The neverending story / Michael Ende

The Neverending Story
by Michael Ende

This inscription could be seen on the glass door of a small shop,
but naturally this was only the way it looked if you were inside the
dimly lit shop, looking out at the street through the plate-glass door.
Outside, it was a gray, cold, rainy November morning. The rain
ran down the glass and over the ornate lters. Through the glass there
was nothing to be seen but the rain-splotched wall across the street.
Suddenly the door was opened so violently that a little cluster of
brass bells tinkled wildly, taking quite some time to calm down. The
cause of this hubbub was a fat little boy of ten or twelve. His wet,
dark-brown hair hung down over his face, his coat was soaked and
dripping, and he was carrying a school satchel slung over his
shoulder. He was rather pale and out of breath, but, despite the
hurry he had been in a moment before, he was standing in the open
doorway as though rooted to the spot.
Before him lay a long, narrow room, the back of which was lost
in the half-light. The walls were lined with shelves filled with books
of all shapes and sizes. Large folios were piled high on the floor, and
on several tables lay heaps of smaller, leather-bound books, whose
spines glittered with gold. The far end of the room was blocked off by
a shoulder-high wall of books, behind which the light of a lamp
could be seen. From time to time a ring of smoke rose up in the
lamplight, expanded, and vanished in darkness. One was reminded
of the smoke signals that Indians used for sending news from hilltop
to hilltop. Apparently someone was sitting there, and, sure enough,
the little boy heard a cross voice from behind the wall of books: "Do
your wondering inside or outside, but shut the door. There's a draft."
The boy obeyed and quietly shut the door. Then he approached
the wall of books and looked cautiously around the corner. There, in
a high worn leather wing chair sat a short, stout man in a rumpled
black suit that looked frayed and somehow dusty. His paunch was
held in by a vest with a flower design. He was bald except for
outcroppings of white hair over his ears. His red face suggested a
vicious bulldog. A gold-rimmed pince-nez was perched on his
bulbous nose. He was smoking a curved pipe, which dangled from
one corner of his mouth and pulled his whole cheek out of shape. On
his lap he held a book, which he had evidently been reading, for in
closing it he had left the thick forefinger of his left hand between the
leaves as a kind of bookmark.
With his right hand he now removed his spectacles and examined
the fat little boy, who stood there dripping. After a while, the man
narrowed his eyes, which made him look more vicious than ever, and
muttered: "Goodness gracious." Then he opened his book and went
on reading.
The little boy didn't know quite what to do, so he just stood
there, gaping. Finally the man closed his book -- as before, with his
finger between the pages -- and growled: "Listen, my boy, I can't
abide children. I know it's the style nowadays to make a terrible fuss
over you -- but I don't go for it. I simply have no use for children. As
far as I'm concerned, they're no good for anything but screaming,
torturing people, breaking things, smearing books with jam and
tearing the pages. It never dawns on them that grown-ups may also
have their troubles and cares. I'm only telling you this so you'll know
where you're at. Anyway, I have no children's books and I wouldn't
sell you the other kind. So now we understand each other, I hope!"
After saying all this without taking his pipe out of his mouth, he
opened his book again and went on reading.
The boy nodded silently and turned to go, but somehow he felt
that he couldn't take this last remark lying down. He turned around
and said softly: "All children aren't like that."
Slowly the man looked up and again removed his spectacles.
"You still here? What must one do to be rid of you? And what was
this terribly important thing you had to tell me?"
"It wasn't terribly important," said the boy still more softly. "I
only wanted. . . to say that all children aren't the way you said."
"Really?" The man raised his eyebrows in affected surprise.
"Then you must be the big exception, I presume?"
The fat boy didn't know what to say. He only shrugged his
shoulders a little, and turned to go.
"And anyway," he heard the gruff voice behind him, "where are
your manners? If you had any, you'd have introduced yourself."
"My name is Bastian," said the boy. "Bastian Balthazar Bux."
"That's a rather odd name," the man grumbled. "All those Bs.
Oh well, you can't help it. You didn't choose it. My name is Carl
Conrad Coreander."
"That makes three Cs."
"Hmm," the man grumbled. "Quite right."
He puffed a few clouds. "Oh well, our names don't really matter,
as we'll never see each other again. But before you leave, there's just
one thing I'd like to know: What made you come bursting into my
shop like that? It looked to me as if you were running away from
something. Am I right?"
Bastian nodded. Suddenly his round face was a little paler than
before and his eyes a little larger.
"I suppose you made off with somebody's cashbox," Mr.
Coreander conjectured, "or knocked an old woman down, or
whatever little scamps like you do nowadays. Are the police after you,
boy?"
Bastian shook his head.
"Speak up," said Mr. Coreander. "Whom were you running
away from?"
"The others."
"What others?"
"The children in my class."
"Why?"
"They won't leave me alone."
"What do they do to you?"
"They wait for me outside the schoolhouse."
"And then what?"
"Then they shout all sorts of things. And push me around and
laugh at me."
"And you just put up with it?"
Mr. Coreander looked at the boy for a while disapprovingly.
Then he asked: "Why don't you just give them a punch on the nose?"
Bastian gaped. "No, I wouldn't want to do that. And besides, I
can't box."
"How about wrestling?" Mr. Coreander asked. "Or running,
swimming, football, gymnastics? Are you no good at any of them?"
The boy shook his head.
"In other words," said Mr. Coreander, "you're a weakling."
Bastian shrugged his shoulders.
"But you can still talk," said Mr. Coreander. "Why don't you
talk back at them when they make fun of you?"
"I tried. . ."
"Well. . .?"
"They threw me into a garbage can and tied the lid on. I yelled
for two hours before somebody heard me."
"Hmm," Mr. Coreander grumbled. "And now you don't dare?"
Bastian nodded.
"In that case," Mr. Coreander concluded, "you're a scaredy-cat
too."
Bastian hung his head.
"And probably a hopeless grind? Best in the class, teacher's pet? Is
that it?"
"No," said Bastian, still looking down. "I was put back last
year."
"Good Lord!" cried Mr. Coreander. "A failure all along the
line."
Bastian said nothing, he just stood there in his dripping coat. His
arms hung limp at his sides.
"What kind of things do they yell when they make fun of you?"
Mr. Coreander wanted to know.
"Oh, all kinds."
"For instance?"
"Namby Pamby sits on the pot. The pot cracks up, says Namby
Pamby: I guess it's 'cause I weigh a lot!"
"Not very clever," said Mr. Coreander. "What else?"
Bastian hesitated before listing: "Screwball, nitwit, braggart,
liar. . ."
"Screwball? Why do they call you that?"
"I talk to my self sometimes."
"What kind of things do you say?"
"I think up stories. I invent names and words that don't exist.
That kind of thing."
"And you say these things to yourself? Why?"
"Well, nobody else would be interested."
Mr. Coreander fell into a thoughtful silence.
"What do your parents say about this?"
Bastian didn't answer right away. After a while he mumbled:
"Father doesn't say anything. He never says anything. It's all the
same to him."
"And your mother?"
"She -- she's gone."
"Your parents are divorced?"
"No," said Bastian. "She's dead."
At that moment the telephone rang. With some difficulty Mr.
Coreander pulled himself out of his armchair and shuffled into a
small room behind the shop. He picked up the receiver and
indistinctly Bastian heard him saying his name. After that there was
nothing to be heard but a low mumbling.
Bastian stood there. He didn't quite know why he had said all he
had and admitted so much. He hated being questioned like that. He
broke into a sweat as it occurred to him that he was already late for
school. He'd have to hurry, oh yes, he'd have to run -- but he just
stood there, unable to move. Something held him fast, he didn't
know what.
He could still hear the muffled voice from the back room. It was
a long telephone conversation.
It came to Bastian that he had been staring the whole time at the
book that Mr. Coreander had been holding and that was now lying
on the armchair. He couldn't take his eyes off it. It seemed to have a
kind of magnetic power that attracted him irresistibly.
He went over to the chair, slowly held out his hand, and touched
the book. In that moment something inside him went click!, as
though a trap had shut. Bastian had a vague feeling that touching
the book had started something irrevocable, which would now take
its course.
He picked up the book and examined it from all sides. It was
bound in copper-colored silk that shimmered when he moved it
about. Leafing through the pages, he saw the book was printed in
two colors. There seemed to be no pictures, but there were large,
beautiful capital letters at the beginning of the chapters. Examining
the binding more closely, he discovered two snakes on it, one light
and one dark. They were biting each other's tail, so forming an oval.
And inside the oval, in strangely intricate letters, he saw the title:
The Neverending Story
Human passions have mysterious ways, in children as well as
grown-ups. Those affected by them can't explain them, and those
who haven't known them have no understanding of them at all.
Some people risk their lives to conquer a mountain peak. No one, not
even they themselves, can really explain why. Others ruin themselves
trying to win the heart of a certain person who wants nothing to do
with them. Still others are destroyed by their devotion to the pleasures
of the table. Some are so bent on winning a game of chance that they
lose everything they own, and some sacrifice every thing for a dream
that can never come true. Some think their only hope of happiness
lies in being somewhere else, and spend their whole lives traveling
from place to place. And some find no rest until they have become
powerful. In short, there are as many different passions as there are
people.
Bastian Balthazar Bux's passion was books.
If you have never spent whole afternoons with burning ears and
rumpled hair, forgetting the world around you over a book,
forgetting cold and hunger --
If you have never read secretly under the bedclothes with a
flashlight, because your father or mother or some other well-meaning
person has switched off the lamp on the plausible ground that it was
time to sleep because you had to get up so early --
If you have never wept bitter tears because a wonderful story has
come to an end and you must take your leave of the characters with
whom you have shared so many adventures, whom you have loved
and admired, for whom you have hoped and feared, and without
whose company life seems empty and meaningless --
If such things have not been part of your own experience, you
probably won't understand what Bastian did next.
Staring at the title of the book, he turned hot and cold, cold and
hot. Here was just what he had dreamed of, what he had longed for
ever since the passion for books had taken hold of him: A story that
never ended! The book of books!
He had to have this book -- at any price.
At any price? That was easily said. Even if he had had more to
offer than the bit of pocket money he had on him -- this cranky Mr.
Coreander had given him clearly to understand that he would never
sell him a single book. And he certainly wouldn't give it away. The
situation was hopeless.
Yet Bastian knew he couldn't leave without the book. It was
clear to him that he had only come to the shop because of this book. It
had called him in some mysterious way, because it wanted to be his,
because it had somehow always belonged to him.
Bastian listened to the mumbling from the little back room. In a
twinkling, before he knew it, he had the book under his coat and was
hugging it with both arms. Without a sound he backed up to the
street door, keeping an anxious eye on the other door, the one leading
to the back room. Cautiously he turned the door handle. To keep the
brass bells from ringing, he opened the glass door just wide enough for
him to slip through. He quietly closed the door behind him.
Only then did he start running.
The books, copybooks, pens and pencils in his satchel jiggled and
rattled to the rhythm of his steps. He had a stitch in his side. But he
kept on running.
The rain ran down his face and into his collar. The wet cold
passed through his coat, but Bastian didn't feel it. He felt hot all
over, but not from running.
His conscience, which hadn't let out a peep in the bookshop, had
suddenly woken up. All the arguments that had seemed so convincing
melted away like snowmen under the fiery breath of a dragon.
He had stolen. He was a thief!
What he had done was worse than common theft. That book was
certainly the only one of its kind and impossible to replace. It was
surely Mr. Coreander's greatest treasure. Stealing a violinist's
precious violin or a king's crown wasn't at all the same as filching
money from a cash drawer.
As he ran, he hugged the book tight under his coat. Regardless of
what this book might cost him, he couldn't bear to lose it. It was all
he had left in the world.
Because naturally he couldn't go home anymore.
He tried to imagine his father at work in the big room he had
furnished as a laboratory. Around him lay dozens of plaster casts of
human teeth, for his father was a dental technician. Bastian had
never stopped to ask himself whether his father enjoyed his work. It
occurred to him now for the first time, but now he would never be
able to ask him.
If he went home now, his father would come out of his lab in a
white smock, possibly holding a plaster cast, and he would ask:
"Home so soon?" "Yes," Bastian would answer. "No school today?"
He saw his father's quiet, sad face, and he knew he couldn't possibly
lie to him. Much less could he tell him the truth. No, the only thing
left for him was to go away somewhere. Far, far away. His father
must never find out that his son was a thief. And maybe he wouldn't
even notice that Bastian wasn't there anymore. Bastian found this
thought almost comforting.
He had stopped running. Walking slowly, he saw the schoolhouse
at the end of the street. Without thinking, he was taking his usual
route to school. He passed a few people here and there, yet the street
seemed deserted. But to a schoolboy arriving very, very late, the world
around the schoolhouse always seems to have gone dead. At every step
he felt the fear rising within him. Under the best of circumstances he
was afraid of school, the place of his daily defeats, afraid of his
teachers, who gently appealed to his conscience or made him the butt
of their rages, afraid of the other children, who made fun of him and
never missed a chance to show him how clumsy and defenseless he
was. He had always thought of his school years as a prison term with
no end in sight, a misery that would continue until he grew up,
something he would just have to live through.
But when he now passed through the echoing corridors with their
smell of floor wax and wet overcoats, when the lurking stillness
suddenly stopped his ears like cotton, and when at last he reached the
door of his classroom, which was painted the same old spinach color
as the walls around it, he realized that this, too, was no place for
him. He would have to go away. So he might as well go at once.
But where to?
Bastian had read stories about boys who ran away to sea and
sailed out into the world to make their fortune. Some became pirates
or heroes, others grew rich and when they returned home years later
no one could guess who they were.
But Bastian didn't feel up to that kind of thing. He couldn't
conceive of anyone taking him on as a cabin boy. Besides, he had no
idea how to reach a seaport with suitable ships for such an
undertaking.
So where could he go?
Suddenly he thought of the right place, the only place where -- at
least far the time being -- no one would find him or even look for
him.
The attic of the school was large and dark. It smelled of dust and
mothballs. Not a sound to be heard, except for the muffled
drumming of the rain on the enormous tin roof. Great beams
blackened with age rose at regular intervals from the plank floor,
joined with other beams at head height, and lost themselves in the
darkness. Here and there spider webs as big as hammocks swayed
gently in the air currents. A milky light fell from a skylight in the
roof.
The one living thing in this place where time seemed to stand
still was a little mouse that came hobbling across the floor, leaving
tiny footprints in the dust -- and between them a fine line, a
tailprint. Suddenly it stopped and pricked up its ears. And then it
vanished -- whoosh! -- into a hole in the floor.
The mouse had heard the sound of a key in a big lock. The attic
door opened slowly, with a loud squeak. For a moment a long strip of
light crossed the room. Bastian slipped in. Then, again with a
squeak, the door closed. Bastian put the big key in the lock from
inside and turned it. Then he pushed the bolt and heaved a sigh of
relief. Now no one could possibly find him. No one would look for
him here. The place was seldom used -- he was pretty sure of that --
and even if by chance someone had something to do in the attic,
today or tomorrow, he would simply find the door locked. And the
key would be gone. And even if they somehow got the door open,
Bastian would have time to hide behind the junk that was stored
here.
Little by little, his eyes got used to the dim light. He knew the
place. Some months before, he had helped the janitor to carry a
laundry basket full of old copybooks up here. And then he had seen
where the key to the attic door was kept -- in a wall cupboard next to
the topmost flight of stairs. He hadn't thought of it since. But today
he had remembered.
Bastian began to shiver, his coat was soaked through and it was
cold in the attic. The first thing to do was find a place where he
could make himself more or less comfortable, because he took it for
granted that he'd have to stay here a long time. How long? The
question didn't enter his head, nor did it occur to him that he would
soon be hungry and thirsty.
He looked around for a while. The place was crammed with
junk of all kinds; there were shelves full of old files and records,
benches and ink-stained desks were heaped up every which way, a
dozen old maps were hanging on an iron frame, there were
blackboards that had lost a good deal of their black, and cast-iron
stoves, broken-down pieces of gymnasium equipment -- including a
horse with the stuffing coming out through the cracks in its hide --
and a number of soiled mats. There were also quite a few stuffed
animals -- at least what the moths had left of them -- a big owl, a
golden eagle, a fox, and so on, cracked retorts and other chemical
equipment, a galvanometer, a human skeleton hanging on a clothes
rack, and a large number of cartons full of old books and papers.
Bastian finally decided to make his home on the pile of old gym mats.
When he stretched out on them, it was almost like lying on a sofa. He
dragged them to the place under the skylight where the light was best.
Not far away he found a pile of gray army blankets; they were dusty
and ragged but that didn't matter now. He carried them over to his
nest. He took off his wet coat and hung it on the clothes rack beside
the skeleton. The skeleton jiggled and swayed, but Bastian had no
fear of it, maybe because he was used to such things at home. He also
removed his wet shoes. In his stocking feet he squatted down on the
mats and wrapped himself in the gray blankets like an Indian.
Beside him lay his school satchel -- and the copper-colored book.
It passed through his mind that the rest of them down in the
classroom would be having history just then. Maybe they'd be writing
a composition on some deadly dull subject.
Bastian looked at the book.
"I wonder," he said to himself, "what's in a book while it's
closed. Oh, I know it's full of letters printed on paper, but all the
same, something must be happening, because as soon as I open it,
there's a whole story with people I don't know yet and all kinds of
adventures and deeds and battles. And sometimes there are storms at
sea, or it takes you to strange cities and countries. All those things are
somehow shut up in a book. Of course you have to read it to find out.
But it's already there, that's the funny thing. I just wish I knew how
it could be."
Suddenly an almost festive mood came over him.
He settled himself, picked up the book, opened it to the first page,
and began to read
The Neverending Story
I
Fantastica in Danger

ll the beasts in Howling Forest were safe in their caves, nests, and
burrows.
It was midnight, the storm wind was whistling through the
tops of the great ancient trees. The towering trunks creaked and
groaned.
Suddenly a faint light came zigzagging through the woods,
stopped here and there, trembling fitfully, flew up into the air,
rested on a branch, and a moment later hurried on. It was a
glittering sphere about the size of a child's ball; it moved in long
leaps, touched the ground now and then, then bounded up again.
But it wasn't a ball.
It was a will-o'-the-wisp. It had lost its way. And that's
something quite unusual even in Fantastica, because ordinarily
will-o'-the-wisps make others lose their way.
Inside this ball of light there was a small, exceedingly active
figure, which ran and jumped with all its might. It was neither
male nor female, for such distinctions don't exist among
will-o'-the-wisps. In its right hand it carried a tiny white flag,
which glittered behind it. That meant it was either a messenger or
a flag-of-truce bearer.
You'd think it would have bumped into a tree, leaping like
that in the darkness, but there was no danger of that, for
will-o'-the-wisps are incredibly nimble and can change directions
in the middle of a leap. That explains the zigzagging, but in a
general sort of way it moved in a definite direction.
Up to the moment when it came to a jutting crag and started
back in a fright. Whimpering like a puppy, it sat down on the
fork of a tree and pondered awhile before venturing out and
cautiously looking around the crag.
Up ahead it saw a clearing in the woods, and there in the light
of a campfire sat three figures of different sizes and shapes. A
giant, who looked as if the whole of him were made of gray stone,
lay stretched out on his belly. He was almost ten feet long.
Propped up on one elbow, he was looking into the fire. In his
weather-beaten stone face, which seemed strangely small in
comparison with his powerful shoulders, his teeth stood out like a
row of steel chisels. The will-o'-the-wisp recognized him as
belonging to the family of rock chewers. These were creatures
who lived in a mountain range inconceivably far from Howling
Forest -- but they not only lived in the mountain range, they also
lived on it, for little by little they were eating it up. Rocks were
their only food. Luckily a little went a long way. They could live
for weeks and months on a single bite of this -- for them --
extremely nutritious fare. There weren't very many rock chewers,
and besides it was a large mountain range. But since these giants
had been there a long time -- they lived to a greater age than most
of the inhabitants of Fantastica -- those mountains had come,
over the years, to look very strange -- like an enormous Swiss
cheese, full of holes and grottoes. And that is why they were
known as the Cheesiewheezies.
But the rock chewers not only fed on stone, they made
everything they needed out of it: furniture, hats, shoes, tools,
even cuckoo clocks. So it was not surprising that the vehicle of
this particular giant, which was now leaning against a tree behind
him, was a sort of bicycle made entirely of this material, with two
wheels that looked like enormous millstones. On the whole, it
suggested a steamroller with pedals.
The second figure, who was sitting to the right of the first,
was a little night-hob. No more than twice the size of the
will-o'-the-wisp, he looked like a pitch-black, furry caterpillar
sitting up. He had little pink hands, with which he gestured
violently as he spoke, and below his tousled black hair two big
round eyes glowed like moons in what was presumably his face.
Since there were night-hobs of all shapes and sizes in every
part of Fantastica, it was hard to tell by the sight of him whether
this one had come from far or near. But one could guess that he
was traveling, because the usual mount of the night-hobs, a large
bat, wrapped in its wings like a closed umbrella, was hanging
head-down from a nearby branch.
It took the will-o'-the-wisp some time to discover the third
person on the left side of the fire, for he was so small as to be
scarcely discernible from that distance. He was one of the tinies, a
delicately built little fellow in a bright-colored suit and a top hat.
The will-o'-the-wisp knew next to nothing about tinies. But
it had once heard that these people built whole cities in the
branches of trees and that the houses were connected by
stairways, ropeladders, and ramps. But the tinies lived in an
entirely different part of the boundless Fantastican Empire, even
farther away than the rock chewers. Which made it all the more
amazing that the mount which had evidently carried the tiny all
this way was, of all things, a snail. Its pink shell was surmounted
by a gleaming silver saddle, and its bridle, as well as the reins
fastened to its feelers, glittered like silver threads.
The will-o'-the-wisp couldn't get over it that three such
different creatures should be sitting there so peacefully, for
harmony between different species was by no means the rule in
Fantastica. Battles and wars were frequent, and certain of the
species had been known to feud for hundreds of years. Moreover,
not all the inhabitants of Fantastica were good and honorable,
there were also thieving, wicked, and cruel ones. The
will-o'-the-wisp itself belonged to a family that was hardly
reputed for truthfulness or reliability.
After observing the scene in the firelight for some time, the
will-o'-the-wisp noticed that each of the three had something
white, either a flag or a white scarf worn across his chest. Which
meant that they were messengers or flag-of-truce bearers, and that
of course accounted for the peaceful atmosphere.
Could they be traveling on the same business as the
will-o'-the-wisp?
What they were saying couldn't be heard from a distance
because of the howling wind in the treetops. But since they
respected one another as messengers, mightn't they recognize the
will-o'-the-wisp in the same capacity and refrain from harming
him? It had to ask someone the way, and there seemed little
likelihood of finding a better opportunity at this hour in the
middle of the woods. So plucking up courage, it ventured out of
its hiding place and hovered trembling in mid-air, waving its
white flag.
The rock chewer, whose face was turned in that direction,
was first to notice the will-o'-the-wisp.
"Lots of traffic around here tonight," he crackled. "Here
comes another one."
"Hoo, it's a will-o'-the-wisp," whispered the night-hob, and
his moon eyes glowed. "Pleased to meet you!"
The tiny stood up, took a few steps toward the newcomer,
and chirped: "If my eyes don't deceive me, you are here as a
messenger."
"Yes indeed," said the will-o'-the-wisp.
The tiny removed his red top hat, made a slight bow, and
twittered: "Oh, do join us. We, too, are messengers. Won't you
be seated?"
And with his hat he motioned toward an empty place by the
fire.
"Many thanks," said the will-o'-the-wisp, coming timidly
closer.
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Blubb."
"Delighted," said the tiny. "Mine is Gluckuk."
The night-hob bowed without getting up."My name is
Vooshvazool."
"And mine," the rock chewer crackled, "is Pyornkrachzark."
All three looked at the will-o'-the-wisp, who was wriggling
with embarrassment. Will-o'-the-wisps find it most unpleasant to
be looked full in the face.
"Won't you sit down, dear Blubb?" said the tiny.
"To tell the truth," said the will-o'-the-wisp, "I'm in a terrible
hurry. I only wanted to ask if by any chance you knew the way to
the Ivory Tower."
"Hoo," said the night-hob. "Could you be going to see the
Childlike Empress?"
"Exactly," said the will-o'-the-wisp. "I have an important
message for her."
"What does it say?" the rock chewer crackled.
"But you see," said the will-o'-the-wisp, shifting its weight
from foot to foot, "it's a secret message."
"All three of us -- hoo -- have the same mission as you,"
replied Vooshvazool, the night-hob. "That makes us partners."
"Maybe we even have the same message," said Gluckuk, the
tiny.
"Sit down and tell us," Pyornkrachzark crackled.
The will-o'-the-wisp sat down in the empty place.
"My home," it began after a moment's hesitation, "is a long
way from here. I don't know if any of those present has heard of
it. It's called Moldymoor."
"Hoo!" cried the night-hob delightedly. "A lovely country!"
The will-o'-the-wisp smiled faintly.
"Yes, isn't it?"
"Is that all you have to say, Blubb?" Pyornkrachzark crackled.
"What is the purpose of your trip?"
"Something has happened in Moldymoor," said the
will-o'-the-wisp haltingly, "something impossible to understand.
Actually, it's still happening. It's hard to describe -- the way it
began was -- well, in the east of our country there's a lake -- that
is, there was a lake -- Lake Foamingbroth we called it. Well, the
way it began was like this. One day Lake Foamingbroth wasn't
there anymore -- it was gone. See?"
"You mean it dried up?" Gluckuk inquired.
"No," said the will-o'-the-wisp. "Then there'd be a dried-up
lake. But there isn't. Where the lake used to be there's nothing --
absolutely nothing. Now do you see?"
"A hole?" the rock chewer grunted.
"No, not a hole," said the will-o'-the-wisp despairingly. "A
hole, after all, is something. This is nothing at all."
The three other messengers exchanged glances.
"What -- hoo -- does this nothing look like?" asked the
night-hob.
"That's just what's so hard to describe," said the
will-o'-the-wisp unhappily. "It doesn't look like anything. It's --
it's like -- oh, there's no word for it."
"Maybe," the tiny suggested, "when you look at the place, it's
as if you were blind."
The will-o'-the-wisp stared openmouthed.
"Exactly!" it cried. "But where -- I mean how -- I mean, have
you had the same. . .?"
"Wait a minute," the rock chewer crackled. "Was it only this
one place?"
