin.

“Listen!” She gave her words all the weight a solemn promise needs. “If you do what I say, I’ll take you to my kingdom and I’ll make you a prince. I promise! A prince.” Underneath the bed the mandrake uttered a soft squeal.