"At first, yes," the will-o'-the-wisp explained. "That is, the
place got bigger little by little. And then all of a sudden Foggle,
the father of the frogs, who lived in Lake Foamingbroth with his
family, was gone too. Some of the inhabitants started running
away. But little by little the same thing happened to other parts
of Moldymoor. It usually started with just a little chunk, no
bigger than a partridge egg. But then these chunks got bigger and
bigger. If somebody put his foot into one of them by mistake, the
foot -- or hand -- or whatever else he put in -- would be gone too.
It didn't hurt -- it was just that a part of whoever it was would be
missing. Some would even fall in on purpose if they got too close
to the Nothing. It has an irresistible attraction -- the bigger the
place, the stronger the pull. None of us could imagine what this
terrible thing might be, what caused it, and what we could do
about it. And seeing that it didn't go away by itself but kept
spreading, we finally decided to send a messenger to the Childlike
Empress to ask her for advice and help. Well, I'm the messenger."
The three others gazed silently into space.
After a while, the night-hob sighed: "Hoo! It's the same
where I come from. And I'm traveling on the exact same errand --
hoo hoo!"
The tiny turned to the will-o'-the-wisp. "Each one of us," he
chirped, "comes from a different province of Fantastica. We've
met here entirely by chance. But each one of us is going to the
Childlike Empress with the same message."
"And the message," grated the rock chewer, "is that all
Fantastica is in danger."
The will-o'-the-wisp cast a terrified look at each one in turn.
"If that's the case," it cried, jumping up, "we haven't a
moment to lose."
"We were just going to start," said the tiny. "We only stopped
to rest because it's so awfully dark here in Howling Forest. But
now that you've joined us, Blubb, you can light the way."
"Impossible," said the will-o'-the-wisp. "Would you expect
me to wait for someone who rides a snail? Sorry."
"But it's a racing snail," said the tiny, somewhat miffed.
"Otherwise -- hoo hoo --" the night-hob sighed, "we won't
tell you which way to go."
"Who are you people talking to?" the rock chewer crackled.
And sure enough, the will-o'-the-wisp hadn't even heard the
other messengers' last words, for it was already flitting through
the forest in long leaps.
"Oh well," said the tiny, pushing his top hat onto the back of
his head, "maybe it wouldn't have been such a good idea to
follow a will-o'-the-wisp."
"To tell the truth," said the night-hob, "I prefer to travel on
my own. Because I, for one, fly."
With a quick "hoo hoo" he ordered his bat to make ready.
And whish! Away he flew.
The rock chewer put out the campfire with the palm of his
hand.
"I, too, prefer to go by myself," he crackled in the darkness.
"Then I don't need to worry about squashing some wee
creature."
Rattling and grinding, he rode his stone bicycle straight into
the woods, now and then thudding into a tree giant. Slowly the
clatter receded in the distance.
Gluckuk, the tiny, was last to set out. He seized the silvery
reins and said: "All right, we'll see who gets there first. Geeyap,
old-timer, geeyap." And he clicked his tongue.
And then there was nothing to be heard but the storm wind
howling in the treetops.
The clock in the belfry struck nine. Reluctantly Bastian's thought
turned back to reality. He was glad the Neverending Story had
nothing to do with that.
He didn't like books in which dull, cranky writers describe
humdrum events in the very humdrum lives of humdrum people.
Reality gave him enough of that kind of thing, why should he read
about it? Besides, he couldn't stand it when a writer tried to convince
him of something. And these humdrum books, it seemed to him, were
always trying to do just that.
Bastion liked books that were exciting or funny, or that made
him dream. Books where made-up characters had marvelous
adventures, books that made him imagine all sorts of things.
Because one thing he was good at, possibly the only thing, was
imagining things so clearly that he almost saw and heard them.
When he told himself stories, he sometimes forgot everything around
him and awoke -- as though from a dream -- only when the story was
finished. And this book was just like his own stories! In reading it, he
had heard not only the creaking of the big trees and the howling of
the wind in the treetops, but also the different voices of the four
comical messengers. And he almost seemed to catch the smell of moss
and forest earth.
Down in the classroom they were starting in on nature study.
That consisted almost entirely in counting pistils and stamens.
Bastian was glad to be up here in his hiding place, where he could
read. This, he thought, was just the right book for him!
A week later Vooshvazool, the little night-hob, arrived at his
destination. He was the first. Or rather, he thought he was first,
because he was riding through the air.
Just as the setting sun turned the clouds to liquid gold, he
noticed that his bat was circling over the Labyrinth. That was the
name of an enormous garden, extending from horizon to horizon
and filled with the most bewitching scents and dreamlike colors.
Broad avenues and narrow paths twined their way among copses,
lawns, and beds of the rarest, strangest flowers in a design so
artful and intricate that the whole plain resembled an enormous
maze. Of course, it had been designed only for pleasure and
amusement, with no intention of endangering anyone, much less
of warding off an enemy. It would have been useless for such
purposes, and the Childlike Empress required no such protection,
because in all the unbounded reaches of Fantastica there was no
one who would have thought of attacking her. For that there was
a reason, as we shall soon see.
While gliding soundlessly over the flowery maze, the
night-hob sighted all sorts of animals. In a small clearing between
lilacs and laburnum, a group of young unicorns was playing in
the evening sun, and once, glancing under a giant bluebell, he
even thought he saw the famous phoenix in its nest, but he wasn't
quite certain, and such was his haste that he didn't want to turn
back to make sure. For at the center of the Labyrinth there now
appeared, shimmering in fairy whiteness, the Ivory Tower, the
heart of Fantastica and the residence of the Childlike Empress.
The word "tower" might give someone who has never seen it
the wrong idea. It had nothing of the church or castle about it.
The Ivory Tower was as big as a whole city. From a distance it
looked like a pointed mountain peak twisted like a snail shell. Its
highest point was deep in the clouds. Only on coming closer
could you notice that this great sugarloaf consisted of
innumerable towers, turrets, domes, roofs, oriels, terraces, arches,
stairways, and balustrades, all marvelously fitted together. The
whole was made of the whitest Fantastican ivory, so delicately
carved in every detail that it might have been taken for the
latticework of the finest lace.
These buildings housed the Childlike Empress's court, her
chamberlains and maidservants, wise women and astrologers,
magicians and jesters, messengers, cooks and acrobats, her
tightrope walkers and storytellers, heralds, gardeners, watchmen,
tailors, shoemakers and alchemists. And at the very summit of the
great tower lived the Childlike Empress in a pavilion shaped like
a magnolia blossom. On certain nights, when the full moon
shone most gloriously in the starry sky, the ivory petals opened
wide, and the Childlike Empress would be sitting in the middle
of the glorious flower.
Riding on his bat, the little night-hob landed on one of the
lower terraces, where the stables were located. Someone must
have announced his arrival, for five imperial grooms were there
waiting for him. They helped him out of his saddle, bowed to
him, and held out the ceremonial welcome cup. As etiquette
demanded, Vooshvazool took only a sip and then returned the
cup. Each of the grooms took a sip, then they bowed again and
led the bat to the stables. All this was done in silence. On
reaching its appointed place, the bat touched neither food nor
drink, but immediately rolled up, hung itself head-down on a
hook, and fell into a deep sleep. The little night-hob had
demanded a bit too much of his mount. The grooms left it alone
and crept away from the stable on tiptoes.
In this stable there were many other mounts: two elephants,
one pink and one blue, a gigantic griffon with the forequarters of
an eagle and the hindquarters of a lion, a winged horse, whose
name was once known even outside of Fantastica but is now
forgotten, several flying dogs, a few other bats, and several
dragonflies and butterflies for especially small riders. In other
stables there were still other mounts, which didn't fly but ran,
crawled, hopped, or swam. And each had a groom of its own to
feed and take care of it.
Ordinarily one would have expected to hear quite a
cacophony of different voices: roaring, screeching, piping,
chirping, croaking, and chattering. But that day there was utter
silence.
The little night-hob was still standing where the grooms had
left him. Suddenly, without knowing why, he felt dejected and
discouraged. He too was exhausted after the long trip. And not
even the knowledge that he had arrived first could cheer him up.
Suddenly he heard a chirping voice. "Hello, hello! If it isn't
my good friend Vooshvazool! So glad you've finally made it!"
The night-hob looked around, and his moon eyes flared with
amazement, for on a balustrade, leaning negligently against a
flower pot, stood Gluckuk, the tiny, tipping his red top hat.
"Hoo hoo!" went the bewildered night-hob. And again: "Hoo
hoo!" He just couldn't think of anything better to say.
"The other two haven't arrived yet. I've been here since
yesterday morning."
"How -- hoo hoo -- how did you do it?"
"Simple," said the tiny with a rather condescending smile.
"Didn't I tell you I had a racing snail?"
The night-hob scratched his tangled black head fur with his
little pink hand.
"I must go to the Childlike Empress at once," he said
mournfully.
The tiny gave him a pensive look.
"Hmm," he said. "I put in for an appointment yesterday."
"Put in for an appointment?" asked the night-hob. "Can't we
just go in and see her?"
"I'm afraid not," chirped the tiny. "We'll have a long wait.
You can't imagine how many messengers have turned up."
"Hoo hoo," the night-hob sighed. "How come?"
"You'd better take a look for yourself," the tiny twittered.
"Come with me, my dear Vooshvazool. Come with me!"
The two of them started out.
The High Street, which wound around the Ivory Tower in a
narrowing spiral, was clogged with a dense crowd of the strangest
creatures. Enormous beturbaned djinns, tiny kobolds,
three-headed trolls, bearded dwarfs, glittering fairies, goat-legged
fauns, nixies with wavy golden hair, sparkling snow sprites, and
countless others were milling about, standing in groups, or sitting
silently on the ground, discussing the situation or gazing glumly
into the distance.
Vooshvazool stopped still when he saw them.
"Hoo hoo," he said. "What's going on? What are they all
doing here?"
"They're all messengers," Gluckuk explained. "Messengers
from all over Fantastica. All with the same message as ours. I've
spoken with several of them. The same menace seems to have
broken out everywhere."
The night-hob gave vent to a long wheezing sigh.
"Do they know," he asked, "what it is and where it comes
from?"
"I'm afraid not. Nobody knows."
"What about the Childlike Empress?"
"The Childlike Empress," said the tiny in an undertone, "is
ill, very ill. Maybe that's the cause of this mysterious calamity
that's threatening all Fantastica. But so far none of the many
doctors who've been conferring in the Magnolia Pavilion has
discovered the nature of her illness or found a cure for it."
"That," said the night-hob breathlessly, "is -- hoo hoo --
terrible."
"So it is," said the tiny.
In view of the circumstances, Vooshvazool decided not to put
in for an appointment.
Two days later Blubb, the will-o'-the-wisp, arrived. Of
course, he had hopped in the wrong direction and made an
enormous detour.
And finally -- three days after that -- Pyornkrachzark, the rock
chewer, appeared. He came plodding along on foot, for in a
sudden frenzy of hunger he had eaten his stone bicycle.
During the long waiting period, the four so unalike
messengers became good friends. From then on they stayed
together.
But that's another story and shall be told another time.
II
Atreyu's Mission

ecause of their special importance, deliberations concerning the
welfare of all Fantastica were held in the great throne room of the
palace, which was situated only a few floors below the Magnolia
Pavilion.
The large circular room was filled with muffled voices. The
four hundred and ninety-nine best doctors in Fantastica had
assembled there and were whispering or mumbling with one
another in groups of varying sizes. Each one had examined the
Childlike Empress -- some more recently than others -- and each
had tried to help her with his skill. But none had succeeded, none
knew the nature or cause of her illness, and none could think of a
cure for it. Just then the five hundredth doctor, the most famous
in all Fantastica, whose knowledge was said to embrace every
existing medicinal herb, every magic philtre and secret of nature,
was examining the patient. He had been with her for several
hours, and all his assembled colleagues were eagerly awaiting the
result of his examination.
Of course, this assembly was nothing like a human medical
congress. To be sure, a good many of the inhabitants of
Fantastica were more or less human in appearance, but at least as
many resembled animals or were even farther from the human.
The doctors inside the hall were just as varied as the crowd of
messengers milling about outside. There were dwarf doctors with
white beards and humps, there were fairy doctoresses in
shimmering silvery-blue robes and with glittering stars in their
hair, there were water sprites with big round bellies and webbed
hands and feet (sitz baths had been installed for them) . There
were white snakes, who had coiled up on the long table at the
center of the room; there were witches, vampires, and ghosts,
none of whom are generally reputed to be especially benevolent
or conducive to good health.
If you are to understand why these last were present, there is
one thing you have to know:
The Childlike Empress -- as her title indicates -- was looked
upon as the ruler over all the innumerable provinces of the
Fantastican Empire, but in reality she was far more than a ruler;
she was something entirely different.
She didn't rule, she had never used force or made use of her
power. She never issued commands and she never judged anyone.
She never interfered with anyone and never had to defend herself
against any assailant; for no one would have thought of rebelling
against her or of harming her in any way. In her eyes all her
subjects were equal.
She was simply there in a special way. She was the center of
all life in Fantastica.
And every creature, whether good or bad, beautiful or ugly,
merry or solemn, foolish or wise -- all owed their existence to her
existence. Without her, nothing could have lived, any more than
a human body can live if it has lost its heart.
All knew this to be so, though no one fully understood her
secret. Thus she was respected by all the creatures of the Empire,
and her health was of equal concern to them all. For her death
would have meant the end of them all, the end of the boundless
Fantastican realm.
Bastian's thoughts wandered.
Suddenly he remembered the long corridor in the hospital where
his mother had been operated on. He and his father had sat waiting
for hours outside the operating room. Doctors and nurses hurried this
way and that. When his father asked about his wife, the answer was
always evasive. No one really seemed to know how she was doing.
Finally a bald-headed man in a white smock had come out to them.
He looked tired and sad. Much as he regretted it, he said, his efforts
had been in vain. He had pressed their hands and mumbled
something about "heartfelt sympathy."
After that, everything had changed between Bastion and his
father. Not outwardly. Bastion had everything he could have wished
for. He had a three-speed bicycle, an electric train, plenty of vitamin
pills, fifty-three books, a golden hamster, an aquarium with tropical
fish in it, a small camera, six pocketknives, and so forth and so on.
But none of all this really meant anything to him.
Bastian remembered that his father had often played with him
in the past. He had even told him stories. No longer. He couldn't
talk to his father anymore. There was an invisible wall around his
father, and no one could get through to him. He never found fault
and he never praised. Even when Bastian was put back in school, his
father hadn't said anything. He had only looked at him in his sad,
absent way, and Bastian felt that as far as his father was concerned
he wasn't there at all. That was how his father usually made him
feel. When they sat in front of the television screen in the evening,
Bastian saw that his father wasn't even looking at it, that his
thoughts were far away. Or when they both sat there with books,
Bastian saw that his father wasn't reading at all. He'd been looking
at the same page for hours and had forgotten to turn it.
Bastian knew his father was sad. He himself had cried for many
nights -- sometimes he had been so shaken by sobs that he had to
vomit -- but little by little it had passed. And after all he was still
there. Why didn't his father ever speak to him, not about his mother,
not about important things, but just for the feel of talking together?
"If only we knew," said a tall, thin fire sprite, with a beard of
red flames, "if only we knew what her illness is. There's no fever,
no swelling, no rash, no inflammation. She just seems to be
fading away -- no one knows why."
As he spoke, little clouds of smoke came out of his mouth
and formed figures. This time they were question marks.
A bedraggled old raven, who looked like a potato with
feathers stuck onto it every which way, answered in a croaking
voice (he was a head cold and sore throat specialist): "She doesn't
cough, she hasn't got a cold. Medically speaking, it's no disease at
all." He adjusted the big spectacles on his beak and a cast a
challenging look around.
"One thing seems obvious," buzzed a scarab (a beetle,
sometimes known as a pill roller): "There is some mysterious
connection between her illness and the terrible happenings these
messengers from all Fantastica have been reporting."
"Oh yes!" scoffed an ink goblin. "You see mysterious
connections everywhere."
"My dear colleague!" pleaded a hollow-cheeked ghost in a
long white gown. "Let's not get personal. Such remarks are quite
irrelevant. And please -- lower your voices."
Conversations of this kind were going on in every part of the
throne room. It may seem strange that creatures of so many
different kinds were able to communicate with one another. But
nearly all the inhabitants of Fantastica, even the animals, knew at
least two languages: their own, which they spoke only with
members of their own species and which no outsider understood,
and the universal language known as High Fantastican. All
Fantasticans used it, though some in a rather peculiar way.
Suddenly all fell silent, for the great double door had opened.
In stepped Cairon, the far-famed master of the healer's art.
He was what in older times had been called a centaur. He had
the body of a man from the waist up, and that of a horse from the
waist down. And Cairon was furthermore a black centaur. He
hailed from a remote region far to the south, and his human half
was the color of ebony. Only his curly hair and beard were white,
while the horselike half of him was striped like a zebra. He was
wearing a strange hat plaited of reeds. A large golden amulet
hung from a chain around his neck, and on this amulet one could
make out two snakes, one light and one dark, which were biting
each other's tail and so forming an oval.
Everyone in Fantastica knew what the medallion meant. It
was the badge of one acting on orders from the Childlike
Empress, acting in her name as though she herself were present.
It was said to give the bearer mysterious powers, though no
one knew exactly what these powers were. Everyone knew its
name: AURYN.
But many, who feared to pronounce the name, called it the
"Gem" or the "Glory".
In other words, the book bore the mark of the Childlike Empress!
A whispering passed through the throne room, and some of
the doctors were heard to cry out. The Gem had not been
entrusted to anyone for a long, long time.
Cairon stamped his hooves two or three times. When the
disorder subsided, he said in a deep voice: "Friends, don't be too
upset. I shall only be wearing AURYN for a short time. I am
merely a go-between. Soon I shall pass the Gem on to one
worthier."
A breathless silence filled the room.
"I won't try to misrepresent our defeat with high-sounding
words. The Childlike Empress's illness has baffled us all. The one
thing we know is that the destruction of Fantastica began at the
same time as this illness. We can't even be sure that medical
science can save her. But it is possible -- and I hope none of you
will be offended at what I am going to say -- it is possible that we,
we who are gathered here, do not possess all knowledge, all
wisdom. Indeed it is my last and only hope that somewhere in
this unbounded realm there is a being wiser than we are, who can
give us help and advice. Of course, this is no more than a
possibility. But one thing is certain: The search for this savior
calls for a pathfinder, someone who is capable of finding paths in
the pathless wilderness and who will shrink from no danger or
hardship. In other words: a hero. And the Childlike Empress has
given me the name of this hero, to whom she entrusts her
salvation and ours. His name is Atreyu, and he lives in the Grassy
Ocean beyond the Silver Mountains. I shall transmit AURYN to
him and send him on the Great Quest. Now you know all there
is to know."
With that, the old centaur thumped out of the room.
Those who remained behind exchanged looks of
bewilderment.
"What was this hero's name?" one of them asked.
"Atreyu or something of the kind," said another.
"Never heard of him," said the third. And all four hundred
and ninety-nine doctors shook their heads in dismay.
The clock in the belfry struck ten. Bastian was amazed at how
quickly the time had passed. In class, every hour seemed to drag on
for an eternity. Down below, they would be having history with Mr.
Drone, a gangling, ordinarily ill-tempered man, who delighted in
holding Bastian up to ridicule because he couldn't remember the
dates when certain battles had been fought or when someone or other
had reigned.
The Grassy Ocean behind the Silver Mountains was many
days' journey from the Ivory Tower. It was actually a prairie, as
long and wide and flat as an ocean. Its whole expanse was covered
with tall, juicy grass, and when the wind blew, great waves passed
over it with a sound like troubled water.
The people who lived there were known as "Grass People" or
"Greenskins". They had blue-black hair, which the men as well as
the women wore long and often in pigtails, and their skin was
olive green. They led a hard, frugal life, and their children, girls as
well as boys, were brought up to be brave, proud, and generous.
They learned to bear heat, cold, and great hardship and were
tested for courage at an early age. This was necessary because the
Greenskins were a nation of hunters. They obtained everything
they needed either from the hard, fibrous prairie grass or from the
purple buffaloes, great herds of which roamed the Grassy Ocean.
These purple buffaloes were about twice the size of common
bulls or cows; they had long, purplish-red hair with a silky sheen
and enormous horns with tips as hard and sharp as daggers. They
were peaceful as a rule, but when they scented danger or thought
they were being attacked, they could be as terrible as a natural
cataclysm. Only a Greenskin would have dared to hunt these
beasts, and moreover they used no other weapons than bows and
arrows. The Greenskins were believers in chivalrous combat, and
often it was not the hunted but the hunter who lost his life. The
Greenskins loved and honored the purple buffaloes and held that
only those willing to be killed by them had the right to kill them.
News of the Childlike Empress's illness and the danger
threatening all Fantastica had not yet reached the Grassy Ocean.
It was a long, long time since any traveler had visited the tent
colonies of the Greenskins. The grass was juicier than ever, the
days were bright, and the nights full of stars. All seemed to be
well.
But one day a white-haired black centaur appeared. His hide
was dripping with sweat, he seemed totally exhausted, and his
bearded face was haggard. On his head he wore a strange hat
plaited of reeds, and around his neck a chain with a large golden
amulet hanging from it. It was Cairon.
He stood in the open space at the center of the successive
rings of tents. It was there that the elders held their councils and
that the people danced and sang old songs on feast days. He
waited for the Greenskins to assemble, but it was only very old
men and women and small children wide-eyed with curiosity
who crowded around him. He stamped his hooves impatiently.
"Where are the hunters and huntresses?" he panted, removing
his hat and wiping his forehead.
A white-haired woman with a baby in her arms replied:
"They are still hunting. They won't be back for three or four
days."
"Is Atreyu with them?" the centaur asked.
"Yes, stranger, but how can it be that you know him?"
"I don't know him. Go and get him."
"Stranger," said an old man on crutches, "he will come
unwillingly, because this is his hunt. It starts at sunset. Do you
know what that means?"
Cairon shook his mane and stamped his hooves.
"I don't know, and it doesn't matter. He has something more
important to do now. You know this sign I am wearing. Go and
get him."
"We see the Gem," said a little girl. "And we know you have
come from the Childlike Empress. But who are you?"
"My name is Cairon," the centaur growled. "Cairon the
physician, if that means anything to you."
A bent old woman pushed forward and cried out: "Yes, it's
true. I recognize him. I saw him once when I was young. He is
the greatest and most famous doctor in all Fantastica."
The centaur nodded. "Thank you, my good woman," he said.
"And now perhaps one of you will at last be kind enough to bring
this Atreyu here. It's urgent. The life of the Childlike Empress is
at stake."
"I'll go," cried a little girl of five or six.
She ran away and a few seconds later she could be seen
between the tents galloping away on a saddleless horse.
"At last!" Cairon grumbled. Then he fell into a dead faint.
When he revived, he didn't know where he was, for all was dark
around him. It came to him only little by little that he was in a
large tent, lying on a bed of soft furs. It seemed to be night, for
through a cleft in the door curtain he saw flickering firelight.
"Holy horseshoes!" he muttered, and tried to sit up. "How
long have I been lying here?"
A head looked in through the door opening and pulled back
again. Someone said: "Yes, he seems to be awake."
Then the curtain was drawn aside and a boy of about ten
stepped in. His long trousers and shoes were of soft buffalo
leather. His body was bare from the waist up, but a long
purple-red cloak, evidently woven from buffalo hair, hung from
his shoulders. His long blue-black hair was gathered together and
held back by leather thongs. A few simple white designs were
painted on the olive-green skin of his cheeks and forehead. His
dark eyes flashed angrily at the intruder; otherwise his features
betrayed no emotion of any kind.
"What do you want of me, stranger?" he asked. "Why have
you come to my tent? And why have you robbed me of my hunt?
If I had killed the big buffalo today -- and my arrow was already
fitted to my bowstring -- I'd have been a hunter tomorrow. Now
I'll have to wait a whole year. Why?"
The old centaur stared at him in consternation. "Am I to take
it," he asked, "that you are Atreyu?"
"That's right, stranger."
"Isn't there someone else of the same name? A grown man, an
experienced hunter?"
"No. I and no one else am Atreyu."
Sinking back on his bed of furs, old Cairon gasped: "A child!
A little boy! Really, the decisions of the Childlike Empress are
hard to fathom."
Atreyu waited in impassive silence.
"Forgive me, Atreyu," said Cairon, controlling his agitation
with the greatest difficulty. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings,
but the surprise has been just too great. Frankly, I'm horrified. I
don't know what to think. I can't help wondering: Did the
Childlike Empress really know what she was doing when she
chose a youngster like you? It's sheer madness! And if she did it
intentionally, then. . . then. . ."
With a violent shake of his head, he blurted out: "No! No! If
I had known whom she was sending me to, I'd have refused to
entrust you with the mission. I'd have refused!"
"What mission?" Atreyu asked.
"It's monstrous!" cried Cairon indignantly. "It's doubtful
whether even the greatest, most experienced of heroes could carry
out this mission. . . and you!. . . She's sending you into the
unfathomable to look for the unknown. . . No one can help you,
no one can advise you, no one can foresee what will befall you.
And yet you must decide at once, immediately, whether or not
you accept the mission. There's not a moment to be lost. For ten
days and nights I have galloped almost without rest to reach you.
But now -- I almost wish I hadn't got here. I'm very old, I'm at
the end of my strength. Give me a drink of water, please."
Atreyu brought a pitcher of fresh spring water. The centaur
drank deeply, then he wiped his beard and said somewhat more
calmly: "Thank you. That was good. I feel better already. Listen
to me, Atreyu. You don't have to accept this mission. The
Childlike Empress leaves it entirely up to you. She never gives
orders. I'll tell her how it is and she'll find someone else. She
can't have known you were a little boy. She must have got you
mixed up with someone else. That's the only possible
explanation."
"What is this mission?" Atreyu asked.
"To find a cure for the Childlike Empress," the centaur
answered, "and save Fantastica."
"Is she sick?" Atreyu asked in amazement.
Cairon told him how it was with the Childlike Empress and
what the messengers had reported from all parts of Fantastica.
Atreyu asked many questions and the centaur answered them to
the best of his ability. They talked far into the night. And the
more Atreyu learned of the menace facing Fantastica, the more
his face, which at first had been so impassive, expressed unveiled
horror.
"To think," he murmured finally with pale lips, "that I knew
nothing about it!"
Cairon cast a grave, anxious look at the boy from under his
bushy white eyebrows.
"Now you know the lie of the land," he said. "And now
perhaps you understand why I was so upset when I first laid eyes
on you. Still, it was you the Childlike Empress named. 'Go and
find Atreyu,' she said to me. 'I put all my trust in him,' she said.
'Ask him if he's willing to attempt the Great Quest for me and
for Fantastica.' I don't know why she chose you. Maybe only a
little boy like you can do whatever has to be done. I don't know,
and I can't advise you."
Atreyu sat there with bowed head, and made no reply. He
realized that this was a far greater task than his hunt. It was
doubtful whether the greatest hunter and pathfinder could
succeed; how then could he hope. . .?
"Well?" the centaur asked. "Will you?"
Atreyu raised his head and looked at him.
"I will," he said firmly.
Cairon nodded gravely. Then he took the chain with the
golden amulet from his neck and put it around Atreyu's.
"AURYN gives you great power," he said solemnly, "but you
must not make use of it. For the Childlike Empress herself never
makes use of her power. AURYN will protect you and guide you,
but whatever comes your way you must never interfere, because
from this moment on your own opinion ceases to count. For that
same reason you must go unarmed. You must let what happens
happen. Everything must be equal in your eyes, good and evil,
beautiful and ugly, foolish and wise, just as it is in the eyes of the
Childlike Empress. You may only search and inquire, never
judge. Always remember that, Atreyu!"
"AURYN!" Atreyu repeated with awe. "I will be worthy of
the Glory. When should I start?"
"Immediately," said Cairon. "No one knows how long your
Great Quest will be. Every hour may count, even now. Say
goodbye to your parents and your brothers and sisters."
"I have none," said Atreyu. "My parents were both killed by a
buffalo, soon after I was born."
"Who brought you up?"
"All the men and women together. That's why they called me
Atreyu, which in our language means 'Son of All'!"
No one knew better than Bastion what that meant. Even though
his father was still alive and Atreyu had neither father nor mother.
To make up for it, Atreyu had been brought up by all the men and
women together and was the "son of all", while Bastian had no one
-- and was really "nobody's son". All the same, Bastian was glad to
have this much in common with Atreyu, because otherwise he
resembled him hardly at all, neither physically nor in courage and
determination. Yet Bastian, too, was engaged in a Great Quest and
didn't know where it would lead him or how it would end.
"In that case," said the old centaur, "you'd better go without
saying goodbye. I'll stay here and explain."
Atreyu's face became leaner and harder than ever.
"Where should I begin?" he asked.
"Everywhere and nowhere," said Cairon. "From now on you
will be on your own, with no one to advise you. And that's how it
will be until the end of the Great Quest -- however it may end."
Atreyu nodded.
"Farewell, Cairon."
"Farewell, Atreyu. And -- much luck!"
The boy turned away and was leaving the tent when the
centaur called him back. As they stood face to face, the old
centaur put both hands on Atreyu's shoulders, looked him in the
eye with a respectful smile, and said slowly: "I think I'm
beginning to see why the Childlike Empress chose you, Atreyu."
The boy lowered his head just a while. Then he went out
quickly.
His horse, Artax, was standing outside the tent. He was small
and spotted like a wild horse. His legs were short and stocky, but
he was the fastest, most tireless runner far and wide. He was still
saddled as Atreyu had ridden him back from the hunt.
"Artax," Atreyu whispered, patting his neck. "We're going
away, far, far away. No one knows if we shall ever come back!"
The horse nodded his head and gave a brief snort.
"Yes, master," he said. "But what about your hunt?"
"We're going on a much greater hunt," said Atreyu, swinging
himself into the saddle.
"Wait, master," said the horse. "You've forgotten your
weapons. Are you going without your bow and arrow?"
"Yes, Artax," said Atreyu. "I have to go unarmed because I am
bearing the Gem."
"Humph!" snorted the horse. "And where are we going?"
"Wherever you like, Artax," said Atreyu. "From this moment
on we shall be on the Great Quest."
With that they galloped away and were swallowed up by the
darkness.
At the same time, in a different part of Fantastica, something
happened which went completely unnoticed. Neither Atreyu nor
Artax had the slightest inkling of it.
On a remote night-black heath the darkness condensed into a
great shadowy form. It became so dense that even in that
moonless, starless night it came to look like a big black body. Its
outlines were still unclear, but it stood on four legs and green fire
glowed in the eyes of its huge shaggy head. It lifted up its great
snout and stood for a long while, sniffing the air. Then suddenly
it seemed to find the scent it was looking for, and a deep,
triumphant growl issued from its throat.
And off it ran through the starless night, in long, soundless
leaps.
The clock in the belfry struck eleven. From the downstairs
corridors arose the shouts of children running out to the playground.
Bastian was still squatting cross-legged on the mats. His legs had
fallen asleep. He wasn't an Indian after all. He stood up, took his
sandwich and an apple out of his satchel, and paced the floor. He
had pins and needles in his feet, which took some time to wake up.
Then he climbed onto the horse and straddled it. He imagined
he was Atreyu galloping through the night on Artax's back. He
leaned forward and rested his head on his horse's neck.
"Gee!" he cried. "Run, Artax! Gee! Gee!"
Then he became frightened. It had been foolish of him to shout so
loud. What if someone had heard him? He waited awhile and
listened. But all he heard was the intermingled shouts from the yard.
Feeling rather foolish, he climbed down off the horse. Really, he
was behaving like a small child!
He unwrapped his sandwich and shined the apple on his
trousers. But just as he was biting into it, he stopped himself.
"No," he said to himself aloud. "I must carefully apportion my
provisions. Who knows how long they will have to last me."
With a heavy heart he rewrapped his sandwich and returned it
to his satchel along with the apple. Then with a sigh he settled down
on the mats and reached for the book.
III
Morla the Aged One

airon, the old black centaur, sank back on his bed of furs as
Artax's hoofbeats were dying away. After so much exertion he was
at the end of his strength. The women who found him next day
in Atreyu's tent feared for his life. And when the hunters came
home a few days later, he was hardly any better, but he managed
nevertheless to tell them why Atreyu had ridden away and would
not be back soon. As they were all fond of the boy, their concern
for him made them grave. Still, they were proud that the
Childlike Empress had chosen him for the Great Quest -- though
none claimed to understand her choice.
Old Cairon never went back to the Ivory Tower. But he
didn't die and he didn't stay with the Greenskins in the Grassy
Ocean. His destiny was to lead him over very different and
unexpected pathways. But that is another story and shall be told
another time.
That same night Atreyu rode to the foot of the Silver
Mountains. It was almost morning when he finally stopped to
rest. Artax grazed a while and drank water from a small mountain
stream. Atreyu wrapped himself in his red cloak and slept a few
hours. But when the sun rose, they were already on their way.
On the first day they crossed the Silver Mountains, where
every road and trail was known to them, and they made quick
progress. When he felt hungry, the boy ate a chunk of dried
buffalo meat and two little grass-seed cakes that he had been
carrying in his saddlebag -- originally they had been intended for
his hunt.
"Exactly," said Bastian. "A man has to eat now and then."
He took his sandwich out of his satchel, unwrapped it, broke it
carefully in two pieces, wrapped one of them up again and put it
away. Then he ate the other.
Recess was over. Bastian wondered what his class would be doing
next. Oh yes, geography, with Mrs Flint. You had to reel off rivers
and their tributaries, cities, population figures, natural resources,
and industries. Bastian shrugged his shoulders and went on reading.
By sunset the Silver Mountains lay behind them, and again
they stopped to rest. That night Atreyu dreamed of purple
buffaloes. He saw them in the distance, roaming over the Grassy
Ocean, and he tried to get near them on his horse. In vain. He
galloped, he spurred his horse, but they were always the same
distance away.
The second day they passed through the Singing Tree
Country. Each tree had a different shape, different leaves,
different bark, but all of them in growing -- and this was what
gave the country its name -- made soft music that sounded from
far and near and joined in a mighty harmony that hadn't its like
for beauty in all Fantastica. Riding through this country wasn't
entirely devoid of danger, for many a traveler had stopped still as
though spellbound and forgotten everything else. Atreyu felt the
power of these marvelous sounds, but didn't let himself be
tempted to stop.
The following night he dreamed again of purple buffaloes.
This time he was on foot, and a great herd of them was passing.
But they were beyond the range of his bow, and when he tried to
come closer, his feet clung to the ground and he couldn't move
them. His frantic efforts to tear them loose woke him up. He
started out at once, though the sun had not yet risen.
The third day, he saw the Glass Tower of Eribo, where the
inhabitants of the region caught and stored starlight. Out of the
starlight they made wonderfully decorative objects, the purpose
of which, however, was known to no one in all Fantastica but
their makers.
He met some of these folk; little creatures they were, who
seemed to have been blown from glass. They were extremely
friendly and provided him with food and drink, but when he
asked them who might know something about the Childlike
Empress's illness, they sank into a gloomy, perplexed silence.
The next night Atreyu dreamed again that the herd of purple
buffaloes was passing. One of the beasts, a particularly large,
imposing bull, broke away from his fellows and slowly, with no
sign of either fear or anger, approached Atreyu. Like all true
hunters, Atreyu knew every creature's vulnerable spot, where an
arrow wound would be fatal. The purple buffalo put himself in
such a position as to offer a perfect target. Atreyu fitted an arrow
to his bow and pulled with all his might. But he couldn't shoot.
His fingers seemed to have grown into the bowstring, and he
couldn't release it.
Each of the following nights he dreamed something of the
sort. He got closer and closer to the same purple buffalo -- he
recognized him by a white spot on his forehead -- but for some
reason he was never able to shoot the deadly arrow.
During the days he rode farther and farther, without knowing
where he was going or finding anyone to advise him. The golden
amulet he wore was respected by all who met him, but none had
an answer to his question.
One day he saw from afar the flaming streets of Salamander,
the city whose inhabitants' bodies are of fire, but he preferred to
keep away from it. He crossed the broad plateau of the
Sassafranians, who are born old and die when they become
babies. He came to the jungle temple of Muwamath, where a
great moonstone pillar hovers in midair, and he spoke to the
monks who lived there. And again no one could tell him
anything.
He had been traveling aimlessly for almost a week, when on
the seventh day and the following night two very different
encounters changed his situation and state of mind.
Cairon's story of the terrible happenings in all parts of
Fantastica had made an impression on him, but thus far the
disaster was something he had only heard about. On the seventh
day he was to see it with his own eyes.
Toward noon, he was riding through a dense dark forest of
enormous gnarled trees. This was the same Howling Forest where
the four messengers had met some time before. That region, as
Atreyu knew, was the home of bark trolls. These, as he had been
told, were giants and giantesses, who themselves looked like
gnarled tree trunks. As long as they stood motionless, as they
usually did, you could easily mistake them for trees and ride on
unsuspecting. Only when they moved could you see that they
had branchlike arms and crooked, rootlike legs. Though
exceedingly powerful, they were not dangerous -- at most they
liked to play tricks on travelers who had lost their way.
Atreyu had just discovered a woodland meadow with a brook
twining through it, and had dismounted to let Artax drink and
graze. Suddenly he heard a loud crackling and thudding in the
woods behind him.
Three bark trolls emerged from the woods and came toward
him. A cold shiver ran down his spine at the sight of them. The
first, having no legs or haunches, was obliged to walk on his
hands. The second had a hole in his chest, so big you could see
through it. The third hopped on his right foot, because the whole
left half of him was missing, as if he had been cut through the
middle.
When they saw the amulet hanging from Atreyu's neck, they
nodded to one another and came slowly closer.
"Don't be afraid," said the one who was walking on his
hands, and his voice sounded like the groaning of a tree. "We're
not exactly pretty to look at, but in this part of Howling Forest
there's no one else left who might warn you. That's why we've
come."
"Warn?" Atreyu asked. "Against what?"
"We've heard about you," moaned the one with the hole in
his chest. "And we've been told about your Quest. Don't go any
further in this direction, or you'll be lost."
"The same thing will happen to you as happened to us,"
sighed the halved one. "Would you like that?"
"What has happened to you?" Atreyu asked.
"The Nothing is spreading," groaned the first. "It's growing
and growing, there's more of it every day, if it's possible to speak
of more nothing. All the others fled from Howling Forest in time,
but we didn't want to leave our home. The Nothing caught us in
our sleep and this is what it did to us."
"Is it very painful?" Atreyu asked.
"No," said the second bark troll, the one with the hole in his
chest. "You don't feel a thing. There's just something missing.
And once it gets hold of you, something more is missing every
day. Soon there won't be anything left of us."
"In what part of the woods did it begin?" Atreyu asked.
"Would you like to see it?" The third troll, who was only half
a troll, turned to his fellow sufferers with a questioning look.
When they nodded, he said: "We'll take you to a place where
there's a good view of it. But you must promise not to go any
closer. If you do, it will pull you in."
"All right," said Atreyu. "I promise."
The three turned about and made for the edge of the forest.
Leading Artax by the bridle, Atreyu followed them. For a while
they went this way and that way between enormous trees, then
finally they stopped at the foot of a giant tree so big that five
grown men holding hands could scarcely have girdled it.
"Climb as high as you can," said the legless troll, "and look in
the direction of the sunrise. Then you'll see -- or rather not see
it."
Atreyu pulled himself up by the knots and bumps on the tree.
He reached the lower branches, hoisted himself to the next,
climbed and climbed until he lost sight of the ground below him.
Higher and higher he went; the trunk grew thinner and the more
closely spaced side branches made it easier to climb. When at last
he reached the crown, he turned toward the sunrise. And then he
saw it:
The tops of the trees nearest him were still green, but the
leaves of those farther away seemed to have lost all color; they
were gray. A little farther on, the foliage seemed to become
strangely transparent, misty, or, better still, unreal. And farther
still there was nothing, absolutely nothing. Not a bare stretch,
not darkness, not some lighter color; no, it was something the
eyes could not bear, something that made you feel you had gone
blind. For no eye can bear the sight of utter nothingness. Atreyu
held his hand before his face and nearly fell off his branch. He
clung tight for a moment, then climbed down as fast as he could.
He had seen enough. At last he really understood the horror that
was spreading through Fantastica.
When he reached the foot of the great tree, the three bark
trolls had vanished. Atreyu swung himself into the saddle and
galloped as fast as Artax would carry him in the direction that
would take him away from this slowly but irresistibly spreading
Nothing. By nightfall he had left Howling Forest far behind him;
only then did he stop to rest.
That night a second encounter, which was to give his Great
Quest a new direction, awaited him.
He dreamed -- much more distinctly than before -- of the
purple buffalo he had wanted to kill. This time Atreyu was
without his bow and arrow. He felt very, very small and the
buffalo's face filled the whole sky. And the face spoke to him. He
couldn't understand every word, but this is the gist of what it
said:
"If you had killed me, you would be a hunter now. But
because you let me live, I can help you, Atreyu. Listen to me!
There is, in Fantastica, a being older than all other beings. In the
north, far, far from here, lie the Swamps of Sadness. In the
middle of those swamps there is a mountain, Tortoise Shell
Mountain it's called. There lives Morla the Aged One. Go and
see Morla the Aged One."
Then Atreyu woke up.
The clock in the belfry struck twelve. Soon Bastian's classmates
would be going down to the gym for their last class. Today they'd
probably be playing with the big, heavy medicine ball which Bastian
handled so awkwardly that neither of the two teams ever wanted
him. And sometimes they played with a small hard rubber ball that
hurt terribly when it hit you. Bastian was an easy mark and was
always getting hit full force. Or perhaps they'd be climbing rope -- an
exercise that Bastian especially detested. Most of the others would be
all the way to the top while he, with his face as red as a beet, would
be dangling like a sack of flour at the very bottom of the rope, unable
to climb as much as a foot. They'd all be laughing their heads off.
And Mr. Menge, the gym teacher, had a special stock of gibes just for
Bastian.
Bastian would have given a good deal to be like Atreyu. He'd
have shown them.
He heaved a deep sigh.
Atreyu rode northward, ever northward. He allowed himself
and his little horse only the most necessary stops for sleep and
food. He rode by day and he rode by night, in the scorching sun
and the pelting rain. He looked neither to the left nor the right
and asked no more questions.
The farther northward he went, the darker it grew. An unchanging,
leaden-gray twilight filled the days. At night the
northern lights played across the sky.
One morning, when time seemed to be standing still in the
murky light, he looked out from a hilltop and finally glimpsed
the Swamps of Sadness. Clouds of mist drifted over them. Here
and there he distinguished little clumps of trees. Their trunks
divided at the bottom into four, five, or more crooked stilts,
which made the trees look like great many-legged crabs standing
in the black water. From the brown foliage hung aerial roots
resembling motionless tentacles. It was next to impossible to
make out where there was solid ground between the pools of
water and where there was only a covering of water plants.
Artax whinnied with horror.
"Are we going in there, master?"
"Yes," said Atreyu. "We must find Tortoise Shell Mountain.
It's at the center of those swamps."
He urged Artax on and Artax obeyed. Step by step, he tested
the firmness of the ground, but that made progress very slow. At
length Atreyu dismounted and led Artax by the bridle. Several
times the horse sank in, but managed to pull himself loose. But
the farther they went into the Swamps of Sadness, the more
sluggish became his movements. He let his head droop and barely
dragged himself forward.
"Artax," said Atreyu. "What's the matter?"
"I don't know, master. I think we should turn back. There's
no sense in all this. We're chasing after something you only
dreamed about. We won't find anything. Maybe it's too late even
now. Maybe the Childlike Empress is already dead, and
everything we're doing is useless. Let us turn back, master."
Atreyu was astonished. "Artax," he said. "You've never spoken
like this. What's the matter? Are you sick?"
"Maybe I am," said Artax. "With every step we take, the
sadness grows in my heart. I've lost hope, master. And I feel so
heavy, so heavy. I can't go on!"
"But we must go on!" cried Atreyu. "Come along, Artax!"
He tugged at the bridle, but Artax stood still. He had sunk in
up to his belly. And he made no further effort to extricate
himself.
"Artax!" cried Atreyu. "You mustn't let yourself go. Come.
Pull yourself out or you'll sink."
"Leave me, master," said the little horse. "I can't make it. Go
on alone. Don't bother about me. I can't stand the sadness
anymore. I want to die!"
Desperately Atreyu pulled at the bridle, but the horse sank
deeper and deeper. When only his head emerged from the black
water, Atreyu took it in his arms.
"I'll hold you, Artax," he whispered. "I won't let you go
under."
The little horse uttered one last soft neigh.
"You can't help me, master. It's all over for me. Neither of us
knew what we were getting into. Now we know why they are
called the Swamps of Sadness. It's the sadness that has made me
so heavy. That's why I'm sinking. There's no help."
"But I'm here, too," said Atreyu, "and I don't feel anything."
"You're wearing the Gem, master," said Artax. "It protects
you."
"Then I'll hang it around your neck!" Atreyu cried. "Maybe it
will protect you too."
He started taking the chain off his neck.
"No," the little horse whinnied. "You mustn't do that,
master. The Glory was entrusted to you, you weren't given
permission to pass it on as you see fit. You must carry on the
Quest without me."
Atreyu pressed his face into the horse's cheek. "Artax," he
whispered. "Oh, my Artax!"
"Will you grant my last wish?" the little horse asked.
Atreyu nodded in silence.
"Then I beg you to go away. I don't want you to see my end.
Will you do me that favor?"
Slowly Atreyu arose. Half the horse's head was already in the
black water.
"Farewell, Atreyu, my master!" he said. "And thank you."
Atreyu pressed his lips together. He couldn't speak. Once
again he nodded to Artax, then he turned away.
Bastion was sobbing. He couldn't help it. His eyes filled with
tears and he couldn't go on reading. He had to take out his
handkerchief and blow his nose before he could go on.
Atreyu waded and waded. For how long he didn't know. The
mist grew thicker and he felt as if he were blind and deaf. It
seemed to him that he had been wandering around in circles for
hours. He stopped worrying about where to set his foot down,
and yet he never sank in above his knees. By some mysterious
means, the Childlike Empress's amulet led him the right way.
Then suddenly he saw a high, steep mountain ahead of him.
Pulling himself up from crag to crag, he climbed to the rounded
top. At first he didn't notice what this mountain was made of.
But from the top he overlooked the whole mountain, and then he
saw that it consisted of great slabs of tortoise shell, with moss
growing in the crevices between them.
He had found Tortoise Shell Mountain.
But the discovery gave him no pleasure. Now that his faithful
little horse was gone, it left him almost indifferent. Still, he would
have to find out who this Morla the Aged One was, and where
she actually lived.
While he was mulling it over, he felt a slight tremor shaking
the mountain. Then he heard a hideous wheezing and
lip-smacking, and a voice that seemed to issue from the
innermost bowels of the earth: "Sakes alive, old woman,
somebody's crawling around on us."
In hurrying to the end of the ridge, where the sounds had
come from, Atreyu had slipped on a bed of moss. Since there was
nothing for him to hold on to, he slid faster and faster and finally
fell off the mountain. Luckily he landed on a tree, which caught
him in its branches.
Looking back at the mountain, he saw an enormous cave.
Water was splashing and gushing inside, and something was
moving. Slowly the something came out. It looked like a boulder
as big as a house. When it came into full sight, Atreyu saw that it
was a head attached to a long wrinkled neck, the head of a turtle.
Its eyes were black and as big as ponds. The mouth was dripping
with muck and water weeds. This whole Tortoise Shell Mountain
-- it suddenly dawned on Atreyu -- was one enormous beast, a
giant swamp turtle; Morla the Aged One.
The wheezing, gurgling voice spoke again: "What are you
doing here, son?"
Atreyu reached for the amulet on his chest and held it in such
a way that the great eyes couldn't help seeing it.
"Do you recognize this, Morla?"
She took a while to answer: "Sakes alive! AURYN. We
haven't seen that in a long time, have we, old woman? The
emblem of the Childlike Empress -- not in a long time."
"The Childlike Empress is sick," said Atreyu. "Did you know
that?"
"It's all the same to us. Isn't it, old woman?" Morla replied.
She seemed to be talking to herself, perhaps because she had had
no one else to talk to for heaven knows how long.
"If we don't save her, she'll die," Atreyu cried out. "The
Nothing is spreading everywhere. I've seen it myself."
Morla stared at him out of her great empty eyes.
"We don't mind, do we, old woman?"
"But then we shall all die!" Atreyu screamed. "Every last one
of us!"
"Sakes alive!" said Morla. "But what do we care? Nothing
matters to us anymore. It's all the same to us."
"But you'll be destroyed too, Morla!" cried Atreyu angrily.
"Or do you expect, because you're so old, to outlive Fantastica?"
"Sakes alive!" Morla gurgled. "We're old, son, much too old.
Lived long enough. Seen too much. When you know as much as
we do, nothing matters. Things just repeat. Day and night,
summer and winter. The world is empty and aimless. Everything
circles around. Whatever starts up must pass away, whatever is
born must die. It all cancels out, good and bad, beautiful and
ugly. Everything's empty. Nothing is real. Nothing matters."
Atreyu didn't know what to answer. The Aged One's dark,
empty, pond-sized eyes paralyzed his thoughts. After a while, he
heard her speak again:
"You're young, son. If you were as old as we are, you'd know
there's nothing but sadness. Why shouldn't we die, you and I, the
Childlike Empress, the whole lot of us? Anyway, it's all flim-flam,
meaningless games. Nothing matters. Leave us in peace, son. Go
away."
Atreyu tensed his will to fight off the paralysis that flowed
from her eyes.
"If you know so much," he said, "you must know what the
Childlike Empress's illness is and whether there's a cure for it."
"We do, we do! Don't we, old woman?" Morla wheezed. "But
it's all the same to us whether she's saved or not. So why should
we tell you?"
"If it's really all the same to you," Atreyu argued, "you might
just as well tell me."
"We could, we could! Couldn't we, old woman?" Morla
grunted."But we don't feel like it."
"Then it's not all the same to you. Then you yourself don't
believe what you're saying."
After a long silence he heard a deep gurgling and belching.
That must have been some kind of laughter, if Morla the Aged
One was still capable of laughing. In any case, she said: "You're a
sly one, son. Really sly. We haven't had so much fun in a long
time. Have we, old woman? Sakes alive, it's true. We might just
as well tell you. Makes no difference. Should we tell him, old
woman?"
A long silence followed. Atreyu waited anxiously for Morla's
answer, taking care not to interrupt the slow, cheerless flow of her
thoughts. At last she spoke:
"Your life is short, son. Ours is long. Much too long. But we
both live in time. You a short time. We a long time. The
Childlike Empress has always been there. But she's not old. She
has always been young. She still is. Her life isn't measured by
time, but by names. She needs a new name. She keeps needing
new names. Do you know her name, son?"
"No," Atreyu admitted. "I never heard it."
"You couldn't have," said Morla. "Not even we can
remember it. Yet she has had many names. But they're all
forgotten. Over and done with. But without a name she can't
live. All the Childlike Empress needs is a new name, then she'll
get well. But it makes no difference whether she gets well or not."
She closed her pond-sized eyes and began slowly to pull in her
head.
"Wait!" cried Atreyu. "Where can she get a name? Who can
give her one? Where can I find the name?"
"None of us," Morla gurgled. "No inhabitant of Fantastica
can give her a new name. So it's hopeless. Sakes alive! It doesn't
matter. Nothing matters."
"Who then?" cried Atreyu in despair. "Who can give her the
name that will save her and save us all?"
"Don't make so much noise!" said Morla. "Leave us in peace
and go away. Even we don't know who can give her a name."
"If you don't know," Atreyu screamed even louder, "who
does?"
She opened her eyes a last time.
"If you weren't wearing the Gem," she wheezed, "we'd eat
you up, just to have peace and quiet. Sakes alive!"
"Who?" Atreyu insisted. "Tell me who knows, and I'll leave
you in peace forever."
"It doesn't matter," she replied. "But maybe Uyulala in the
Southern Oracle knows. She may know. It's all the same to us."
"How can I get there?"
"You can't get there at all, son. Not in ten thousand days'
journey. Your life is too short. You'd die first. It's too far. In the
south. Much too far. So it's all hopeless. We told you so in the
first place, didn't we, old woman? Sakes alive, son. Give it up.
And most important, leave us in peace."
With that she closed her empty-gazing eyes and pulled her
head back into the cave for good. Atreyu knew he would learn no
more from her.
At that same time the shadowy being which had condensed
out of the darkness of the heath picked up Atreyu's trail and
headed for the Swamps of Sadness. Nothing and no one in all
Fantastica would deflect it from that trail.
Bastian had propped his head on his hand and was looking
thoughtfully into space.
"Strange," he said aloud, "that no one in all Fantastica can give
the Childlike Empress a new name." If it had been just a matter of
giving her a name, Bastian could easily have helped her. He was tops
at that. But unfortunately he was not in Fantastica, where his talents
were needed and would even have won him friends and admirers.
On the other hand, he was glad not to be there. Not for anything in
the world would he have ventured into such a place as the Swamps of
Sadness. And then this spooky creature of darkness that was chasing
Atreyu without his knowing it. Bastian would have liked to warn
him, but that was impossible. All he could do was hope, and go on
reading.

IV
Ygramul the Many

ire hunger and thirst pursued Atreyu. It was two days since he
had left the Swamps of Sadness, and since then he had been
wandering through an empty rocky wilderness. What little
provisions he had taken with him had sunk beneath the black
waters with Artax. In vain, Atreyu dug his fingers into the clefts
between stones in the hope of finding some little root, but
nothing grew there, not even moss or lichen.
At first he was glad to feel solid ground beneath his feet, but
little by little it came to him that he was worse off than ever. He
was lost. He didn't even know what direction he was going in, for
the dusky grayness was the same all around him. A cold wind
blew over the needlelike rocks that rose up on all sides, blew and
blew.
Uphill and downhill he plodded, but all he saw was distant
mountains with still more distant ranges behind them, and so on
to the horizon on all sides. And nothing living, not a beetle, not
an ant, not even the vultures which ordinarily follow the weary
traveler until he falls by the wayside.
Doubt was no longer possible. This was the Land of the Dead
Mountains. Few had seen them, and fewer still escaped from
them alive. But they figured in the legends of Atreyu's people. He
remembered an old song:
Better the huntsman
Should perish in the swamps,
For in the Dead Mountains
There is a deep, deep chasm,
Where dwelleth Ygramul the Many,
The horror of horrors.
Even if Atreyu had wanted to turn back and had known what
direction to take, it would not have been possible. He had gone
too far and could only keep on going. If only he himself had been
involved, he might have sat down in a cave and quietly waited for
death, as the Greenskin hunters did. But he was engaged in the
Great Quest: the life of the Childlike Empress and of all
Fantastica was at stake. He had no right to give up.
And so he kept at it. Uphill and down. From time to time he
realized that he had long been walking as though in his sleep, that
his mind had been in other realms, from which they had returned
none too willingly.
Bastion gave a start. The clock in the belfry struck one. School
was over for the day.
He heard the shouts and screams of the children running into the
corridors from the classrooms and the clatter of many feet on the
stairs. For a while there were isolated shouts from the street. And
then the schoolhouse was engulfed in silence.
The silence descended on Bastian like a great heavy blanket and
threatened to smother him. From then on he would be all alone in
the big schoolhouse -- all that day, all that night, there was no
knowing how long. This adventure of his was getting serious.
The other children were going home for lunch. Bastian was
hungry too, and he was cold in spite of the army blankets he was
wrapped in. Suddenly he lost heart, his whole plan seemed crazy,
senseless. He wanted to go home, that very minute. He could just be
in time. His father wouldn't have noticed anything yet. Bastian
wouldn'teven have to tell him he had played hooky. Of course, it
would come out sooner or later, but there was time to worry about
that. But the stolen book? Yes, he'd have to own up to that too. In the
end, his father would resign himself as he did to all the
disappointments Bastian had given him. Anyway, there was nothing
to be afraid of. Most likely his father wouldn't say anything, but just
go and see Mr. Coreander and straighten things out.
Bastian was about to put the copper-colored book into his
satchel. But then he stopped.
"No," he said aloud in the stillness of the attic. "Atreyu wouldn't
give up just because things were getting a little rough. What I've
started I must finish. I've gone too far to turn back. Regardless of
what may happen, I have to go forward."
He felt very lonely, yet there was a kind of pride in his loneliness.
He was proud of standing firm in the face of temptation.
He was a little like Atreyu after all.
A time came when Atreyu really could not go forward. Before
him lay the Deep Chasm.
The grandiose horror of the sight cannot be described in
words. A yawning cleft, perhaps half a mile wide, twined its way
through the Land of the Dead Mountains. How deep it might be
there was no way of knowing.
Atreyu lay on a spur at the edge of the chasm and stared
down into darkness which seemed to extend to the innermost
heart of the earth. He picked up a stone the size of a tennis ball
and hurled it as far as he could. The stone fell and fell, until it
was swallowed up in the darkness. Though Atreyu listened a long
while, he heard no sound of impact.
There was only one thing Atreyu could do, and he did it. He
skirted the Deep Chasm. Every second he expected to meet the
"horrors of horrors", known to him from the old song. He had
no idea what sort of creature this might be. All he knew was that
its name was Ygramul.
The Deep Chasm twisted and turned through the mountain
waste, and of course there was no path at its edge. Here too there
were abrupt rises and falls, and sometimes the ground swayed
alarmingly under Atreyu's feet. Sometimes his path was barred by
gigantic rock formations and he would have to feel his way,
painfully, step by step, around them. Or there would be slopes
covered with smooth stones that would start rolling toward the
Chasm as soon as he set foot on them. More than once he was
within a hairbreadth of the edge.
If he had known that a pursuer was close behind him and
coming closer by the hour, he might have hurried and taken
dangerous risks. It was that creature of darkness which had been
after him since the start of his journey. Since then its body had
taken on recognizable outlines. It was a pitch-black wolf, the size
of an ox. Nose to the ground, it trotted along, following Atreyu's
trail through the stony desert of the Dead Mountains. Its tongue
hung far out of its mouth and its terrifying fangs were bared. The
freshness of the scent told the wolf that its prey was only a few
miles ahead.
But suspecting nothing of his pursuer, Atreyu picked his way
slowly and cautiously.
As he was groping through the darkness of a tunnel under a
mountain, he suddenly heard a noise that he couldn't identify
because it bore no resemblance to any sound he had ever heard. It
was a kind of jangling roar. At the same time Atreyu felt that the
whole mountain about him was trembling, and he heard blocks
of stone crashing down its outer walls. For a time he waited to see
whether the earthquake, or whatever it might be, would abate.
Then, since it did not, he crawled to the end of the tunnel and
cautiously stuck his head out.
And then he saw: An enormous spider web was stretched
from edge to edge of the Deep Chasm. And in the sticky threads
of the web, which were as thick as ropes, a great white luckdragon
was struggling, becoming more and more entangled as he
thrashed about with his tail and claws.
Luckdragons are among the strangest animals in Fantastica.
They bear no resemblance to ordinary dragons, which look like
loathsome snakes and live in deep caves, diffusing a noxious
stench and guarding some real or imaginary treasure. Such spawn
of chaos are usually wicked or ill-tempered, they have batlike
wings with which they can rise clumsily and noisily into the air,
and they spew fire and smoke. Luckdragons are creatures of air,
warmth, and pure joy. Despite their great size, they are as light as
a summer cloud, and consequently need no wings for flying.
They swim in the air of heaven as fish swim in water. Seen from
the earth, they look like slow lightning flashes. The most amazing
thing about them is their song. Their voice sounds like the
golden note of a large bell, and when they speak softly the bell
seems to be ringing in the distance. Anyone who has heard this
sound will remember it as long as he lives and tell his
grandchildren about it.
But the luckdragon Atreyu saw could hardly have been in a
mood for singing. His long, graceful body with its pearly,
pink-and-white scales hung tangled and twisted in the great
spider web. His bristling fangs, his thick, luxuriant mane, and the
fringes on his tail and limbs were all caught in the sticky ropes.
He could hardly move. The eyeballs in his lionlike head glistened
ruby-red.
The splendid beast bled from many wounds, for there was
something else, something very big, that descended like a dark
cloud on the dragon's white body. It rose and fell, rose and fell,
all the while changing its shape. Sometimes it resembled a
gigantic long-legged spider with many fiery eyes and a fat body
encased in shaggy black hair; then it became a great hand with
long claws that tried to crush the luckdragon, and in the next
moment it changed to a giant scorpion, piercing its unfortunate
victim with its venomous sting.
The battle between the two giants was fearsome. The
luckdragon was still defending himself, spewing blue fire that
singed the cloud-monster's bristles. Smoke came whirling
through the crevices in the rock, so foul-smelling that Atreyu
could hardly breathe. Once the luckdragon managed to bite off
one of the monster's long legs. But instead of falling into the
chasm, the severed leg hovered for a time in mid-air, then
returned to its old place in the black cloud-body. And several
times the dragon seemed to seize one of the monster's limbs
between its teeth, but bit into the void.
Only then did Atreyu notice that the monster was not a
single, solid body, but was made up of innumerable small
steel-blue insects which buzzed like angry hornets. It was their
compact swarm that kept taking different shapes.
This was Ygramul, and now Atreyu knew why she was called
"the Many".
He sprang from his hiding place, reached for the Gem, and
shouted at the top of his lungs: "Stop! In the name of the
Childlike Empress, stop!"
But the hissing and roaring of the combatants drowned out
his voice. He himself could barely hear it.
Without stopping to think, he set foot on the sticky ropes of
the web, which swayed beneath him as he ran. He lost his
balance, fell, clung by his hands to keep from falling into the dark
chasm, pulled himself up again, caught himself in the ropes,
fought free and hurried on.
At last Ygramul sensed that something was coming toward
her.With the speed of lightning, she turned about, confronting
Atreyu with an enormous steel-blue face. Her single eye had a
vertical pupil, which stared at Atreyu with inconceivable
malignancy.
A cry of fear escaped Bastian.
A cry of terror passed through the ravine and echoed from
side to side. Ygramul turned her eye to left and right, to see if
someone else had arrived, for that sound could not have been
made by the boy who stood there as though paralyzed with
horror.
Could she have heard my cry? Bastion wondered in alarm. But
that's not possible.
And then Atreyu heard Ygramul's voice. It was very high and
slightly hoarse, not at all the right kind of voice for that
enormous face. Her lips did not move as she spoke. It was the
buzzing of a great swarm of hornets that shaped itself into words.
"A Twolegs," Atreyu heard. "Years upon years of hunger, and
now two tasty morsels at once! A lucky day for Ygramul!"
Atreyu needed all his strength to keep his composure. He
held the Gem up to the monster's one eye and asked: "Do you
know this emblem?"
"Come closer, Twolegs!" buzzed the many voices. "Ygramul
doesn't see well."
Atreyu took one step closer to the face. The mouth opened,
showing innumerable glittering feelers, hooks, and claws in place
of a tongue.
"Still closer," the swarm buzzed.
He took one more step, which brought him near enough to
distinguish the innumerable steel-blue insects which whirled
around in seeming confusion. Yet the face as a whole remained
motionless.
"I am Atreyu," he said. "I have come on a mission from the
Childlike Empress."
"Most inopportune!" said the angry buzzing after a time.
"What do you want of Ygramul? As you can see, she is very
busy."
"I want this luckdragon," said Atreyu. "Let me have him."
"What do you want him for, Atreyu Twolegs?"
"I lost my horse in the Swamps of Sadness. I must go to the
Southern Oracle, because only Uyulala can tell me who can give
the Childlike Empress a new name. If she doesn't get one, she
will die and all Fantastica with her -- you too, Ygramul."
"Ah!" the face drawled. "Is that the reason for all the places
where there is nothing?"
"Yes," said Atreyu. "So you too know of them. But the
Southern Oracle is too long a journey for a lifetime. That's why
I'm asking you for this luckdragon. If he carries me through the
air, I may get there before it's too late."
Out of the whirling swarm that made up the face came a
sound suggesting the giggling of many voices.
"You're all wrong, Atreyu Twolegs. We know nothing of the
Southern Oracle and nothing of Uyulala, but we do know that
this dragon cannot carry you. And even if he were in the best of
health, the trip would take so long that the Childlike Empress
would die of her illness in the meantime. You must measure your
Quest, Atreyu, in terms not of your own life but of hers."
The gaze of the eye with the vertical pupil was almost unbearable.
"That's true," he said in a small voice.
"Besides," the motionless face went on, "the luckdragon has
Ygramul's poison in his body. He has less than an hour to live."
"Then there's no hope," Atreyu murmured. "Not for him,
not for me, and not for you either, Ygramul."
"Oh well," the voice buzzed. "Ygramul would at least have
had one good meal. But who says it's Ygramul's last meal? She
knows a way of getting you to the Southern Oracle in a
twinkling. But the question is: Will you like it?"
"What is that way?"
"That is Ygramul's secret. The creatures of darkness have
their secrets too, Atreyu Twolegs. Ygramul has never revealed
hers. And you too must swear you'll never tell a soul. For it
would be greatly to Ygramul's disadvantage if it were known, yes,
greatly to her disadvantage."
"I swear! Speak!"
The great steel-blue face leaned forward just a little and
buzzed almost inaudibly.
"You must let Ygramul bite you."
Atreyu shrank back in horror.
"Ygramul's poison," the voice went on, "kills within an hour.
But to one who has it inside him it gives the power to wish
himself in any part of Fantastica he chooses. Imagine if that were
known! All Ygramul's victims would escape her."
"An hour?" cried Atreyu. "What can I do in an hour?"
"Well," buzzed the swarm, "at least it's more than all the
hours remaining to you here."
Atreyu struggled with himself.
"Will you set the luckdragon free if I ask it in the name of the
Childlike Empress?" he finally asked.
"No!" said the face. "You have no right to ask that of Ygramul
even if you are wearing AURYN, the Gem. The Childlike
Empress takes us all as we are. That's why Ygramul respects her
emblem."
Atreyu was still standing with bowed head. Ygramul had
spoken the truth. He couldn't save the white luckdragon. His
own wishes didn't count.
He looked up and said: "Do what you suggested."
Instantly the steel-blue cloud descended on him and
enveloped him on all sides. He felt a numbing pain in the left
shoulder. His last thought was: "To the Southern Oracle!"
Then the world went black before his eyes.
When the wolf reached the spot a short time later, he saw the
giant spider web -- but there was no one in sight. There the trail
he had been following broke off, and try as he might, he could
not find it again.
Bastian stopped reading. He felt miserable, as though he himself
had Ygramul's poison inside him.
"Thank God I'm not in Fantastica," he muttered. "Luckily, such
monsters don't exist in reality. Anyway, it's only a story."
But was it only a story? How did it happen that Ygramul, and
probably Atreyu as well, had heard Bastian's cry of terror?
Little by little, this book was beginning to give him a spooky
feeling.
V
The Gnomics

ver so slowly Atreyu awoke to the world. He saw that he was still
in the mountains, and for a terrible moment he suspected that
Ygramul had deceived him.
But these, he soon realized, were entirely different mountains.
They seemed to consist of great rust-red blocks of stone, piled in
such a way as to form strange towers and pyramids. In between
these structures the ground was covered with bushes and
shrubbery. The air was blazing hot. The country was bathed in
glaring sunlight.
Shading his eyes with his hand, Atreyu looked around him
and discovered, about a mile away, an irregularly shaped arch,
perhaps a hundred feet high. It too appeared to consist of piled
stone blocks.
Could that be the entrance to the Southern Oracle? As far as
he could see, there was nothing behind the arch, only an endless
empty plain, no building, no temple, no grove, nothing
suggesting an oracle.
Suddenly, while he was wondering what to do, he heard a
deep, bronzelike voice: "Atreyu!" And then again: "Atreyu!"
Turning around, he saw the white luckdragon emerging from
one of the rust-red towers. Blood was pouring from his wounds,
and he was so weak he could barely drag himself along.
"Here I am, Atreyu," he said, merrily winking one of his
ruby-red eyes. "And you needn't be so surprised. I was pretty well
paralyzed when I was caught in that spider web, but I heard
everything Ygramul said to you. So I thought to myself: She has
bitten me too, after all, so why shouldn't I take advantage of the
secret as well? That's how I got away from her."
Atreyu was overjoyed.
"I hated leaving you to Ygramul," said. "But what could I
do?"
"Nothing," said the luckdragon. "You've saved my life all the
same -- even if I had something to do with it."
And again he winked, this time with the other eye.
"Saved your life," Atreyu repeated, "for an hour. That's all we
have left. I can feel Ygramul's poison burning my heart away."
"Every poison has its antidote," said the white dragon.
"Everything will turn out all right. You'll see."
"I can't imagine how," said Atreyu.
"Neither can I," said the luckdragon. "But that's the
wonderful part of it. From now on you'll succeed in everything
you attempt. Because I'm a luckdragon. Even when I was caught
in the web, I didn't give up hope. And as you see, I was right."
Atreyu smiled.
"Tell me, why did you wish yourself here and not in some
other place where you might have been cured?"
"My life belongs to you," said the dragon, "if you'll accept it.
I thought you'd need a mount for this Great Quest of yours. And
you'll soon see that crawling around the country on two legs, or
even galloping on a good horse, can't hold a candle to whizzing
through the air on the back of a luckdragon. Are we partners?"
"We're partners," said Atreyu.
"By the way," said the dragon. "My name is Falkor."
"Glad to meet you," said Atreyu, "but while we're talking,
what little time we have left is seeping away. I've got to do
something. But what?"
"Have luck," said Falkor. "What else?"
But Atreyu heard no more. He had fallen down and lay
motionless in the soft folds of the dragon's body.
Ygramul's poison was taking effect.
When Atreyu -- no one knows how much later -- opened his
eyes again, he saw nothing but a very strange face bent over him.
It was the wrinkliest, shriveledest face he had ever seen, and only
about the size of a fist. It was as brown as a baked apple, and the
eyes in it glittered like stars. The head was covered with a bonnet
made of withered leaves.
Atreyu felt a little drinking cup held to his lips.
"Nice medicine! Good medicine!" mumbled the wrinkled
little lips in the shriveled face. "Just drink, child. Do you good."
Atreyu sipped. It tasted strange. Kind of sweet and sour.
Atreyu found it painful to speak. "What about the white
dragon?" he asked.
"Doing fine!" the voice whispered. "Don't worry, my boy.
You'll get well. You'll both get well. The worst is over. Just drink.
Drink."
Atreyu took another swallow and again sleep overcame him,
but this time it was the deep, refreshing sleep of recovery.
The clock in the belfry struck two.
Bastian couldn't hold it in any longer. He simply had to go. He
had felt the need for quite some time, but he hadn't been able to stop
reading. Besides, he had been afraid to go downstairs. He told
himself that there was nothing to worry about, that the building was
deserted, that no one would see him. But still he was afraid, as if the
school were a person watching him.
But in the end there was no help for it; he just had to go!
He set the open book down on the mat, went to the door and
listened with pounding heart. Nothing. He slid the bolt and slowly
turned the big key in the lock. When he pressed the handle, the door
opened, creaking loudly.
He padded out in his stocking feet, leaving the door behind him
open to avoid unnecessary noise. He crept down the stairs to the
second floor. The students' toilet was at the other end of the long
corridor with the spinach-green classroom doors. Racing against time,
Bastian ran as fast as he could -- and just made it.
As he sat there, he wondered why heroes in stories like the one he
was reading never had to worry about such problems. Once -- when
he was much younger -- he had asked his religion teacher if Jesus
Christ had had to go like an ordinary person. After all, he had taken
food and drink like everyone else. The class had howled with
laughter, and the teacher, instead of an answer, had given him
several demerits for "insolence". He hadn't meant to be insolent.
"Probably," Bastian now said to himself, "these things are just
too unimportant to be mentioned in stories."
Yet for him they could be of the most pressing and embarrassing
importance.
He was finished. He pulled the chain and was about to leave
when he heard steps in the corridor outside. One classroom door after
another was opened and closed, and the steps came closer and closer.
Bastian's heart pounded in his throat. Where could he hide? He
stood glued to the spot as though paralyzed.
The washroom door opened, luckily in such a way as to shield
Bastian. The janitor came in. One by one, he looked into the stalls.
When he came to the one where the water was still running and the
chain swaying a little, he hesitated for a moment and mumbled
something to himself. But when the water stopped running he
shrugged his shoulders and went out. His steps died away on the
stairs.
Bastian hadn't dared breathe the whole time, and now he gasped
for air. He noticed that his knees were trembling.
As fast as possible he padded down the corridor with the
spinach-green doors, up the stairs, and back into the attic. Only
when the door was locked and bolted behind him did he relax.
With a deep sigh he settled back on his pile of mats, wrapped
himself in his army blankets, and reached for the book.
When Atreyu awoke for the second time, he felt perfectly
rested and well. He sat up.
It was night. The moon was shining bright, and Atreyu saw
he was in the same place where he and the white dragon had
collapsed. Falkor was still lying there. His breathing came deep
and easy and he seemed to be fast asleep. His wounds had been
dressed.
Atreyu noticed that his own shoulder had been dressed in the
same way, not with cloth but with herbs and plant fibers.
Only a few steps away there was a small cave, from which
issued a faint beam of light.
Taking care not to move his left arm, Atreyu stood up
cautiously and approached the cave. Bending down -- for the
entrance was very low -- he saw a room that looked like an
alchemist's workshop in miniature. At the back an open fire was
crackling merrily. Crucibles, retorts, and strangely shaped flasks
were scattered all about. Bundles of dried plants were piled on
shelves. The little table in the middle of the room and the other
furniture seemed to be made of root wood, crudely nailed
together.
Atreyu heard a cough, and then he saw a little man sitting in
an armchair by the fire. The little man's hat had been carved
from a root and looked like an inverted pipe bowl. The face was
as brown and shriveled as the face Atreyu had seen leaning over
him when he first woke up. But this one was wearing big
eyeglasses, and the features seemed sharper and more anxious.
The little man was reading a big book that was lying in his lap.
Then a second little figure, which Atreyu recognized as the
one that had bent over him, came waddling out of another room.
Now Atreyu saw that this little person was a woman. Apart from
her bonnet of leaves, she -- like the man in the armchair -- was
wearing a kind of monk's robe, which also seemed to be made of
withered leaves. Humming merrily, she rubbed her hands and
busied herself with a kettle that was hanging over the fire.
Neither of the little people would have reached up to Atreyu's
knee. Obviously they belonged to the widely ramified family of
the gnomes, though to a rather obscure branch.
"Woman!" said the little man testily. "Get out of my light.
You are interfering with my research!"
"You and your research!" said the woman. "Who cares about
that? The important thing is my health elixir. Those two outside
are in urgent need of it."
"Those two," said the man irritably, "will be far more in need
of my help and advice."
"Maybe so," said the little woman. "But not until they are
well. Move over, old man!"
Grumbling, the little man moved his chair a short distance
from the fire.
Atreyu cleared his throat to call attention to his presence. The
two gnomes looked around.
"He's already well," said the little man. "Now it's my turn."
"Certainly not!" the little woman hissed. "He'll be well when
I say so. It'll be your turn when I say it's your turn."
She turned to Atreyu.
"We would invite you in, but it's not quite big enough, is it?
Just a moment. We shall come out to you."
Taking a small mortar, she ground something or other into a
powder, which she tossed in the kettle. Then she washed her
hands, dried them on her robe, and said to the little man: "Stay
here until I call you, Engywook. Understand?"
"Yes, Urgl, I understand," the little man grumbled. "I
understand only too well."
The female gnome came out of the cave and looked up at
Atreyu from under knitted brows.
"Well, well. We seem to be getting better, don't we?"
Atreyu nodded.
The gnome climbed up on a rocky ledge, level with Atreyu's
face, and sat down.
"No pain?" she asked.
"None worth mentioning," Atreyu answered.
"Nonsense!" the old woman snapped. "Does it hurt or
doesn't it?"
"It still hurts," said Atreyu, "but it doesn't matter."
"Not to you, perhaps, but it does to me! Since when does the
patient tell the doctor what matters? What do you know about it?
If it's to get well, it has to hurt. If it stopped hurting, your arm
would be dead."
"I'm sorry," said Atreyu, who felt like a scolded child. "I only
wanted to say. . . that is, I wanted to thank you."
"What for?" said Urgl impatiently. "I'm a healer, after all. I've
only done my professional duty. Besides, Engywook, that's my
old man, saw the Glory hanging on your neck. So what would
you expect?"
"What about Falkor?" Atreyu asked. "How's he getting
along?"
"Falkor? Who's that?"
"The white luckdragon."
"Oh. I don't know yet. Took a little more punishment than
you. But then he's bigger and stronger, so he ought to make it.
Why not? Needs a little more rest. Where did you ever pick up
that poison? And where have you come from all of a sudden? And
where are you going? And who are you in the first place?"
Engywook was standing in the mouth of the cave. He listened
as Atreyu answered Urgl's questions. When Urgl opened her
mouth to speak again, he shouted: "Hold your tongue, woman!
Now it's my turn."
Removing his pipe-bowl hat, he scratched his bald head, and
said: "Don't let her tone bother you, Atreyu. Old Urgl is a little
crude, but she means no harm. My name is Engywook. We are
the well-known Gnomics. Ever hear of us?"
"No," Atreyu confessed. Engywook seemed rather offended.
"Oh well," he said. "Apparently you don't move in scientific
circles, or someone would undoubtedly have told you that you
couldn't find a better adviser than yours truly if you're looking
for Uyulala in the Southern Oracle. You've come to the right
address, my boy."
"Don't give yourself airs," Urgl broke in. Then she climbed
down from her ledge and, grumbling to herself, vanished into the
cave.
Engywook ignored her comment.
"I can explain everything," he went on. "I've studied the
question all my life. Inside and out. I set up my observatory just
for that. I'm in the last stage of a great scientific work on the
Oracle. "The Riddle of Uyulala, solved by Professor Engywook."
That's the title. Sounds all right, doesn't it? To be published in
the very near future. Unfortunately a few details are still lacking.
You can help me, my boy."
"An observatory?" asked Atreyu, who had never heard the
word.
Engywook nodded and, beaming with pride, motioned
Atreyu to follow him.
A narrow path twined its way upward between great stone
blocks. In some places where the grade was especially steep, tiny
steps had been cut out of the stone. Of course, they were much
too small for Atreyu's feet and he simply stepped over them. Even
so, he had a hard time keeping up with the gnome.
"Bright moonlight tonight," said Engywook. "You'll see them
all right."
"See who?" Atreyu asked. "Uyulala?"
Engywook only frowned and shook his head.
At last they came to the top of the hill. The ground was flat,
but on one side there was a natural stone parapet. In the middle
of this wall there was a hole, obviously the work of gnomian
hands. And behind the hole, on a stand made of root wood,
stood a small telescope.
Engywook looked through the telescope and made a slight
adjustment by turning some screws. Then he nodded with
satisfaction and invited Atreyu to look. To put himself on a level
with it, Atreyu had to lie down on the ground and prop himself
on his elbows.
The telescope was aimed at the great stone arch, or more
specifically at the lower part of the left pillar. And beside this
pillar, as Atreyu now saw, an enormous sphinx was sitting
motionless in the moonlight. The forepaws, on which she was
propped, were those of a lion, the hindquarters were those of a
bull; on her back she bore the wings of an eagle, and her face was
that of a human woman -- in form at any rate, for the expression
was far from human. I was hard to tell whether this face was
smiling or whether it expressed deep grief or utter indifference.
After looking at it for some time, Atreyu seemed to see abysmal
wickedness and cruelty, but a moment later he had to correct his
impression, for he found only unruffled calm.
"Don't bother!" he heard the gnome's deep voice in his ear.
"You won't solve it. It's the same with everyone. I've observed it
all my life and I haven't found the answer. Now for the other
one."
He turned one of the screws. The image passed the opening
of the arch, through which one saw only the empty plain. Then
the right-hand pillar came into Atreyu's view. And there, in the
same posture, sat a second sphinx. The enormous body
shimmered like liquid silver in the moonlight. She seemed to be
staring fixedly at the first, just as the first was gazing fixedly at
her.
"Are they statues?" asked Atreyu, unable to avert his eyes.
"Oh no!" said Engywook with a giggle. "They are real live
sphinxes -- very much alive! You've seen enough for now. Come,
we'll go down. I'll explain everything."
And he held his hand in front of the telescope, so that Atreyu
could see no more. Neither spoke on the way back.
VI
The Three Magic Gates

alkor was still sound asleep when Engywook brought Atreyu back
to the gnomes' cave. In the meantime Urgl had moved the little
table into the open and put on all sorts of sweets and fruit and
herb jellies.
There were also little drinking cups and a pitcher of fragrant
herb tea. The table was lit by two tiny oil lamps.
"Sit down!" Urgl commanded. "Atreyu must eat and drink
something to give him strength. Medicine alone is not enough."
"Thank you," said Atreyu. "I'm feeling fine already."
"No back talk!" Urgl snapped. "As long as you're here, you'll
do as you're told. The poison in your body has been neutralized.
So there's no reason to hurry, my boy. You've all the time you
need. Just take it easy."
"It's not on my account," said Atreyu. "But the Childlike
Empress is dying. Even now, every hour may count."
"Rubbish!" the old woman grumbled. "Haste makes waste.
Sit down! Eat! Drink!"
"Better give in," Engywook whispered. "I know the woman
from A to Z. When she wants something, she gets it. Besides, you
and I have a lot to talk about."
Atreyu squatted cross-legged at the tiny table and fell to.
Every bite and every swallow made him feel as if warm, golden
life were flowing into his veins. Only then did he notice how
weak he had been.
Bastion's mouth watered. It seemed to him that he could smell
the aroma of the gnomes' meal. He sniffed the air, but of course it
was only imagination.
His stomach growled audibly. In the end he couldn't stand it any
longer. He took his apple and the rest of his sandwich out of his
satchel and ate them both. After that, though far from full, he felt a
little better.
Then he realized that this was his last meal. The word "last"
terrified him. He tried not to think of it.
"Where do you get all these good things?" Atreyu asked Urgl.
"Ah, sonny," she said. "It takes lots of running around to find
the right plants. But he -- this knuckleheaded Engywook of mine
-- insists on living here because of his all-important studies.
Where the food is to come from is the least of his worries."
"Woman," said Engywook with dignity, "how would you
know what's important and what isn't? Be off with you now, and
let us talk."
Mumbling and grumbling, Urgl withdrew into the little cave
and a moment later Atreyu heard a great clatter of pots and pans.
"Don't mind her," said Engywook under his breath. "She's a
good old soul, she just needs something to grumble about now
and then. Listen to me, Atreyu. I'm going to let you in on a few
things you need to know about the Southern Oracle. It's not easy
to get to Uyulala. In fact, it's rather difficult. But I don't want to
give you a scientific lecture. Maybe it will be better if you ask
questions. I tend to lose myself in details. Just fire away."
"All right," said Atreyu. "Who or what is Uyulala?"
Engywook gave him an angry look. "Botheration!" he
spluttered. "You're so blunt, so direct. Just like my old woman.
Couldn't you start with something else?"
Atreyu thought a while. Then he asked:. "That big stone gate
with the sphinxes. Is that the entrance?"
"That's better," said Engywook. "Now we'll get somewhere.
Yes, that gate is the entrance, but then come two more gates. And
Uyulala's home is behind the third -- if one can speak of her
having a home."
"Have you yourself ever been with her?"
"Don't be absurd!" replied Engywook, again somewhat
nettled. "I am a scientist. I have collected and collated the
statements of all the individuals who have been there. The ones
who have come back, that is. Very important work. I can't afford
to take personal risks. It could interfere with my work."
"I see," said Atreyu. "Now what about these three gates?"
Engywook stood up, folded his hands behind his back, and
paced.
"The first," he lectured, "is known as the Great Riddle Gate;
the second is the Magic Mirror Gate; and the third is the No-Key
Gate. . ."
"Strange," Atreyu broke in. "As far as I could see, there was
nothing behind that stone gate but an empty plain. Where are
the other gates?"
"Be still!" Engywook scolded. "How can I make myself clear
if you keep interrupting? It's very complicated: The second gate
isn't there until a person has gone through the first. And the third
isn't there until the person has the second behind him. And
Uyulala isn't there until he has passed through the third. Simply
not there. Do you understand?"
Atreyu nodded, but preferred to say nothing for fear of
irritating the gnome.
"Through my telescope you have seen the first, the Great
Riddle Gate. And the two sphinxes. That gate is always open.
Obviously. There's nothing to close. But even so, no one can get
through" -- here Engywook raised a tiny forefinger -- "unless the
sphinxes close their eyes. And do you know why? The gaze of a
sphinx is different from the gaze of any other creature. You and I
and everyone else -- our eyes take something in. We see the
world. A sphinx sees nothing. In a sense she is blind. But her eyes
send something out. And what do her eyes send out? All the
riddles of the universe. That's why these sphinxes are always
looking at each other. Because only another sphinx can stand a
sphinx's gaze. So try to imagine what happens to one who
ventures into the area where those two gazes meet. He freezes to
the spot, unable to move until he has solved all the riddles of the
world. If you go there, you'll find the remains of those poor
devils."
"But," said Atreyu, 'didn't you say that their eyes sometimes
close? Don't they have to sleep now and then?"
"Sleep?" Engywook was shaken with giggles. "Goodness
gracious! A sphinx sleep? I should say not. You really are an
innocent. Still, there's some point to your question. All my
research, in fact, hinges on that particular point. The sphinxes
shut their eyes for some travelers and let them through. The
question that no one has answered up until now is this: Why one
traveler and not another? Because you mustn't suppose they let
wise, brave, or good people through, and keep the stupid,
cowardly, and wicked out. Not a bit of it! With my own eyes I've
seen them admit stupid fools and treacherous knaves, while
decent, sensible people have given up after being kept waiting for
months. And it seems to make no difference whether a person has
some serious reason for consulting the Oracle, or whether he's
just come for the fun of it."
"Haven't your investigations suggested some explanation?"
Atreyu asked.
Angry flashes darted from Engywook's eyes.
"Have you been listening or haven't you? Didn't I just say
that so far no one has answered that question? Of course, I've
worked up a few theories over the years. At first I thought the
sphinxes' judgment might be guided by certain physical
characteristics -- size, beauty, strength, and so on. But I soon had
to drop that idea. Then I toyed with numerical patterns. The
idea, for instance, that three out of five were regularly excluded,
or that only prime-numbered candidates were admitted. That
worked pretty well for the past, but for forecasting it was no use
at all. Since then I've come to the conclusion that the sphinxes'
decision is based on pure chance and that no principle whatever
is involved. But my wife calls my conclusion scandalous,
un-Fantastican, and absolutely unscientific."
"Are you starting your old nonsense again?" came Urgl's
angry voice from the cave. "Shame on you! Such skepticism only
shows that the bit of brain you once had has dried up on you."
"Hear that?" said Engywook with a sigh. "And the worst of it
is that she's right."
"What about the Childlike Empress's amulet?" Atreyu asked.
"Do you think they'll respect it? They too are natives of
Fantastica, after all."
"Yes, I suppose they are," said Engywook, shaking his
apple-sized head. "But to respect it they'd have to see it. And they
don't see anything. But their gaze would strike you. And I'm not
so sure the sphinxes would obey the Childlike Empress. Maybe
they are greater than she is. I don't know, I don't know. Anyway,
it's most worrisome."
"Then what do you advise?" Atreyu asked.
"You will have to do what all the others have done. Wait and
see what the sphinxes decide -- without hoping to know why."
Atreyu nodded thoughtfully.
Urgl came out of the cave. In one hand she held a bucket
with some steaming liquid in it, and under her other arm she was
carrying a bundle of dried plants. Muttering to herself, she went
to the luckdragon, who was still lying motionless, fast asleep. She
started climbing around on him and changing the dressings on
his wounds. Her enormous patient heaved one contented sigh
and stretched; otherwise he seemed unaware of her ministrations.
"Couldn't you make yourself a little useful?" she said to
Engywook as she was hurrying back to the kitchen, "instead of
sitting around like this, talking rubbish?"
"I am making myself extremely useful," her husband called
after her. "Possibly more useful than you, but that's more than a
simple-minded woman like you will ever understand!"
Turning to Atreyu, he went on: "She can only think of
practical matters. She has no feeling for the great overarching
ideas."
The clock in the belfry struck three.
By now Bastian's father must have noticed -- if he was ever going
to -- that Bastian hadn't come home. Would he worry? Maybe he'd
go looking for him. Maybe he had already notified the police. Maybe
calls had gone out over the radio. Bastian felt a sick pain in the pit of
his stomach.
But if the police had been notified, where would they look for
him? Could they possibly come to this attic?
Had he locked the door when he came back from the toilet? He
couldn't remember. He got up and checked. Yes, the door was locked
and bolted.
Outside, the November afternoon was drawing to a close. Ever so
slowly the light was failing.
To steady his nerves, Bastian paced the floor for a while. Looking
about him, he discovered quite a few things one wouldn't have
expected to find in a school. For instance, a battered old Victrola
with a big horn attached -- God only knew when and by whom it
had been brought here. In one corner there were some paintings in
ornate gilt frames. They were so faded that hardly anything could be
made out -- only here and there a pale, solemn-looking face that
shimmered against a dark background. And then there was a rusty,
seven-armed candelabrum, still holding the stumps of thick wax
candles, bearded with drippings.
Bastian gave a sudden start, for looking into a dark corner he
saw someone moving. But when he looked again, it dawned on him
that he had only seen himself, reflected in a large mirror that had lost
half its silvering. He went closer and looked at himself for a while.
He was really nothing much to look at, with his pudgy build and his
bowlegs and pasty face. He shook his head and said aloud: "No!"
Then he went back to his mats. By then it was so dark that he
had to hold the book up to his eyes.
"Where were we?" Engywook asked.
"At the Great Riddle Gate," Atreyu reminded him.
"Right. Now suppose you've managed to get through. Then
-- and only then -- the second gate will be there for you. The
Magic Mirror Gate. As I've said, I myself have not been able to
observe it, what I tell you has been gleaned from travelers'
accounts. This second gate is both open and closed. Sounds
crazy, doesn't it? It might be better to say: neither closed nor
open. Though that doesn't make it any less crazy. The point is
that this gate seems to be a big mirror or something of the kind,
though it's made neither of glass nor of metal. What it is made
of, no one has ever been able to tell me. Anyway, when you stand
before it, you see yourself. But not as you would in an ordinary
mirror. You don't see your outward appearance; what you see is
your real innermost nature. If you want to go through, you have
to -- in a manner of speaking -- go into yourself."
"Well," said Atreyu. "It seems to me that this Magic Mirror
Gate is easier to get through than the first."
"Wrong!" cried Engywook. Once again he began to trot back
and forth in agitation. "Dead wrong, my friend! I've known
travelers who considered themselves absolutely blameless to yelp
with horror and run away at the sight of the monster grinning
out of the mirror at them. We had to care for some of them for
weeks before they were even able to start home."
"We!" growled Urgl, who was passing with another bucket. "I
keep hearing 'we'. When did you ever take care of anybody?"
Engywook waved her away.
"Others," he went on lecturing, "appear to have seen
something even more horrible, but had the courage to go
through. What some saw was not so frightening, but it still cost
every one of them an inner struggle. Nothing I can say would
apply to all. It's a different experience each time."
"Good," said Atreyu. "Then at least it's possible to go through
this Magic Mirror Gate?"
"Oh yes, of course it's possible, or it wouldn't be a gate.
Where's your logic, my boy?"
"But it's also possible to go around it," said Atreyu. "Or isn't
it?"
"Yes indeed," said Engywook. "Of course it is. But if you do
that, there's nothing more behind it. The third gate isn't there
until you've gone through the second. How often do I have to
tell you that?"
"I understand. But what about this third gate?"
"That's where things get really difficult! Because, you see, the
No-Key Gate is closed. Simply closed. And that's that! There's no
handle and no doorknob and no keyhole. Nothing. My theory is
that this single, hermetically closed door is made of Fantastican
selenium. You may know that there's no way of destroying,
bending or dissolving Fantastican selenium. It's absolutely
indestructible."
"Then there's no way of getting through?"
"Not so fast. Not so fast, my boy. Certain individuals have
got through and spoken with Uyulala. So the door can be
opened."
"But how?"
"Just listen. Fantastican selenium reacts to our will. It's our
will that makes it unyielding. But if someone succeeds in
forgetting all purpose, in wanting nothing at all -- to him the gate
will open of its own accord."
Atreyu looked down and said in an undertone: "If that's the
case -- how can I possibly get through? How can I manage not to
want to get through?"
Engywook sighed and nodded, nodded and sighed.
"Just what I've been saying. The No-Key Gate is the hardest."
"But if I succeed after all," Atreyu asked, "will I then be in the
Southern Oracle?"
"Yes," said the gnome.
"But who or what is Uyulala?"
"No idea," said the gnome, and his eyes sparkled with fury.
"None of those who have reached her has been willing to tell me.
How can I be expected to complete my scientific work if
everyone cloaks himself in mysterious silence? I could tear my
hair out -- if I had any left. If you reach her, Atreyu, will you tell
me? Will you? One of these days my thirst for knowledge will be
the death of me, and no one, no one is willing to help. I beg you,
promise you'll tell me."
Atreyu stood up and looked at the Great Riddle Gate, which
lay bathed in moonlight.
"I can't promise that, Engywook," he said softly, "though I'd
be glad to show my gratitude. But if no one has told you who or
what Uyulala is, there must be a reason. And before I know what
that reason is, I can't decide whether someone who hasn't seen
her with his own eyes has a right to know."
"In that case, get away from me!" screamed the gnome, his
eyes literally spewing sparks. "All I get is ingratitude! All my life I
wear myself out trying to reveal a secret of universal interest. And
no one helps me. I should never have bothered with you."
With that he ran into the little cave, and a door could be
heard slamming within.
Urgl passed Atreyu and said with a titter: "The old fool
means no harm. But he's always running into such
disappointments with this ridiculous investigation of his. He
wants to go down in history as the one who has solved the great
riddle. The world-famous gnome Engywook. You mustn't mind
him."
"Of course not," said Atreyu. "Just tell him I thank him with
all my heart for what he has done for me. And I thank you too. If
it's allowed, I will tell him the secret -- if I come back."
"Then you're leaving us?" Urgl asked.
"I have to," said Atreyu. "There's no time to be lost. Now I
shall go to the Oracle. Farewell! And in the meantime take good
care of Falkor, the luckdragon."
With that he turned away and strode toward the Great Riddle
Gate.
Urgl watched the erect figure with the blowing cloak vanish
among the rocks and ran after him, crying: "Lots of luck,
Atreyu!"
But she didn't know whether he had heard or not. As she
waddled back to her little cave, she muttered to herself: "He'll
need it all right -- he'll need lots of luck."
Atreyu was now within fifty feet of the great stone gate. It was
much larger than he had judged from a distance. Behind it lay a
deserted plain. There was nothing to stop the eye, and Atreyu's
gaze seemed to plunge into an abyss of emptiness. In front of the
gate and between the two pillars Atreyu saw only innumerable
skulls and skeletons -- all that was left of the varied species of
Fantasticans who had tried to pass through the gate but had been
frozen forever by the gaze of the sphinxes.
But it wasn't these gruesome reminders that stopped Atreyu.
What stopped him was the sight of the sphinxes.
He had been through a good deal in the course of the Great
Quest -- he had seen beautiful things and horrible things -- but
up until now he had not known that one and the same creature
can be both, that beauty can be terrifying.
The two monsters were bathed in moonlight, and as Atreyu
approached them, they seemed to grow beyond measure. Their
heads seemed to touch the moon, and their expression as they
looked at each other seemed to change with every step he took.
Currents of a terrible, unknown force flashed through the
upraised bodies and still more through the almost human faces. It
was as though these beings did not merely exist, in the way
marble for instance exists, but as if they were on the verge of
vanishing, but would recreate themselves at the same time. For
that very reason they seemed far more real than anything made of
stone.
Fear gripped Atreyu.
Fear not so much of the danger that threatened him as of
something above and beyond his own self. It hardly grazed his
mind that if the sphinxes' gaze should strike him he would freeze
to the spot forever. No, what made his steps heavier and heavier,
until he felt as though he were made of cold gray lead, was fear of
the unfathomable, of something intolerably vast.
Yet he went on. He stopped looking up. He kept his head
bowed and walked very slowly, foot by foot, towards the stone
gate. Heavier and heavier grew his burden of fear. He thought it
would crush him, but still he went on. He didn't know whether
the sphinxes had closed their eyes or not. Would he be admitted?
Or would this be the end of his Great Quest? He had no time to
lose in worrying. He just had to take his chances.
At a certain point he felt sure that he had not enough will
power left to carry him a single step forward. And just then he
heard the echo of his footfalls within the great vaulted gate.
Instantly every last shred of fear fell from him, and he knew that
whatever might happen he would never again be afraid.
Looking up, he saw that the Great Riddle Gate lay behind
him. The sphinxes had let him through.
Up ahead, no more than twenty paces away, where previously
there had been nothing but the great empty plain, he saw the
Magic Mirror Gate. This gate was large and round like a second
moon (for the real moon was still shining high in the sky) and it
glittered like polished silver. It was hard to imagine how anyone
could pass through a metal surface, but Atreyu didn't hesitate for
a moment. After what Engywook had said, he expected a
terrifying image of himself to come toward him out of the mirror,
but now that he had left all fear behind him, he hardly gave the
matter a thought.
What he saw was something quite unexpected, which wasn't
the least bit terrifying, but which baffled him completely. He saw
a fat little boy with a pale face -- a boy his own age -- and this
little boy was sitting on a pile of mats, reading a book. The little
boy had large, sad-looking eyes, and he was wrapped in frayed
gray blankets. Behind him a few motionless animals could be
distinguished in the half-light -- an eagle, an owl, and a fox -- and
farther off there was something that looked like a white skeleton.
He couldn't make out exactly what it was.
Bastian gave a start when he realized what he had just read.
Why, that was him! The description was right in every detail. The
book trembled in his hands. This was going too far. How could there
be something in a book that applied only to this particular moment
and, only to him? It could only be a crazy accident. But a very
remarkable accident.
"Bastian," he said aloud, "you really are a screwball. Pull your
self together."
He had meant to say this very sternly, but his voice quavered a
little, for he was not quite sure that what had happened was an
accident.
Just imagine, he thought. What if they've really heard of me in
Fantastica! Wouldn't that be wonderful?
But he didn't dare say it aloud.
A faint smile of astonishment played over Atreyu's lips as he
passed into the mirror image -- he was rather surprised that he
was succeeding so easily in something that others had found
insuperably difficult. But on the way through he felt a strange,
prickly shudder. He had no suspicion of what had really
happened to him.
For when he emerged on the far side of the Magic Mirror
Gate, he had lost all memory of himself, of his past life, aims, and
purposes. He had forgotten the Great Quest that had brought
him there, and he didn't even know his own name. He was like a
newborn child.
Up ahead of him, only a few steps away, he saw the No-Key
Gate, but he had forgotten its name and forgotten that his
purpose in passing through it was to reach the Southern Oracle.
He had no idea why he was there or what he was supposed to do.
He felt light and cheerful and he laughed for no reason, for the
sheer pleasure of it.
The gate he saw before him was as small and low as a
common door and stood all by itself -- with no walls around it --
on the empty plain. And this door was closed.
Atreyu looked at it for a while. It seemed to be made of some
material with a coppery sheen. It was nice to look at, but Atreyu
soon lost interest. He went around the gate and examined it from
behind, but the back looked no different than the front. And
there was neither handle nor knob nor keyhole. Obviously this
door could not be opened, and anyway why would anyone want
to open it, since it led nowhere and was just standing there. For
behind the gate there was only the wide, flat, empty plain.
Atreyu felt like leaving. He turned back, went around the
Magic Mirror Gate, and looked at it for some time without
realizing what it was. He decided to go away,
"No, no, don't go away," said Bastian aloud. "Turn around.
You have to go through the No-Key Gate!"
but then turned back to the No-Key Gate. He wanted to look at
its coppery sheen again. Once more, he stood in front of the gate,
bending his head to the left, bending it to the right, enjoying
himself. Tenderly he stroked the strange material. It felt warm
and almost alive. And the door opened by a crack.
Atreyu stuck his head through, and then he saw something he
hadn't seen on the other side when he had walked around the
gate. He pulled his head back, looked past the gate, and saw only
the empty plain. He looked again through the crack in the door
and saw a long corridor formed by innumerable huge columns.
And farther off there were stairs and more pillars and terraces and
more stairs and a whole forest of columns. But none of these
columns supported a roof. For above them Atreyu could see the
night sky.
He passed through the gate and looked around him with
wonderment. The door closed behind him.
The clock in the belfry struck four.
Little by little, the murky light was failing. It was getting too
dark to read by. Bastian put the book down.
What was he to do now?
There was bound to be electric light in this attic. He groped his
way to the door and ran his hand along the wall, but couldn't find a
switch. He looked on the opposite side, and again there was none.
He took a box of matches from his trouser pocket (he always had
matches on him, for he had a weakness for making little fires), but
they were damp and the first three wouldn't light. In the faint glow
of the fourth he tried to locate a light switch, but there wasn't any.
The thought of having to spend the whole evening and night here in
total darkness gave him the cold shivers. He was no baby, and at
home or in any other familiar place he had no fear of the dark, but
this enormous attic with all these weird things in it was something
else again.
The match burned his fingers and he threw it away.
For a while he just stood there and listened. The rain had let up
and now he could barely hear the drumming on the big tin roof.
Then he remembered the rusty, seven-armed candelabrum he
had seen. He groped his way across the room, found the
candelabrum, and dragged it to his pile of mats.
He lit the wicks in the thick stubs -- all seven -- and a golden
light spread. The flames crackled faintly and wavered now and then
in the draft.
With a sigh of relief, Bastian picked up the book.
VII
The Voice of Silence

ladness buoyed Atreyu's heart as he strode into the forest of
columns which cast black shadows in the bright moonlight. In
the deep silence that surrounded him he barely heard his own
footfalls. He no longer knew who he was or what his name was,
how he had got there or what he was looking for. He was full of
wonder, but quite undismayed.
The floor was made of mosaic tiles, showing strange
ornamental designs or mysterious scenes and images. Atreyu
passed over it, climbed broad steps, came to a vast terrace,
descended another set of steps, and passed down a long avenue of
stone columns. He examined them, one after another, and it gave
him pleasure to see that each was decorated with different signs
and symbols. Farther and farther he went from the No-Key Gate.
At last, when he had gone heaven knows how far, he heard a
hovering sound in the distance and stopped to listen. The sound
came closer, it was a singing voice, but it seemed very, very sad,
almost like a sob at times. This lament passed over the columns
like a breeze, then stopped in one place, rose and fell, came and
went, and seemed to move in a wide circle around Atreyu.
He stood still and waited.
Little by little, the circle became smaller, and after a while he
was able to understand the words the voice was singing:
"Oh, nothing can happen more than once,
But all things must happen one day.
Over hill and dale, over wood and stream,
My dying voice will blow away . . ."
Atreyu turned in the direction of the voice, which darted
fitfully among the columns, but he could see no one.
"Who are you?" he cried.
The voice came back to him like an echo: "Who are you?"
Atreyu pondered.
"Who am I?" he murmured. "I don't know. I have a feeling
that I once knew. But does it matter?"
The singing voice answered:
"If questions you would ask of me,
You must speak in poetry,
For rhymeless talk that strikes my ear
I cannot hear, I cannot hear. . ."
Atreyu hadn't much practice in rhyming. This would be a
difficult conversation, he thought, if the voice only understood
poetry. He racked his brains for a while, then he came out with:
"I hope it isn't going too far,
But could you tell me who you are?"
This time the voice answered at once:
"I hear you now, your words are clear,
I understand as well as hear."
And then, coming from a different direction, it sang:
"I thank you, friend, for your good will.
I'm glad that you have come to me.
I am Uyulala, the voice of silence.
In the Palace of Deep Mystery."
Atreyu noticed that the voice rose and fell, but was never
wholly silent. Even when it sang no words or when he was
speaking, a sound hovered in the air.
For a time it seemed to stand still; then it moved slowly away
from him. He ran after it and asked:
"Oh, Uyulala, tell me where you're hid.
I cannot see you and so wish I did."
Passing him by, the voice breathed into his ear:
"Never has anyone seen me,
Never do I appear.
You will never see me,
And yet I am here."
"Then you're invisible?" he asked. But when no answer came,
he remembered that he had to speak in rhyme, and asked:
"Have you no body, is that what you mean?
Or is it only that you can't be seen?"
He heard a soft, bell-like sound, which might have been a
laugh or a sob. And the voice sang:
"Yes and no and neither one.
I do not appear
In the brightness of the sun
As you appear,
For my body is but sound
That one can hear but never see,
And this voice you're hearing now
Is all there is of me."
In amazement, Atreyu followed the sound this way and that
way through the forest of columns. It took him some time to get
a new question ready:
"Do I understand you right?
Your body is this melody?
But what if you should cease to sing?
Would you cease to be?"
The answer came to him from very near:
"Once my song is ended,
What comes to others soon or late,
When their bodies pass away,
Will also be my fate.
My life will last the time of my song,
But that will not be long."
Now it seemed certain that the voice was sobbing, and
Atreyu, who could not understand why, hastened to ask:
"Why are you so sad? Why are you crying?
You sound so young. Why speak of dying?"
And the voice came back like an echo:
"I am only a song of lament,
The wind will blow me away.
But tell me now why you were sent.
What have you come to say?"
The voice died away among the columns, and Atreyu turned
in all directions, trying to pick it up again. For a little while he
heard nothing, then, starting in the distance, the voice came
quickly closer. It sounded almost impatient:
"Uyulala is answer. Answers on questions feed.
So ask me what you've come to ask,
For questions are her need."
Atreyu cried out:
"Then help me, Uyulala, tell me why
You sing a plaint as if you soon must die."
And the voice sang:
"The Childlike Empress is sick,
And with her Fantastica will die.
The Nothing will swallow this place,
It will perish and so will I.
We shall vanish into the Nowhere and Never,
As though we had never been.
The Empress needs a new name
To make her well again."
Atreyu pleaded:
"Oh, tell me, Uyulala, oh, tell me who can give
The Childlike Empress the name, which alone will let her
live."
The voice replied:
"Listen and listen well
To the truth I have to tell.
Though your spirit may be blind
To the sense of what I say,
Print my words upon your mind
Before you go away.
Later you may dredge them up
From the depths of memory,
Raise them to the light of day
Exactly as they flow from me.
Everything depends on whether
You remember faithfully."
For a time he heard only a plaintive sound without words.
Then suddenly the voice came from right next to him, as though
someone were whispering into his ear:
"Who can give the Childlike Empress
The new name that will make her well?
Not you, not I, no elf, no djinn,
Can save us from the evil spell.
For we are figures in a book --
We do what we were invented for,
But we can fashion nothing new
And cannot change from what we are.
But there's a realm outside Fantastica,
The Outer World is its name,
The people who live there are rich indeed
And not at all the same.
Born of the Word, the children of man,
Or humans, as they're sometimes called,
Have had the gift of giving names
Ever since our worlds began,
In every age it's they who gave
The Childlike Empress life,
For wondrous new names have the power to save.
But now for many and many a day,
No human has visited Fantastica,
For they no longer know the way.
They have forgotten how real we are,
They don't believe in us anymore.
Oh, if only one child of man would come,
Oh, then at last the thing would be done.
If only one would hear our plea.
For them it is near, but for us too far,
Never can we go out to them,
For theirs is the world of reality.
But tell me, my hero, you so young,
Will you remember what I have sung?"
"Oh yes!" cried Atreyu in his bewilderment. He was
determined to imprint every word on his memory, though he had
forgotten what for. He merely had a feeling that it was very, very
important. But the singsong voice and the effort of hearing and
speaking in rhymes made him sleepy. He murmured:
"I will remember. I will remember every word.
But tell me, what shall I do with what I've heard?"
And the voice answered:
"That is for you alone to decide.
I've told you what was in my heart.
So this is when our ways divide,
When you and I must part."
Almost half asleep, Atreyu asked:
"But if you go away,
Where will you stay?"
Again he heard the sobbing in the voice, which receded more
and more as it sang:
"The Nothing has come near,
The Oracle is dying.
No one again will hear
Uyulala laughing, sighing.
You are the last to hear
My voice among the columns,
Sounding far and near.
Perhaps you will accomplish
What no one else has done,
But to succeed, young hero,
Remember what I have sung."
And then, farther and farther in the distance, Atreyu heard
the words:
"Oh, nothing can happen more than once,
But all things must happen one day.
Over hill and dale, over wood and stream,
My dying voice will blow away."
That was the last Atreyu heard.
He sat down, propped his back against a column, looked up
at the night sky, and tried to understand what he had heard.
Silence settled around him like a soft, warm cloak, and he fell
asleep.
When he awoke in the cold dawn, he was lying on his back,
looking up at the sky. The last stars paled. Uyulala's voice still
sounded in his thoughts. And then suddenly he remembered
everything that had gone before and the purpose of his Great
Quest.
At last he knew what was to be done. Only a human, a child
of man, someone from the world beyond the borders of
Fantastica, could give the Childlike Empress a new name. He
would just have to find a human and bring him to her.
Briskly he sat up.
Ah, thought Bastion. How gladly I would help her! Her and
Atreyu too. What a beautiful name I would think up! If I only knew
how to reach Atreyu. I'd go this minute. Wouldn't he be amazed if I
were suddenly standing before him! But it's impossible. Or is it?
And then he said under his breath: "If there's any way of my
getting to you in Fantastica, tell me, Atreyu. I'll come without fail.
You'll see."
When Atreyu looked around, he saw that the forest of
columns with its stairways and terraces had vanished. Whichever
way he looked there was only the empty plain that he had seen
behind each of the three gates before going through. But now the
gates were gone, all three of them.
He stood up and again looked in all directions. It was then
that he discovered, in the middle of the plain, a patch of Nothing
like those he had seen in Howling Forest. But this time it was
much nearer. He turned around and ran the other way as fast as
he could.
He had been running for some time when he saw, far in the
distance, a rise in the ground and thought it might be the stony
rust-red mountains where the Great Riddle Gate was.
He started toward it, but he had a long way to go before he
was close enough to make out any details. Then he began to have
doubts. The landscape looked about right, but there was no gate
to be seen. And the stones were not red, but dull gray.
Then, when he had gone much farther, he saw two great
stone pillars with a space between them. The lower part of a gate,
he thought. But there was no arch above it. What had happened?
Hours later, he reached the spot and discovered the answer.
The great stone arch had collapsed and the sphinxes were gone.
Atreyu threaded his way through the ruins, then climbed to
the top of a stone pyramid and looked out, trying to locate the
place where he had left the Gnomics and the luckdragon. Or had
they fled from the Nothing in the meantime?
At last he saw a tiny flag moving this way and that behind the
balustrade of Engywook's observatory. Atreyu waved both arms,
cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted: "Ho! Are you
still there?"
The sound of his voice had hardly died away when a
pearly-white luckdragon rose from the hollow where the gnomes
had their cave and flew through the air with lazy, sinuous
movements. He must have been feeling playful, for now and then
he turned over on his back and looped-the-loop so fast that he
looked like a burst of white flame. And then he landed not far
from the pyramid where Atreyu was standing. When he propped
himself on his forepaws, he was so high above Atreyu that to
bring his head close to him, he had to bend his long, supple neck
sharply downward. Rolling his ruby-red eyeballs for joy,
stretching his tongue far out of his wide-open gullet, he boomed
in his bronze-bell voice: "Atreyu, my friend and master! So you've
finally come back! I'm so glad! We had almost given up hope --
the gnomes, that is, not I."
"I'm glad too!" said Atreyu. "But what has happened in this
one night?"
"One night?" cried Falkor. "Do you think it's been only one
night? You're in for a surprise. Climb on, I'll carry you."
Atreyu swung himself up on the enormous animal's back. It
was his first time aboard a luckdragon. And though he had ridden
wild horses and was anything but timid, this first short ride
through the air took his breath away. He clung fast to Falkor's
flowing mane, and Falkor called back with a resounding laugh:
"You'll just have to get used to it."
"At least," Atreyu called back, gasping for air, "you seem to be
well again."
"Pretty near," said the dragon. "Not quite."
Then they landed outside the gnomes' cave, and there in the
entrance were Engywook and Urgl waiting for them.
Engywook's tongue went right to work: "What have you seen
and done? Tell us all about it! Those gates, for instance? Do they
bear out my theories? And who or what is Uyulala?"
But Urgl cut him off. "That'll do! Let the boy eat and drink.
What do you think I've cooked and baked for? Plenty of time
later for your idle curiosity."
Atreyu climbed down off the dragon's back and exchanged
greetings with the gnomes. Again the little table was set with all
sorts of delicacies and a steaming pot of herb tea.
The clock in the belfry struck five. Bastian thought sadly of the
two chocolate nut bars that he kept in his bedside table at home in
case he should be hungry at night. If he had suspected that he would
never go back there, he could have brought them along as an iron
ration. But it was too late to think of that now.
Falkor stretched out in the little gully in such a way that his
huge head was near Atreyu and he could hear everything.
"Just imagine," he said. "My friend and master thinks he was
gone for only one night."
"Was it longer?" Atreyu asked.
"Seven days and seven nights," said Falkor. "Look, my
wounds are almost healed."
Then for the first time Atreyu noticed that his own wound
too was healed. The herb dressing had fallen off. He was amazed.
"How can it be? I passed through three magic gates. I talked with
Uyulala, then I fell asleep. But I can't possibly have slept that
long."
"Space and time," said Engywook, "must be different in
there. Anyway, no one had ever stayed in the Oracle as long as
you. What happened? Are you finally going to speak?"
"First," said Atreyu, "I'd like to know what has happened
here."
"You can see for yourself," said Engywook. "The colors are all
fading. Everything is getting more and more unreal. The Great
Riddle Gate isn't there anymore. It looks as if the Nothing were
taking over."
"What about the sphinxes? Where have they gone? Did they
fly away? Did you see them go?"
"We saw nothing," Engywook lamented. "We hoped you
could tell us something. Suddenly the stone gate was in ruins, but
none of us saw or heard a thing. I even went over and examined
the wreckage. And do you know what I found? The fragments are
as old as the hills and overgrown with gray moss, as if they had
been lying there for hundreds of years, as if the Great Riddle Gate
had never existed."
"It was there, though," said Atreyu under his breath, "because
I went through it. And then I went through the Magic Mirror
Gate and the No-Key Gate."
And then Atreyu reported everything that had happened to
him. Now he remembered every last detail.
As Atreyu told them his story, Engywook, who at first had
impatiently demanded further information, became more and
more subdued. And when Atreyu repeated almost word for word
what Uyulala had told him, the gnome said nothing at all. His
shriveled little face had taken on a look of deepest gloom.
"Well," said Atreyu in conclusion. "Now you know the
secret. Uyulala is just a voice. She can only be heard. She is where
she sings."
For a time Engywook was silent. When he spoke, his voice
was husky: "You mean she was."
"Yes," said Atreyu. "She herself said no one else would ever
hear her speak. I was the last."
Two little tears flowed down Engywook's wrinkled cheeks.
"All for nothing!" he croaked. "My whole life work, all my
research, my year-long observations. At last someone brings me
the last stone for my scientific edifice, finally I'm in a position to
complete my work, to write the last chapter -- and it's absolutely
futile and superfluous. It's no longer of the slightest interest to
anyone, because the object under investigation has ceased to exist.
There go my hopes. All shattered."
He seemed to break into a fit of coughing, but actually he was
shaken with sobs.
Moved to sympathy, Urgl stroked his bald little head and
mumbled: "Poor old Engywook! Poor old Engywook! Don't let it
get you down. You'll find something else to occupy you."
"Woman!" Engywook fumed at her. "What you see before
you is not a poor old Engywook, but a tragic figure."
Once again he ran into the cave, and again a door was heard
slamming within. Urgl shook her head and sighed. "He means no
harm," she muttered. "He's a good old sort. If only he weren't
plumb crazy!"
When they had. finished eating, Urgl stood up and said: "I've
got to pack now. We can't take much with us, but we will need a
few things. I'd better hurry."
"You're going away?" Atreyu asked.
Urgl nodded. "We have no choice," she said sadly. "Where
the Nothing takes hold, nothing grows. And now, my poor old
man has no reason to stay. We'll just have to see how we make
out. We'll find a place somewhere. But what about you? What
are your plans?"
"I have to do as Uyulala told me," said Atreyu. "Try and find
a human and take him to the Childlike Empress to give her a new
name."
"Where will you look for this human?" Urgl asked.
"I don't know," said Atreyu. "Somewhere beyond the borders
of Fantastica."
"We'll get there!" came Falkor's bell-like voice. I'll carry you.
You'll see, we'll be lucky."
"In that case," Urgl grunted, "you'd better get started."
"Maybe we could give you a lift," Atreyu suggested. "For part
of the way."
"That's all I need," said Urgl. "You won't catch me
gallivanting around in the air. A self-respecting gnome keeps his
feet on the ground. Besides, you mustn't let us delay you. You
have more important things to do -- for us all."
"But I want to show my gratitude," said Atreyu.
"The best way of doing that is to get started and stop
frittering the time away with useless jibber-jabber."
"She's got something there," said Falkor. "Let's go, Atreyu."
Atreyu swung himself up on the luckdragon's back. One last
time he turned back and shouted: "Goodbye!"
But Urgl was already inside the cave, packing.
When some hours later she and Engywook stepped out into
the open, each was carrying an overloaded back-basket, and again
they were busily quarreling. Off they waddled on their tiny,
crooked legs, and never once looked back.
Later on, Engywook became very famous, in fact, he became
the most famous gnome in the world, but not because of his
scientific investigations. That, however, is another story and shall
be told another time.
At the moment when the two gnomes were starting out,
Atreyu was far away, whizzing through the skies of Fantastica on
the back of Falkor, the white luckdragon.
Involuntarily Bastian looked up at the skylight, trying to imagine
how it would be if Falkor came cutting through the darkening sky
like a dancing white flame, if he and Atreyu were coming to get him.
"Oh my," he sighed. "Wouldn't that be something!"
He could help them, and they could help him. He would be
saved and so would Fantastica.
VIII
The Wind Giants

igh in the air rode Atreyu, his red cloak flowing behind him. His
blue-black hair fluttered in the wind. With steady, wavelike
movements, Falkor, the white luckdragon, glided through the
mists and tatters of clouds. . .
Up and down and up and down and up and down. . .
How long had they been flying? For days and nights and
more days -- Atreyu had lost track. The dragon had the gift of
flying in his sleep. Farther and farther they flew. Sometimes
Atreyu dozed off, clinging fast to the dragon's white mane. But it
was only a light, restless sleep. And more and more his waking
became a dream, all hazy and blurred.
Shadowy mountains passed below him, lands and seas, islands
and rivers. . . Atreyu had lost interest in them, and gave up trying
to hurry Falkor as he had done on first leaving the Southern
Oracle. For then he had been impatient, thinking it a simple
matter, for one with a dragon to ride, to reach the border of
Fantastica and cross it to the Outer World.
He hadn't known how very large Fantastica was.
Now he had to fight the leaden weariness that was trying to
overpower him. His eyes, once as keen as a young eagle's, had lost
their distant vision. From time to time he would pull himself
upright and try to look around, but then he would sink back and
stare straight ahead at the dragon's long, supple body with its
pearly pink-and-white scales. Falkor was tired too. His strength,
which had seemed inexhaustible, was running out.
More than once in the course of their long flight they had
seen below them spots which the Nothing had invaded and
which gave them the feeling that they were going blind. Seen
from that height, many of these spots seemed relatively small, but
others were as big as whole countries. Fear gripped the
luckdragon and his rider, and at first they changed direction to
avoid looking at the horror. But, strange as it may seem, horror
loses it's power to frighten when repeated too often. And since
the patches of Nothing became more and more frequent, the
travelers were gradually getting used to them.
They had been flying in silence for quite some time when
suddenly Falkor's bronze-bell tone rang out: "Atreyu, my little
master. Are you asleep?"
"No," said Atreyu, though actually he had been caught up in
a terrifying dream. "What is it, Falkor?"
"I've been wondering if it wouldn't be wiser to turn back."
"Turn back? Where to?"
"To the Ivory Tower. To the Childlike Empress."
"You want us to go to her empty-handed?"
"I wouldn't call it that, Atreyu. What was your mission?"
"To discover the cause of her illness and find out what would
cure it."
"But," said Falkor, "nothing was said about your bringing her
the cure."
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe it's a mistake, trying to cross the border of Fantastica
in search of a human."
"I don't see what you're driving at, Falkor. Explain yourself."
"The Childlike Empress is deathly sick," said the dragon,
"because she needs a new name. Morla the Aged One told you
that. But only a human, only a child of man from the Outer
World can give her this name. Uyulala told you that. So you've
actually completed your mission. It seems to me you should let
the Childlike Empress know it as soon as possible."
"But it won't do her a bit of good," Atreyu protested, "unless
I bring her the human who can save her."
"Don't be so sure," said Falkor. "She has much greater power
than you or I. Maybe she would have no difficulty in bringing a
human to Fantastica. Maybe she has ways that are unknown to
you and me and everyone else in Fantastica. But to do so she
needs to know what you have found out. If that's the way it is,
there's no point in our trying to find a human on our own. She
might even die while we're looking. But maybe if we turn back in
time, we can save her."
Atreyu made no answer. The dragon could be right, he
reflected. But then he could be wrong. If he went back now with
his message, the Childlike Empress might very well say: What
good does that do me? And now it's too late to send you out
again.
He didn't know what to do. And he was tired, much too tired
to decide anything.
"You know, Falkor," he said, hardly above a whisper, "you
may be right. Or you may be wrong. Let's fly on a little further.
Then if we haven't come to a border, we'll turn back."
"What do you mean by a little further?" the dragon asked.
"A few hours," Atreyu murmured. "Oh well, just one hour."
"All right," said Falkor, "just one hour."
But that one hour was one hour too many.
They hadn't noticed that the sky in the north was black with
clouds. In the west the sky was aflame, and ugly-looking clouds
hung down over the horizon like seaweed. In the east a storm was
rising like a blanket of gray lead, and all around it there were
tatters of cloud that looked like blue ink blots. And from the
south came a sulfur-yellow mist, streaked with lightning.
"We seem to be getting into bad weather," said Falkor.
Atreyu looked in all directions.
"Yes," he said. "It looks bad. But what can we do but fly on?"
"It would be more sensible," said Falkor, "to look for shelter.
If this is what I think, it's no joke."
"What do you think?" Atreyu asked.
"I think it's the four Wind Giants, starting one of their
battles. They're almost always fighting to see which is the
strongest and should rule over the others. To them it's a sort of
game, because they have nothing to fear. But God help anyone
who gets caught in their little tiffs."
"Can't you fly higher?" Atreyu asked.
"Beyond their reach, you mean? No, I can't fly that high. And
as far as I can see, there's nothing but water below us. Some
enormous ocean. I don't see any place to hide in."
"Then," said Atreyu, "we'll just have to wait till they get here.
Anyway, there's something I want to ask them."
"What?!" cried the dragon, so terrified that he jumped, in a
manner of speaking, sky-high.
"If they are the four Wind Giants," Atreyu explained, "they
must know all four corners of Fantastica. If anyone can tell us
where the borders are, it's them."
"Good Lord!" cried the dragon. "You think you can just stop
and chat with Wind Giants?"
"What are their names?" Atreyu asked.
"The one from the north," said Falkor, "is called Lirr, the one
from the east is Baureo, the one from the south is Sheerek, and
the one from the west is Mayestril. But tell me, Atreyu. What are
you? Are you a little boy or a bar of iron? How come you're not
afraid?"
"When I passed through the sphinxes' gate," Atreyu replied,
"I lost all my fear. And besides, I'm wearing the emblem of the
Childlike Empress. Everyone in Fantastica respects it. Why
shouldn't the Wind Giants?"
"Oh, they will," cried Falkor, "they will. But they're stupid,
and nothing can make them stop fighting one another. You'll
see."
Meanwhile the storm clouds from all four directions had converged.
It seemed to Atreyu that he was at the center of a huge
funnel, which was revolving faster and faster, mixing the
sulfur-yellow, the leaden gray, the blood-red, and the deep black
all together. He and his white dragon were spun about in a circle
like a matchstick in a great whirlpool. And then he saw the Wind
Giants.
Actually all he saw was faces, because their limbs kept
changing in every possible way -- from long to short, from
clear-cut to misty -- and they were so knotted together in a
monstrous free-for-all that it was impossible to make out their
real shapes, or even how many of them there were. The faces too
were constantly changing; now they were round and puffed, now
stretched from top to bottom or from side to side. But at all times
they could be told apart. They opened their mouths and bellowed
and roared and howled and laughed at one another. They didn't
even seem to notice the dragon and his rider, who were gnats in
comparison to the Wind Giants.
Atreyu raised himself as high as he could. With his right hand
he reached for the golden amulet on his chest and shouted at the
top of his lungs: "In the name of the Childlike Empress, be still
and listen."
And the unbelievable happened!
As though suddenly stricken dumb, they fell silent. Their
mouths closed, and eight gigantic goggle-eyes were directed at
AURYN. The tempest stopped and the air was deathly still.
"Answer me!" cried Atreyu. "Where are the borders of
Fantastica? Do you know, Lirr?"
"Not in the north," said the black cloud face.
"And you, Baureo?"
"Not in the east," said the leaden-gray cloud face.
"You tell me, Sheerek!"
"There is no border in the south," said the sulfur-yellow
cloud face.
"Mayestril, do you know?"
"No border in the west," said the fiery-red cloud face.
And then they all spoke as with one mouth: "Who are you,
who bear the emblem of the Childlike Empress and don't know
that Fantastica has no borders?"
Atreyu made no reply. He was stunned. It had never occurred
to him that Fantastica might have no borders whatsoever. Then
his whole Quest had been for nothing.
He hardly noticed it when the Wind Giants resumed their
war game. He had given up caring what would happen to him.
He clung fast to the dragon's mane when they were hurled
upward by a whirlwind. The lightning played around them, they
were spun in a circle and almost drowned in a downpour of rain.
They were sucked into a fiery wind that nearly burned them up,
but a moment later a hailstorm, consisting not of stones but of
icicles as long as spears, flung them downward. So it went: up
and down, down and up, this way and that. The Wind Giants
were fighting for power.
A gust of wind turned Falkor over on his back. "Hold tight!"
he shouted.
But it was too late. Atreyu had lost his hold and fell. He fell
and fell, and then he lost consciousness.
When he came to, Atreyu was lying on white sand. He heard
the sound of waves, and when he looked around he saw that he
had been washed up on a beach. It was a gray, foggy day, but
there was no wind. The sea was calm and there was no sign that
the Wind Giants had been fighting a battle only a short time
before. The beach was flat and there were no hills or rocks in
sight, only a few gnarled and crooked trees which, seen through
the mist, looked like great clawed hands.
Atreyu sat up. Seeing his red buffalo-hair cloak a few steps
away he crawled over to it and threw it over his shoulders. To his
surprise, it was almost dry. So he must have been lying there for
quite a while.
How had he got there? Why hadn't he drowned?
Dimly he remembered arms that had carried him, and strange
singing voices. Poor child, beautiful child! Hold him! Don't let
him go under!
Perhaps it had only been the sound of the waves.
Or could it have been sea nymphs and water sprites? Probably
they had seen the Glory and that was why they had saved him.
Involuntarily, he reached for the amulet -- it was gone. There
was no chain around his neck. He had lost the Gem.
"Falkor!" he shouted as loud as he could. He jumped up and
ran back and forth, shouting in all directions: "Falkor! Falkor!
Where are you?"
No answer came -- only the slow, steady sound of the waves
breaking against the beach.
Heaven only knew where the Wind Giants had driven the
white dragon. Maybe Falkor was looking for his little master in
an entirely different place, miles and miles away. Maybe he
wasn't even alive.
No longer was Atreyu a dragon rider, and no longer was he
the Childlike Empress's messenger. He was only a little boy. And
all alone.
The clock in the belfry struck six.
By then it was dark outside. The rain had stopped. Not a sound
to be heard. Bastian stared into the candle flames.
Then he gave a start. The floor had creaked.
He thought he heard someone breathing. He held his breath and
listened. Except for the small circle of light shed by the candles, it was
dark in the big attic.
Didn't he hear soft steps on the stairs? Hadn't the handle of the
attic door moved ever so slowly?
Again the floor creaked.
What if there were ghosts in this attic!
"Nonsense!" said Bastian none too loudly. "There's no such thing!
Everyone knows that."
Then why were there so many stories about them?
Maybe all the people who say ghosts don't exist are just afraid to
admit that they do.
Atreyu wrapped himself up tight in his red cloak, for he was
cold, and started inland. The country, as far as he could see
through the fog, was flat and monotonous. The only change he
noticed as he strode along was the appearance among the stunted
trees of bushes which looked as if they were made of rusty sheet
metal and were almost as hard. You could easily hurt yourself
brushing against them if you weren't careful.
About an hour later, Atreyu came to a road paved with
bumpy, irregularly shaped stones. Thinking it was bound to lead
somewhere, he decided to follow it but preferred to walk on the
soft ground beside the bumpy paving stones. The road kept
twisting and turning, though it was hard to see why, for there was
no sign of any hill, pond, or stream. In that part of the country
everything seemed to be crooked.
Atreyu hadn't been skirting the road for very long when he
heard a strange thumping sound. It was far away but coming
closer. It sounded like the muffled beat of a big drum. In between
beats he heard a tinkling of bells and a shrill piping that could
have been made by fifes. He hid behind a bush by the side of the
road and waited to see what would happen.
Slowly the strange music came closer, and then the first
shapes emerged from the fog. They seemed to be dancing, but it
was a dance without charm or gaiety. The dancers jumped
grotesquely, rolled on the ground, crawled on all fours, leapt into
the air, and carried on like crazy people. But all Atreyu could hear
was the slow, muffled drumbeats, the shrill fifes, and a
whimpering and panting from many throats.
More and more figures appeared, the procession seemed
endless. Atreyu looked at the dancers' faces; they were ashen gray
and bathed in sweat, and the eyes had a wild feverish glow. Some
of the dancers lashed themselves with whips.
They're mad, Atreyu thought, and a cold shiver ran down his
spine.
The procession consisted mostly of night-hobs, kobolds, and
ghosts. There were vampires as well, and quite a few witches, old
ones with great humps and beards, but also young ones who
looked beautiful and wicked. If he had had AURYN, he would
have approached them and asked what was going on. As it was,
he preferred to stay in his hiding place until the mad procession
had passed and the last straggler vanished hopping and limping in
the fog.
Only then did he venture out on the road and look after the
ghostly procession. Should he follow them? He couldn't make up
his mind. By that time, to tell the truth, he didn't know if there
was anything that he should or should not do.
For the first time he was fully aware of how much he needed
the Childlike Empress's amulet and how helpless he was without
it. And not only or even mainly because of the protection it had
given him -- it was thanks to his own strength, after all, that he
had stood up to all the hardships and terrors and the loneliness of
his Quest -- but as long as he had carried the emblem, he had
never been at a loss for what to do. Like a mysterious compass, it
had guided his thoughts in the right direction. And now that was
changed, now he had no secret power to lead him.
He had no idea what to do, but he couldn't bear to stand
there as though paralyzed. So he made himself follow the muffled
drumming, which could still be heard in the distance.
While making his way through the fog -- always careful to
keep a suitable distance between himself and the last stragglers --
he tried to put his thoughts in order.
Why, oh, why hadn't he listened when Falkor advised him to
fly straight to the Childlike Empress? He would have brought her
Uyulala's message and returned the Gem. Without AURYN and
without Falkor, he would never be able to reach her. She would
wait for him till her last moment, hoping he would come,
trusting him to save her and Fantastica -- but in vain.
That in itself was bad enough, but still worse was what he had
learned from the Wind Giants, that Fantastica had no borders. If
there was no way of leaving Fantastica, then it would be
impossible to call in a human form across the border. Because
Fantastica was endless, its end was inevitable.
But while he was stumbling over the bumpy paving stones in
the fog, Uyulala's gentle voice resounded in his memory, and a
spark of hope was kindled in his heart.
Lots of humans had come to Fantastica in the past and given
the Childlike Empress glorious new names. That's what she had
sung. So there was a way from the one world to the other!
"For them it is near, but for us too far,
Never can we go out to them."
Yes, those were Uyulala's words. Humans, the children of
man, had forgotten the way. But mightn't just one of them, a
single one, remember?
His own hopeless situation mattered little to Atreyu. What
mattered was that a human should hear Fantastica's cry of distress
and come to the rescue, as had happened many times before. Perhaps,
perhaps one had already started out and was on his way.
"Yes! Yes!" Bastian shouted. Then, terrified of his own voice, he
added more softly: "I'd go and help you if I knew how. I don't know
the way, Atreyu. I honestly don't."
The muffled drumbeats and the shrill piping had stopped.
Without noticing it, Atreyu had come so close to the procession
that he almost ran into the last stragglers. Since he was barefoot,
his steps were soundless -- but that wasn't why those creatures
took no notice of him. He could have been stomping with
hobnailed boots and shouting at the top of his lungs without
attracting their attention.
By that time the procession had broken up and the spooks
were scattered over a large muddy field interspersed with gray
grass. Some swayed from side to side, others stood or sat
motionless, but in all their eyes there was a feverish glow, and
they were all looking in the same direction.
Then Atreyu saw what they were staring at in fascinated
horror. On the far side of the field lay the Nothing.
It was the selfsame Nothing that he had seen from the bark
trolls' treetop, or on the plain where the Magic Gates of the
South; Oracle had stood, or looking down from Falkor's back --
but until then he had always seen it from a distance. This time it
was close by. It cut across the entire landscape and was coming
slowly but irresistibly closer.
Atreyu saw that the spooks in the field ahead of him were
twitching and quivering. Their limbs were convulsed and their
mouths were wide open, as though they had wanted to scream or
laugh, though not a sound came out of them. And then all at
once -- like leaves driven by a gust of wind -- they rushed toward
the Nothing. They leapt, they rolled, they flung themselves into
it.
The last of the ghostly crowd had just vanished when Atreyu
felt to his horror that his own body was beginning to take short,
convulsive steps in the direction of the Nothing. He felt drawn to
it by an unreasoning desire, and braced his will against it. He
commanded himself to stand still. Slowly, very slowly, he
managed to turn around and step by step, as though bucking a
powerful current, to struggle forward. The force of attraction
weakened and he ran, ran with all his might over the bumpy
paving stones. He slipped, fell, picked himself up, and ran on. He
had no time to wonder where this foggy road would lead him.
He followed the senseless twists and turns of the road until
high pitch-black ramparts appeared in the fog ahead of him.
Behind them several crooked towers jutted into the gray sky. The
heavy wooden wings of the town gate were rotting away and
hung loose on rusty hinges.
Atreyu went in.
It was growing colder and colder in the attic. Bastion's teeth were
chattering.
What if he should get sick -- what would become of him then?
He might come down with pneumonia, like Willy, a boy in his class.
Then he would die all alone in this attic. There'd be no one to help
him.
He'd have been very glad just then to have his father come and
save him.
But go home? No, he couldn't. He'd rather die.
He took the rest of the army blankets and wrapped them around
him.
After a while he felt warmer.
IX
Spook City

n the endless sky, somewhere above the roaring waves, Falkor's
voice rang out like a great bronze bell:
"Atreyu! Where are you, Atreyu?" The Wind Giants had long
finished their war game and had stormed apart. They would meet
again in this or some other place, to continue their battle as they
had done since time immemorial. They had already forgotten the
white dragon and his little rider, for they remembered nothing
and knew nothing except their own enormous power.
When Atreyu fell, Falkor tried to reach him and catch him.
But a sudden whirlwind had driven the dragon upward and far
away. When he returned, the Wind Giants were raging over
another part of the sea. Falkor tried desperately to find the place
where Atreyu had fallen, but even a white luckdragon can't
possibly find anything as tiny as a little boy in the seething foam
of an angry ocean.
But Falkor wouldn't give up. He flew high into the air to get
a better view, then he skimmed the waves or flew in larger and
larger circles, all the while calling Atreyu by name.
Being a luckdragon, he never doubted for a moment that
everything would come out all right in the end. And his mighty
voice resounded amid the roaring of the waves: "Atreyu! Atreyu,
where are you?"
Atreyu wandered through the deathly stillness of a deserted
city. The place seemed to be under a curse, a city of haunted
castles and houses, inhabited only by ghosts. Like everything else
in this country, the streets were crooked. Enormous spider webs
were suspended over them, and a foul smell rose from the cellars
and well shafts.
At first Atreyu darted from wall to wall for fear that someone
would see him, but after a while he didn't even bother to hide.
The streets and squares were deserted, and nothing stirred in the
houses. He went into some of them, but found only overturned
furniture, tattered curtains, broken china and glassware -- signs of
devastation but no inhabitants. On one table there was still a
half-eaten meal, dishes with black soup in them, and some sticky
chunks of something that may have been bread. He ate some of
both. The taste was disgusting, but he was very hungry. It struck
him as almost fitting that he should end up in this town. Just the
place, he thought, for someone who had given up hope.
Bastian was weak with hunger.
For some strange reason his thoughts turned to Anna's apple
strudel -- the best apple strudel in the whole world.
Anna came three times a week. She would do a bit of typing for
Bastian's father and put the house in order. And usually she would
cook or bake something. She was a strapping, bouncy woman with
an unrestrained, cheery laugh. Bastian's father was polite to her but
seemed hardly aware of her presence. She was seldom able to bring a
smile to his worried face. But when she was there, the place was a
little more cheerful.
Though unmarried, Anna had a little daughter. Her name was
Christa, she was three years younger than Bastian, and she had
beautiful blond hair. At first Anna had brought Christa with her
almost every time. Christa was very shy. Bastian spent hours telling
her his stories, and she would sit there still as a mouse, watching him
wide-eyed. She looked up to Bastian, and he was very fond of her.
But a year ago Anna had sent her daughter to a boarding school
in the country. Since then she and Bastian had seldom seen each
other.
Bastian had been rather cross with Anna. She had tried to
explain why it was better for Christa, but he wasn't convinced.
Even so, he could never resist her apple strudel.
He wondered in his distress how long a person could go without
eating. Three days? Two? Maybe you'd get hallucinations after
twenty-four hours. On his fingers Bastian counted the hours he had
been there. At least ten. Maybe more. If only he had saved his
sandwich, or at least his apple.
In the flickering candlelight the glass eyes of the fox, the owl, and
the huge eagle looked almost alive. Their moving shadows loomed
large on the attic wall.
Atreyu went out into the street again and wandered aimlessly
about. He passed through neighborhoods where all the houses
were small and so low that he could reach up to the eaves, and
others lined with mansions many stories high, the fronts of which
were adorned with statues. But all these statues were of skeletons
or demons, which grimaced down at the forlorn wanderer.
Then suddenly he stopped stock-still.
From not far away he heard a raucous wailing that sounded
so plaintive, so hopeless that it cut him to the heart. All the
despair, all the desolation of the creatures of darkness was in that
lament, which echoed back from the walls of distant buildings,
until in the end it sounded like the howling of a scattered wolf
pack.
Atreyu followed the sound, which gradually grew weaker and
ended in a hoarse sob. He had to search for some time. He passed
a gateway, entered a narrow, lightless court, passed through an
arch, and finally came to a damp, grimy backyard. And there,
chained, lay a gigantic, half-starved werewolf. Each rib stood out
separately under its mangy fur, the vertebrae looked like the teeth
of a saw, and its tongue dangled from its half-open mouth.
Slowly Atreyu approached him. When the werewolf noticed
him, it raised its great head with a jerk. A greenish light flared up
in its eyes.
For a time the two looked at each other without a word,
without a sound. Finally the wolf let out a soft,
dangerous-sounding growl: "Go away. Let me die in peace."
Atreyu didn't stir. Just as softly he answered: "I heard your
call. That's why I came."
The werewolf's head sank back. "I didn't call anyone," he
growled. "I was singing my own dirge."
"Who are you?" Atreyu asked, taking a step closer.
"I am Gmork, the werewolf."
"Why are you lying here chained?"
"They forgot me when they went away."
"Who are they?"
"The ones who chained me."
"Where did they go?"
Gmork made no answer. He watched Atreyu from under
half-closed lids. After a long silence, he said: "You don't belong
here, little stranger. Neither in this city, nor in this country.
What have you come here for?"
Atreyu bowed his head.
"I don't know how I got here. What is the name of this city?"
"It is the capital of the most famous country in all
Fantastica," said Gmork. "More stories are told about this
country and this city than about any other. Surely you've heard
of Spook City and the Land of Ghosts?"
Atreyu noded slowly.
Gmork hadn't taken his eyes off the boy. He was amazed that
this green-skinned boy should look at him so quietly out of his
black eyes and show no sign of fear.
"And who are you?" he asked.
Atreyu thought a while before answering.
"I'm Nobody."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that I once had a name. It can't be named anymore.
That makes me Nobody."
The werewolf bared his hideous fangs for a moment in what
was no doubt intended as a smile. He was familiar with mental
anguish of every kind and sensed a certain kinship in the boy.
"If that's the case," he said, "then Nobody has heard me and
Nobody has come to me, and Nobody is speaking to me in my
last hour."
Atreyu nodded again. Then he asked: "Can Nobody free you
from your chain?"
The greenish light in the werewolf's eyes flickered. He began
to growl and to lick his chops.
"You'd really do that?" he blurted out. "You'd really set a
hungry werewolf free? Do you know what that means? Nobody
would be safe from me."
"I know," said Atreyu. "But I'm Nobody. Why should I be
afraid of you?"
He wanted to approach Gmork. But again the wolf uttered
his deep, terrifying growl. The boy shrank back.
"Don't you want me to set you free?" he asked.
All at once the werewolf seemed very tired.
"You can't do that. But if you come within my reach, I'll have
to tear you to pieces, my boy. That would delay my end a little,
an hour or two. So keep away from me and let me die in peace."
Atreyu thought it over.
"Maybe," he said finally. "Maybe I can find you something to
eat. I'll look around."
Slowly Gmork opened his eyes. The greenish fire had gone
out of them.
"Go to hell, you little fool! Do you want to keep me alive
until the Nothing gets here?"
"I thought," Atreyu stammered, "that maybe if I brought you
food and you were full, I could get close enough to take off your
chain. . ."
Gmork gnashed his teeth.
"Do you think I wouldn't have bitten through it myself if this
were an ordinary chain?"
As though to prove his point, he clamped his jaws on the
chain. The chain jangled as he tugged and pulled at it. After a
while he let it go.
"It's a magic chain. Only the person who put it on can take it
off. But she will never come back."
"Who is that?"
Gmork whimpered like a whipped dog. It was some time
before he was calm enough to answer.
"It was Gaya, the Dark Princess."
"Where has she gone?"
"She has leapt into the Nothing -- like everyone else around
here."
Atreyu remembered the mad dancers he had seen outside the
city in the foggy countryside.
"Why didn't they run away?" he murmured.
"Because they had given up hope. That makes you beings
weak. The Nothing pulls at you, and none of you has the
strength to resist it for long."
Gmork gave a deep, malignant laugh.
"What about yourself?" Atreyu asked. "You speak as if you
weren't one of us?"
Gmork watched him out of the corner of his eye.
"I am not one of you."
"Then where are you from?"
"Don't you know what a werewolf is?
Atreyu shook his head.
"You know only Fantastica," said Gmork. "There are other
worlds. The world of humans, for instance. But there are
creatures who have no world of their own, but are able to go in
and out of many worlds. I am one of those. In the human world,
I appear in human form, but I'm not human. And in Fantastica,
I take on a Fantastican form -- but I'm not one of you."
Atreyu sat down on the ground and gazed at the dying
werewolf out of great dark eyes.
"You've been in the world of humans?"
"I've often gone back and forth between their world and
yours."
"Gmork," Atreyu stammered, and he couldn't keep his lips
from trembling, "can you tell me the way to the world of
humans?"
A green spark shone in Gmork's eyes. He seemed to be
laughing deep inside.
"For you and your kind it's easy to get there. There's only one
hitch: You can never come back. You'll have to stay forever. Do
you want to?"
"What must I do?" Atreyu asked. His mind was made up.
"What everyone else around here has done before you. You
must leap into the Nothing. But there's no hurry. Because you'll
do it sooner or later in any case, when the last parts of Fantastica
go."
Atreyu stood up.
Gmork saw that the boy was trembling all over. Not knowing
why, he spoke reassuringly: "Don't be afraid. It doesn't hurt."
"I'm not afraid," said Atreyu. "But I never expected to get my
hope back in a place like this. And thanks to you!"
Gmork's eyes glowed like two thin green moons.
"You have nothing to hope for, sonny -- whatever your plans
may be. When you turn up in the world of humans, you won't be
what you are here. That's the secret that no one in Fantastica can
know."
Atreyu stood there with his arms dangling. "What will I be?
Tell me the secret."
For a long time Gmork neither spoke nor moved. Atreyu was
beginning to fear that the answer would never come, but at
length the werewolf breathed heavily and spoke:
"What do you think I am, sonny? Your friend? Take care. I'm
only passing the time with you. At the moment you can't even
leave here. I hold you fast with your hope. But as I speak, the
Nothing is creeping in from all sides and closing around Spook
City. Soon there will be no way out. Then you will be lost. If you
stay and listen, your decision is already made. But you can still
escape if you choose."
The cruel line around Gmork's mouth deepened. Atreyu
hesitated for just a moment. Then he whispered: "Tell me the
secret. What will I be in the world of humans?"
Again Gmork sank into a long silence. His breath came in
convulsive gasps. Then suddenly he raised himself on his
forepaws. Atreyu had to look up at him. And then for the first
time he saw how big and terrifying the werewolf was. When
Gmork spoke, his voice was like the jangling of chains.
"Have you seen the Nothing, sonny?"
"Yes, many times."
"What does it look like?"
"As if one were blind."
"That's right -- and when you get to the human world, the
Nothing will cling to you. You'll be like a contagious disease that
makes humans blind, so they can no longer distinguish between
reality and illusion. Do you know what you and your kind are
called there?"
"No," Atreyu whispered.
"Lies!" Gmork barked.
Atreyu shook his head. All the blood had gone out of his lips.
"How can that be?"
Gmork was enjoying Atreyu's consternation. This little talk
was cheering him up. After a while, he went on:
"You ask me what you will be there. But what are you here?
What are you creatures of Fantastica? Dreams, poetic inventions,
characters in a neverending story. Do you think you're real? Well
yes, here in your world you are. But when you've been through
the Nothing, you won't be real anymore. You'll be
unrecognizable. And you will be in another world. In that world,
you Fantasticans won't be anything like yourselves. You will
bring delusion and madness into the human world. Tell me,
sonny, what do you suppose will become of all the Spook City
folk who have jumped into the Nothing?"
"I don't know," Atreyu stammered.
"They will become delusions in the minds of human beings,
fears where there is nothing to fear, desires for vain, hurtful
things, despairing thoughts where there is no reason to despair."
"All of us?" asked Atreyu in horror.
"No," said Gmork, "there are many kinds of delusion.
According to what you are here, ugly or beautiful, stupid or
clever, you will become ugly or beautiful, stupid or clever lies."
"What about me?" Atreyu asked. "What will I be?"
Gmork grinned.
"I won't tell you that. You'll see. Or rather, you won't see,
because you won't be yourself anymore."
Atreyu stared at the werewolf with wide-open eyes. Gmork
went on:
"That's why humans hate Fantastica and everything that
comes from here. They want to destroy it. And they don't realize
that by trying to destroy it they multiply the lies that keep
flooding the human world. For these lies are nothing other than
creatures of Fantastica who have ceased to be themselves and
survive only as living corpses, poisoning the souls of men with
their fetid smell. But humans don't know it. Isn't that a good
joke?"
"And there's no one left in the human world," Atreyu asked
in a whisper, "who doesn't hate and fear us?"
"I know of none," said Gmork. "And it's not surprising,
because you yourselves, once you're there, can't help working to
make humans believe that Fantastica doesn't exist."
"Doesn't exist?" the bewildered Atreyu repeated.
"That's right, sonny," said Gmork. "In fact, that's the heart of
the matter. Don't you see? If humans believe Fantastica doesn't
exist, they won't get the idea of visiting your country. And as
long as they don't know you creatures of Fantastica as you really
are, the Manipulators do what they like with them."
"What can they do?"
"Whatever they please. When it comes to controlling human
beings there is no better instrument than lies. Because, you see,
humans live by beliefs. And beliefs can be manipulated. The
power to manipulate beliefs is the only thing that counts. That's
why I sided with the powerful and served them -- because I
wanted to share their power."
"I want no part in it!" Atreyu cried out.
"Take it easy, you little fool," the werewolf growled. "When
your turn comes to jump into the Nothing, you too will be a
nameless servant of power, with no will of your own. Who knows
what use they will make of you? Maybe you'll help them persuade
people to buy things they don't need, or hate things they know
nothing about, or hold beliefs that make them easy to handle, or
doubt the truths that might save them. Yes, you little Fantastican,
big things will be done in the human world with your help, wars
started, empires founded. . ."
For a time Gmork peered at the boy out of half-closed eyes.
Then he added: "The human world is full of weak-minded
people, who think they're as clever as can be and are convinced
that it's terribly important to persuade even the children that
Fantastica doesn'texist. Maybe they will be able to make good use
of you."
Atreyu stood there with bowed head.
Now he knew why humans had stopped coming to Fantastica
and why none would come to give the Childlike Empress new
names. The more of Fantastica that was destroyed, the more lies
flooded the human world, and the more unlikely it became that a
child of man should come to Fantastica. It was a vicious circle
from which there was no escape. Now Atreyu knew it.
And so did someone else: Bastian Balthazar Bux.
He now realized that not only was Fantastica sick, but the
human world as well. The two were connected. He had always felt
this, though he could not have explained why it was so. He had never
been willing to believe that life had to be as gray and dull as people
claimed. He heard them saying: "Life is like that," but he couldn't
agree. He never stopped believing in mysteries and miracles.
And now he knew that someone would have to go to Fantastica
to make both worlds well again.
If no human knew the way, it was precisely because of the lies
and delusions that came into the world because Fantastica was being
destroyed. It was these lies and delusions that made people blind.
With horror and shame Bastian thought of his own lies. He
didn't count the stories he made up. That was something entirely
different. But now and then he had told deliberate lies -- sometimes
out of fear, sometimes as a way of getting something he wanted,
sometimes just to puff himself up. What inhabitants of Fantastica
might he have maimed and destroyed with his lies?
One thing was plain: He too had contributed to the sad state of
Fantastica. And he was determined to do something to make it well
again. He owed it to Atreyu, who was prepared to make any sacrifice
to bring Bastian to Fantastica. He had to find the way.
The clock in the belfry struck eight.
The werewolf had been watching Atreyu closely.
"Now you know how you can get to the human world," he
said. "Do you still want to go, sonny?"
Atreyu shook his head.
"I don't want to turn into a lie," he said.
"You'll do that whether you like it or not," said Gmork
almost cheerfully.
"But what about you? Why are you here?"
"I had a mission," Gmork said reluctantly.
"You too?"
Atreyu looked at the werewolf with interest, almost with
sympathy.
"Were you successful?"
"No. If I had been, I wouldn't be lying here chained.
Everything went pretty well until I came to this city. The Dark
Princess, who ruled here, received me with every honor. She
invited me to her palace, fed me royally, and did everything to
make me think she was on my side. And naturally the inhabitants
of this Land of Ghosts rather appealed to me, they made me feel
at home, so to speak. The Dark Princess was very beautiful in her
way -- to my taste at least. She stroked me and ran her fingers
through my coat. No one had ever caressed me like that. In short,
I lost my head and let my tongue get out of hand. She pretended
to admire me; I lapped it up, and in the end I told her about my
mission. She must have cast a spell on me, because I am
ordinarily a light sleeper. When I woke up, I had this chain on
me. And the Dark Princess was standing there. 'Gmork,' she said.
'You forgot that I too am one of the creatures of Fantastica. And
that to fight against Fantastica is to fight against me. That makes
you my enemy, and I've outsmarted you. This chain can never be
undone by anyone but me. But I am going into the Nothing with
all my menservants and maidservants, and I shall never come
back.' Then she turned on her heel and left me. But all the
spooks didn't follow her example. It was only when the Nothing
came closer that more and more of them were unable to resist its
attraction. If I'm not mistaken, the last of them have just gone.
Yes, sonny, I fell into a trap, I listened too long to that woman.
But you have fallen into the same trap, you've listened too long
to me. For in these moments the Nothing has closed around the
city like a ring. You're caught and there's no escape."
"Then we'll die together," said Atreyu.
"So we will," said Gmork, "but in very different ways, you
little fool. For I shall die before the Nothing gets here, but you
will be swallowed up by it. There's a big difference. Because I die
first, my story is at an end. But yours will go on forever, in the
form of a lie."
"Why are you so wicked?" Atreyu asked.
"Because you creatures had a world," Gmork replied darkly,
"and I didn't."
"What was your mission?"
Up until then Gmork had been sitting up. Now he slumped
to the ground. He was plainly at the end of his strength, and he
spoke in raucous gasps.
"Those whom I serve decided that Fantastica must be
destroyed. But then they saw that their plan was endangered.
They had learned that the Childlike Empress had sent out a
messenger, a great hero -- and it looked as if he might succeed in
bringing a human to Fantastica. They wanted to have him killed
before it was too late. That was why they sent me, because I had
been in Fantastica and knew my way around. I picked up his trail
right away, I tracked him day and night -- gradually coming
closer -- through the Land of the Sassafranians -- the jungle
temple of Muwamath -- Howling Forest -- the Swamps of
Sadness -- the Dead Mountains -- but then in the Deep Chasm
by Ygramul's net, I lost the track, he seemed to have dissolved
into thin air. I went on searching, he had to be somewhere. But I
never found his trail again, and this is were I ended up. I've
failed. But so has he, for Fantastica is going under! I forgot to tell
you, his name was Atreyu."
Gmork raised his head. The boy had taken a step back.
"I am Atreyu," he said.
A tremor ran through the werewolf's shrunken body. It came
again and again and grew stronger and stronger. Then from his
throat came a panting cough. It grew louder and more rasping; it
swelled to a roar that echoed back from the city's walls. The
werewolf was laughing.
It was the most horrible sound Atreyu had ever heard. Never
again was he to hear anything like it.
And then suddenly it stopped.
Gmork was dead.
For a long time Atreyu stood motionless. At length he
approached the dead werewolf -- he himself didn't know why --
bent over the head and touched the shaggy black fur. And in that
moment, quicker than thought, Gmork's teeth snapped on
Atreyu's leg. Even in death, the evil in him had lost none of its
power.
Desperately Atreyu tried to break open the jaws. In vain. The
gigantic teeth, as though held in place by steel clamps, dug into
his flesh. Atreyu sank to the grimy pavement beside the
werewolf's corpse.
And step by step, soundless and irresistible, the Nothing
advanced from all sides, through the high black wall surrounding
the city.
X
The Flight to the Ivory Tower

ust as Atreyu passed through the somber gateway of Spook City
and started on the exploration that was to end so dismally in a
squalid backyard, Falkor, the luckdragon, was making an
astonishing discovery.
While searching tirelessly for his little friend and master, he
had flown high into the clouds. On every side lay the sea, which
was gradually growing calmer after the great storm that had
churned it from top to bottom. Suddenly, far in the distance,
Falkor caught sight of something that puzzled and intrigued him.
It was as though a beam of golden light were going on and off, on
and off, at regular intervals. And that beam of light seemed to
point directly at him, Falkor.
He flew toward it as fast as he could, and when he was
directly over it he saw that the light signal came from deep down
in the water, perhaps from the bottom of the sea.
Luckdragons, as we know, are creatures of air and fire. Not
only is the liquid element alien to them; it is also their enemy.
Water can extinguish them like a flame, or it can asphyxiate
them, for they never stop breathing in air through their
thousands of pearly scales. They feed on air and heat and require
no other nourishment, but without air and heat they can only
live a short time.
Falkor didn't know what to do. He didn't even know what
the strange blinking under the sea was, or whether it had
anything to do with Atreyu.
But he didn't hesitate for long. He flew high into the sky,
turned around, and head down, pressing his legs close to his
body, which he held stiff and straight as a telegraph pole, he
plummeted. The water spouted like a fountain as he hit the sea at
top speed. The shock was so great that he almost lost
consciousness, but he forced himself to open his ruby-red eyes.
By then the blinking beam was close, only a few body lengths
ahead of him. Air bubbles were forming around his body, as in a
saucepan full of water just before it boils. He felt that he was
cooling and weakening. With his last strength he dived still
deeper -- and then the source of light was within reach. It was
AURYN, the Gem. Luckily the chain of the amulet had got
caught on a coral branch growing out of the wall of an under-sea
chasm. Otherwise the Gem would have fallen into the bottomless
depths.
Falkor seized it and put the chain around his neck for fear of
losing it -- for he felt that he was about to faint.
When he came to, he didn't know where he was, for to his
amazement he was flying through the air, and when he looked
down, there was the sea again. He was flying in a very definite
direction and very fast, faster than would have seemed possible in
his weakened condition. He tried to slow down, but soon found
that his body would not obey him. An outside will far stronger
than his own had taken possession of his body and was guiding it.
That will came from AURYN, the amulet suspended from a
chain around his neck.
The day was drawing to a close when at last Falkor sighted a
beach in the distance. He couldn't see much of the country
beyond, it seemed to be hidden by fog. But when he came closer,
he saw that most of the land had been swallowed up by the
Nothing, which hurt his eyes and gave him the feeling of being
blind.
At that point Falkor would probably have turned back if he
had been able to do as he wanted. But the mysterious power of
the gem forced him to fly straight ahead. And soon he knew why,
for in the midst of the endless Nothing he discovered a small
island that was still holding out, an island covered with
high-gabled houses and crooked towers. Falkor had a strong
suspicion whom he would find there, and from then on it was
not only the powerful will of the amulet that spurred him on but
his own as well. It was almost dark in the somber backyard where
Atreyu lay beside the dead werewolf. The luckdragon was barely
able to distinguish the boy's light-colored body from the
monster's black coat. And the darker it grew, the more they
looked like one body.
Atreyu had long given up trying to break loose from the steel
vise of the werewolf's jaws. Dazed with fear and weakness, he was
back in the Grass Ocean. Before him stood the purple buffalo he
had not killed. He called to the other children, his companions of
the hunt, who by then had no doubt become real hunters. But no
one answered. Only the giant buffalo stood there motionless,
looking at him. Atreyu called Artax, his horse, but he didn't
come, and his cheery neigh was nowhere to be heard. He called
the Childlike Empress, but in vain. He wouldn't be able to tell
her anything. He hadn't become a hunter, and he was no longer a
messenger. He was Nobody.
Atreyu had given up.
But then he felt something else: the Nothing. It must be very
near, he thought. Again he felt its terrible force of attraction. It
made him dizzy. He sat up and, groaning, tugged at his leg. But
the fangs held fast.
And in that he was lucky. For if Gmork's jaws had not held
him, Falkor would have come too late.
As it was, Atreyu suddenly heard the luckdragon's bronze
voice in the sky above him: "Atreyu! Are you there, Atreyu?"
"Falkor!" Atreyu shouted. And then he cupped his hands
around his mouth and shouted: "Falkor! Falkor! I'm here. Help
me! I'm here!"
And then he saw Falkor's white body darting like a living
streak of lightning through the square of darkening sky, far away
at first, then closer. Atreyu kept shouting and Falkor answered in
his bell-like voice. Then at last the dragon in the sky caught sight
of the boy down below, no bigger than a bright speck in a dark
hole.
Falkor prepared for a landing, but the backyard was small,
there was hardly any light left, and the dragon brushed against
one of the high-gabled houses. The roof collapsed with a roar.
Falkor felt an agonizing pain; the sharp edge of the roof had cut
deep into his body. This wasn't one of his usual graceful landings.
He came tumbling down on the grimy wet pavement next to
Atreyu and the dead Gmork.
He shook himself, sneezed like a dog coming out of the
water, and said: "At last! So this is where you are! Oh well, I seem
to have got here on time!"
Atreyu said nothing. He threw his arms around Falkor's neck
and buried his face in the dragon's silvery-white mane.
"Come!" said Falkor. "Climb on my back. We have no time
to lose."
Atreyu only shook his head. And then Falkor saw that
Atreyu's leg was imprisoned in the werewolf's jaws.
"Don't worry," he said, rolling his ruby-red eyeballs. "We'll
fix that in a jiffy."
He set to with both paws, trying to pry Gmork's teeth apart.
They didn't budge by a hairbreadth.
Falkor heaved and panted. It was no use. Most likely he
would never have set his young friend free if luck hadn't come to
his help. But luckdragons, as we know, are lucky, and so are those
they are fond of.
When Falkor stopped to rest, he bent over Gmork's head to
get a better look at it in the dark, and it so happened that the
Childlike Empress's amulet, which was hanging from the chain
on the dragon's neck, touched the werewolf's forehead. Instantly
the jaws opened, releasing Atreyu's leg.
"Hey!" cried Falkor. "What do you think of that?"
There was no answer from Atreyu.
"What's wrong?" cried Falkor. "Atreyu, where are you?"
He groped in the darkness for his friend, but Atreyu wasn't
there. And while the dragon was trying to pierce the darkness
with his glowing red eyes, he himself felt the pull that had
snatched Atreyu away from him. The Nothing was coming too
close for comfort. But AURYN protected the luckdragon from
the pull.
Atreyu was free from the werewolf's jaws, but not from the
pull of the Nothing. He tried to fight it, to kick, to push, but his
limbs no longer obeyed him. A few feet more, and he would have
been lost forever.
In that moment, quick as lightning, Falkor grabbed him by
his long blue-black hair, and carried him up into the night-black
sky.
The clock in the belfry struck nine.
Neither Atreyu nor Falkor could say later how long they had
flown through the impenetrable darkness. Had it been only one
night? Perhaps time had stopped for them and they were
hovering motionless in the limitless blackness. It was the longest
night Atreyu had ever known; and the same was true for Falkor,
who was much older.
But even the longest and darkest of nights passes sooner or
later. And when the pale dawn came, they glimpsed the Ivory
Tower on the horizon.
Here it seems necessary to pause for a moment and explain a
special feature of Fantastican geography. Continents and oceans,
mountains and watercourses, have no fixed locations as in the real
world. Thus it would be quite impossible to draw a map of
Fantastica. In Fantastica you can never be sure in advance what
will be next to what. Even the directions -- north, south, east, and
west -- change from one part of the country to another. And the
same goes for summer and winter, day and night. You can step
out of a blazing hot desert straight into snowfields. In Fantastica
there are no measurable distances, so that "near" and "far" don't
at all mean what they do in the real world. They vary with the
traveler's wishes and state of mind. Since Fantastica has no
boundaries, its center can be anywhere -- or to put it another
way, it is equally near to, or far from, anywhere. It all depends on
who is trying to reach the center. And the innermost center of
Fantastica is the Ivory Tower.
To his surprise Atreyu found himself sitting on the
luckdragon's back. He couldn't remember how he had got there.
All he remembered was that Falkor had pulled him up by the
hair. Feeling cold, he gathered in his cloak, which was fluttering
behind him. And then he saw that it was gray. It had lost its
color, and so had his skin and hair. And Falkor, as Atreyu
discovered in the rising light, was no better off. The dragon
looked unreal, more like a swath of gray mist than anything else.
They had both come too close to the Nothing.
"Atreyu, my little master," the dragon said softly. "Does your
wound hurt very badly?" About his own wound he said nothing.
"No," said Atreyu. "I don't feel anything anymore."
"Have you a fever?"
"No, Falkor. I don't think so. Why do you ask?"
"I can feel you trembling," said the dragon. "What in the
world can make Atreyu tremble now?"
After a short silence Atreyu said: "We'll be there soon! And
then I'll have to tell the Childlike Empress that nothing can save
her. That's harder than anything else I've had to do."
"Yes," said Falkor even more softly. "That's true."
They flew in silence, drawing steadily nearer to the Ivory
Tower.
After a while the dragon spoke again.
"Have you seen her, Atreyu?"
"Who?"
"The Childlike Empress. Or rather, the Golden-eyed
Commander of Wishes. Because that's how you must address her
when you come into her presence."
"No, I've never seen her."
"I have. That was long ago. Your great-grandfather must have
been a little boy at the time. And I was a young cloud-snapper
with a head full of foolishness. One night I saw the moon,
shining so big and round, and I tried to grab it out of the sky.
When I finally gave up, I dropped with exhaustion and landed
near the Ivory Tower. That night the Magnolia Pavilion had
opened its petals wide, and the Childlike Empress was sitting
right in the middle of it. She cast a glance at me, just one short
glance, but -- I hardly know how to put it -- that glance made a
new dragon of me."
"What does she look like?"
"Like a little girl. But she's much older than the oldest
inhabitants of Fantastica. Or rather, she's ageless."
"Yes," said Atreyu. "But now she's deathly sick. How can I
tell her that there's no hope?"
"Don't try to mislead her. She can't be fooled. Tell her the
truth."
"But suppose it kills her?"
"I don't think it will work out that way," said Falkor.
"You wouldn't," said Atreyu, "because you're a luckdragon."
For a long while nothing was said.
When at last they spoke together for the third time, it was
Atreyu who broke the silence.
"Falkor," he said, "I'd like to ask you one more thing."
"Fire away."
"Who is she?
"What do you mean?"
"AURYN has power over all the inhabitants of Fantastica, the
creatures of both light and darkness. It also has power over you
and me. And yet the Childlike Empress never exerts power. It's as
if she weren't there. And yet she is in everything. Is she like us?"
"No," said Falkor, "she's not like us. She's not a creature of
Fantastica. We all exist because she exists. But she's of a different
kind."
"Then is she. . ." Atreyu hesitated. "Is she human?"
"No," said Falkor, "she's not human."
"Well then. . ." And Atreyu repeated his question. "Who is
she?"
After a long silence Falkor answered: "No one in Fantastica
knows, no one can know. That's the deepest secret of our world.
I once heard a wise man say that if anyone were to know the
whole answer, he would cease to exist. I don't know what he
meant. That's all I can tell you."
"And now," said Atreyu, "she'll die and we'll die with her,
and we'll never know her secret."
This time Falkor made no answer, but a smile played around
the corners of his leonine mouth, as though to say: Nothing of
the kind will happen.
After that they spoke no more.
A little later they flew over the outer edge of the "Labyrinth,"
the maze of flower beds, hedges, and winding paths that
surrounded the Ivory Tower on all sides. To their horror, they
saw that there too the Nothing had been at work. True, it had
touched only small spots in the Labyrinth, but those spots were
all about. The once bright-colored flower beds and shrubbery in
between were now gray and withered. The branches of once
graceful little trees were gnarled and bare. The green had gone
out of the meadows, and a faint smell of rot and mold rose up to
the newcomers. The only colors left were those of swollen giant
mushrooms and of garish, poisonous-looking blooms that
suggested nothing so much as the figments of a maddened brain.
Enfeebled and trembling, the innermost heart of Fantastica was
still resisting the inexorable encroachment of the Nothing.
But the Ivory Tower at the center still shimmered pure, immaculately
white.
Ordinarily flying messengers landed on one of the lower
terraces. But Falkor reasoned that since neither he nor Atreyu had
the strength to climb the long spiraling street leading to the top
of the Tower, and since time was of the essence, the regulations
and rules of etiquette could reasonably be ignored. He therefore
decided on an emergency landing. Swooping down over the ivory
buttresses, bridges, and balustrades, he located, just in time, the
uppermost end of the spiraling High Street, which lay just
outside the palace grounds. Plummeting to the roadway, he went
into a skid, made several complete turns, and finally came to a
stop tail-first.
Atreyu, who had been clinging with both arms to Falkor's
neck, sat up and looked around. He had expected some sort of
reception, or at least a detachment of palace guards to challenge
them -- but far and wide there was no one to be seen. All the life
seemed to have gone out of the gleaming white buildings
roundabout.
"They've all fled!" he thought. "They've left the Childlike
Empress alone. Or she's already. . ."
"Atreyu," Falkor whispered. "You must give the Gem back to
her."
Falkor removed the golden chain from his neck. It fell to the
ground.
Atreyu jumped down off Falkor's back -- and fell. He had
forgotten his wound. He reached for the Glory and put the chain
around his neck. Then, leaning on the dragon, he rose painfully
to his feet.
"Falkor," he said. "Where must I go?"
But the luckdragon made no answer. He lay as though dead.
The street ended in front of an enormous, intricately carved
gate which led through a high white wall. The gate was open.
Atreyu hobbled through it and came to a broad,
gleaming-white stairway that seemed to end in the sky. He began
to climb. Now and then he stopped to rest. Drops of his blood
left a trail behind him.
At length the stairway ended. Ahead of him lay a long gallery.
He staggered ahead, clinging to the balustrade for support. Next
he came to a courtyard that seemed to be full of waterfalls and
fountains, but by then he couldn't be sure of what he was seeing.
He struggled forward as in a dream. He came to a second, smaller
gate; then there was a long, narrow stairway, which took him to a
garden where everything -- trees, flowers, and animals -- was
carved from ivory. Crawling on all fours, he crossed several
arched bridges without railings which led to a third gate, the
smallest of all. He dragged himself through it on his belly and,
slowly raising his eyes, saw a dome-shaped hall of gleaming-white
ivory, and on top of it the Magnolia Pavilion. There was no path
or stairway leading up to it.
Atreyu buried his head in his hands.
No one who reaches or has reached that pavilion can say how
he got there. The last stretch of the way must come to him as a
gift.
Suddenly Atreyu was in the doorway. He went in -- and
found himself face to face with the Golden-eyed Commander of
Wishes.
She was sitting, propped on many cushions, on a soft round
couch at the center of the great round blossom. She was looking
straight at him. She seemed infinitely frail and delicate. Atreyu
could see how ill she was by the pallor of her face, which seemed
almost transparent. Her almond-shaped eyes, the color of dark
gold, were serene and untroubled. She smiled. Her small, slight
body was wrapped in an ample silken gown which gleamed so
white that the magnolia petals seemed dark beside it. She looked
like an indescribably beautiful little girl of no more than ten, but
her long, smoothly combed hair, which hung down over her
shoulders, was as white as snow.
Bastian gave a start.
Something incredible had happened.
Thus far he had been able to visualize every incident of the
Neverending Story. Some of them, it couldn't be denied, were very
strange, but they could somehow be explained. He had formed a clear
picture of Atreyu riding on the luckdragon, of the Labyrinth and the
Ivory Tower.
These pictures, however, existed only in his imagination. But
when he came to the Magnolia Pavilion, he saw the face of the
Childlike Empress -- if only for a fraction of a second, for the space of
a lightning flash. And not only in his thoughts, but with his eyes! It
wasn't his imagination, of that Bastian was sure. He had even seen
details that were not mentioned in the description, such as her
eyebrows, two fine lines that might have been drawn with India ink,
arching over her golden eyes, or her strangely elongated earlobes, or
the way her head tilted on her slender neck. Bastion knew that he
had never in all his life seen anything so beautiful as this face. And
in that same moment he knew her name: Moon Child. Yes, beyond a
doubt, that was her name.
And Moon Child had looked at him -- at him, Bastian
Balthazar Bux.
She had looked at him with an expression that he could not
interpret. Had she too been taken by surprise? Had there been a plea
in that look? Or longing? Or. . . what could it be?
He tried to remember Moon Child's eyes, but was no longer able
to.
He was sure of only one thing: that her glance had passed
through his eyes and down into his heart. He could still feel the
burning trail it had left behind. That glance, he felt, was embedded
in his heart, and there it glittered like a mysterious jewel. And in a
strange and wonderful way it hurt.
Even if Bastian had wanted to, he couldn't have defended
himself against this thing that had happened to him. However, he
didn't want to. Oh no, not for anything in the world would he have
parted with that jewel. All he wanted was to go on reading, to see
Moon Child again, to be with her.
It never occurred to him that he was getting into the most
unusual and perhaps the most dangerous of adventures. But even if
he had known this, he wouldn't have dreamed of shutting the book.
With a trembling forefinger he found his place and went on
reading.
The clock in the belfry struck ten.
XI
The Childlike Empress

nitting his brow, powerless to utter a single word, Atreyu stood
gazing at the Childlike Empress. He had no idea how to begin or
what to do. He had often tried to imagine this moment, he had
prepared words and phrases, but they had all gone out of his
head.
At length she smiled at him. Her voice when she spoke was as
soft as the voice of a bird singing in its sleep.
"You have returned from the Great Quest, Atreyu."
Atreyu hung his head.
"Yes," he managed to say.
After a short silence she went on: "Your lovely cloak has
turned gray. Your hair is gray and your skin is like stone. But all
that will be as it was, or better. You'll see."
Atreyu felt as if a band had tightened around his throat. All
he could do was nod his head. Then he heard the sweet soft voice
saying: "You have carried out your mission. . ."
Were these words meant as a question? Atreyu didn't know.
He didn't dare look up to read the answer in her face. Slowly he
reached for the golden amulet and removed the chain from his
neck. Without raising his eyes, he held it out to the Childlike
Empress. He tried to kneel as messengers did in the stories and
songs he had heard at home, but his wounded leg refused to do
his bidding. He fell at the Childlike Empress's feet, and there he
lay with his face to the floor.
She bent forward, picked up AURYN, and let the chain glide
through her fingers.
"You have done well," she said, "and I am pleased with you."
"No!" cried Atreyu almost savagely. "It was all in vain.
There's no hope."
A long silence followed. Atreyu buried his face in the crook of
his elbow, and his whole body trembled. How would she react?
With a cry of despair, a moan, words of bitter reproach or even
anger? Atreyu couldn't have said what he expected. Certainly not
what he heard. Laughter. A soft, contented laugh. Atreyu's
thoughts were in a whirl, for a moment he thought she had gone
mad. But that was not the laughter of madness. Then he heard
her say: "But you've brought him with you."
Atreyu looked up.
"Who?"
"Our savior."
He looked into her eyes and found only serenity. She smiled
again.
"Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes," he stammered, now
for the first time using the official words of address that Falkor
had recommended. "I. . . no, really. . . I don't understand."
"I can see that by the look on your face," she said. "But
whether you understand or not, you've done it. And that's what
counts, isn't it?"
Atreyu said nothing. He couldn't even think of a question to
ask. He stood there openmouthed, staring at the Childlike
Empress. "I saw him," she went on, "and he saw me."
"When?" Atreyu asked.
"Just as you came in. You brought him with you."
Involuntarily Atreyu looked around.
"Then where is he? I don't see anyone but you and me."
"Oh, the world is full of things you don't see. You can believe
me. He isn't in our world yet. But our worlds have come close
enough together for us to see each other. For a twinkling the thin
wall between us became transparent. He will be with us soon and
then he will call me by the new name that he alone can give me.
Then I shall be well, and so will Fantastica."
As the Childlike Empress was speaking, Atreyu raised himself
with difficulty. He looked up to her as she lay on her bed of
cushions. His voice was husky when he asked: "Then you've
known my message all along? What Morla the Aged One told me
in the Swamps of Sadness, what the mysterious voice of Uyulala
in the Southern Oracle revealed to me -- you knew it all?"
"Yes," she said. "I knew it before I sent you on the Great
Quest."
Atreyu gulped.
"Why," he finally managed to ask, "why did you send me
then? What did you expect me to do?"
"Exactly what you did," she replied.
"What I did. . ." Atreyu repeated slowly. His forehead
clouded over. "In that case," he said angrily, "it was all
unnecessary. There was no need of sending me on the Great
Quest. I've heard that your decisions are often mysterious. That
may be. But after all I've been through I hate to think that you
were just having a joke at my expense."
The Childlike Empress's eyes grew grave.
"I was not having a joke at your expense, Atreyu," she said. "I
am well aware of what I owe you. All your sufferings were
necessary. I sent you on the Great Quest -- not for the sake of the
message you would bring me, but because that was the only way
of calling our savior. He took part in everything you did, and he
has come all that long way with you. You heard his cry of fear
when you were talking with Ygramul beside the Deep Chasm,
and you saw him when you stood facing the Magic Mirror Gate.
You entered into his image and took it with you, and he followed
you, because he saw himself through your eyes. And now, too, he
can hear every word we are saying. He knows we are talking
about him, he knows we have set our hope in him and are
expecting him. Perhaps he even understands that all the hardship
you, Atreyu, took upon yourself was for his sake and that all
Fantastica is calling him."
Little by little the darkness cleared from Atreyu's face.
After a while he asked: "How can you know all that? The cry
by the Deep Chasm and the image in the magic mirror? Did you
arrange it all in advance?"
The Childlike Empress picked up AURYN, and said, while
putting the chain around her neck: "Didn't you wear the Gem
the whole time? Didn't you know that through it I was always
with you?"
"Not always," said Atreyu. "I lost it."
"Yes. Then you were really alone. Tell me what happened to
you then."
Atreyu told her the story.
"Now I know why you turned gray," said the Childlike
Empress. "You were too close to the Nothing."
"Gmork, the werewolf, told me," said Atreyu, "that when a
Fantastican is swallowed up by the Nothing, he becomes a lie. Is
that true?"
"Yes, it is true," said the Childlike Empress, and her golden
eyes darkened. "All lies were once creatures of Fantastica. They
are made of the same stuff -- but they have lost their true nature
and become unrecognizable. But, as you might expect from a
half-and-half creature like Gmork, he told you only half the
truth. There are two ways of crossing the dividing line between
Fantastica and the human world, a right one and a wrong one.
When Fantasticans are cruelly dragged across it, that's the wrong
way. When humans, children of man, come to our world of their
own free will, that's the right way. Every human who has been
here has learned something that could be learned only here, and
returned to his own world a changed person. Because he had seen
you creatures in your true form, he was able to see his own world
and his fellow humans with new eyes. Where he had seen only
dull, everyday reality, he now discovered wonders and mysteries.
That is why humans were glad to come to Fantastica. And the
more these visits enriched our world, the fewer lies there were in
theirs, the better it became. Just as our two worlds can injure each
other, they can also make each other whole again."
For a time both were silent. Then she went on: "Humans are
our hope. One of them must come and give me a new name. And
he will come."
Atreyu made no answer.
"Do you understand now, Atreyu," she asked, "why I had to
ask so much of you? Only a long story full of adventures, marvels,
and dangers could bring our savior to me. And that was your
story." Atreyu sat deep in thought. At length he nodded. "Yes,
Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes, now I understand. I thank
you for choosing me. Forgive my anger."
"You had no way of knowing these things," she answered.
"And that too was necessary."
Again Atreyu nodded. After a short silence he said: "But I'm
very tired."
"You have done enough, Atreyu. Would you like to rest?"
"Not yet. First I would like to see the happy outcome of my
story. If, as you say, I've carried out my mission, why isn't the
savior here yet? What's he waiting for?"
"Yes," said the Childlike Empress softly. "What is he waiting
for?"
Bastian felt his hands growing moist with excitement. "I can't do
it," he said. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to do. Maybe the
name I've thought of isn't the right one."
"May I ask you another question?" said Atreyu.
"Of course," she answered with a smile.
"Why do you need a new name to get well?"
"Only the right name gives beings and things their reality,"
she said. "A wrong name makes everything unreal. That's what
lies do."
"Maybe the savior doesn't yet know the right name to give
you."
"Oh yes he does," she assured him.
Again they sat silent.
"I know it all right," said Bastian. "I knew it the moment I laid
eyes on her. But I don't know what I have to do."
Atreyu looked up.
"Maybe he wants to come and just doesn't know how to go
about it."
"All he has to do," said the Childlike Empress, "is to call me
by my new name, which he alone knows. Nothing more."
Bastian's heart pounded. Should he try? What if he didn't
succeed? What if he was wrong? What if they weren't talking about
him but about some entirely different savior? How could he be sure
they really meant him?
"Could it be," said Atreyu after a while, "that he doesn't
know it's him and not somebody else we're talking about?"
"No," said the Childlike Empress. "Not after all the signs he
has had. He can't be that stupid."
"I'll give it a try," said Bastian. But he couldn't get a word out of
his mouth.
What if it actually worked? Then he would somehow be
transported to Fantastica. But how? Maybe he would have to go
through some sort of change. And what would that be like? Would it
hurt? Would he lose consciousness? And did he really want to go to
Fantastica? He wanted to go to Atreyu and the Childlike Empress,
but he wasn't at all keen on all those monsters the place was
swarming with.
"Maybe he hasn't got the courage," Atreyu suggested.
"Courage?" said the Childlike Empress. "Does it take courage
to say my name?"
"Then," said Atreyu, "I can think of only one thing that may
be holding him back."
"And what would that be?"
After some hesitation Atreyu blurted out: "He just doesn't
want to come here. He just doesn't care about you or Fantastica.
We don't mean a thing to him."
The Childlike Empress stared wide-eyed at Atreyu.
"No! No!" Bastion cried out. "You mustn't think that! It's not
that at all. Oh, please, please, don't think that! Can you hear me? It's
not like that, Atreyu."
"He promised me he would come," said the Childlike
Empress. "I saw it in his eyes."
"Yes, that's true. And I will come soon. I just need time to think.
It's not so simple."
Atreyu hung his head and the two of them waited a long
while in silence. But the savior did not appear, and there wasn't
the slightest sign to suggest that he was trying to attract their
attention.
Bastian was thinking of how it would be if he suddenly stood
before them in all his fatness, with his bowlegs and his pasty face. He
could literally see the disappointment in the Childlike Empress's face
when she said to him: "What brings you here?"
And Atreyu might even laugh.
The thought brought a blush to Bastion's cheeks.
Obviously they were expecting a prince, or at any rate some sort
of hero. He just couldn't appear before them. It was out of the
question. He would do anything for them. Anything but that!
When at last the Childlike Empress looked up, the expression
of her face had changed. Atreyu was almost frightened at its
grandeur and severity. He knew where he had once seen that
expression: in the sphinxes.
"There is one more thing I can do," she said. "But I don't like
it, and I wish he wouldn't make me."
"What is that?" Atreyu asked in a whisper.
"Whether he knows it or not, he is already part of the
Neverending Story. He can no longer back out of it. He made me
a promise and he has to keep it. But by myself I can't make him."
"Who in all Fantastica," Atreyu asked, "can do what you
cannot?"
"Only one person," she replied. "If he wants to. The Old
Man of Wandering Mountain."
Atreyu looked at the Childlike Empress in amazement.
"The Old Man of Wandering Mountain?" he repeated,
stressing every word. "You mean he exists?"
"Did you doubt it?"
"The old folk in our tent camps tell the children about him
when they're naughty. They say he writes everything down in a
book, whatever you do or fail to do, and there it stays in the form
of a beautiful or an ugly story. When I was little, I believed it, but
then I decided it was only an old wives' tale to frighten children."
"You never can tell about old wives' tales," she said with a
smile.
"Then you know him?" Atreyu asked. "You've seen him?"
She shook her head.
"If I find him," she said, "it will be our first meeting."
"Our old folk also say," Atreyu went on, "that you never can
know where the Old Man's mountain will be at any particular
time. They say that when he appears it's always unexpectedly,
now here, now there, and that you can only run across him by
accident, or because the meeting was fated."
"That's true," said the Childlike Empress. "You can't look for
the Old Man of Wandering Mountain. You can only find him."
"Does that go for you too?"
"Yes," she said, "for me too."
"But what if you don't find him?"
"If he exists I'll find him," she said with a mysterious smile.
Her answer puzzled Atreyu. Hesitantly he asked: "Is he -- is
he like you?"
"He is like me," she replied, "because he is my opposite in
every way."
Atreyu saw that with such questions he would get nothing
out of her. And another thought weighed on him.
"You are deathly sick, Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes,"
he said almost sternly. "You won't go far by yourself. All your
servants and courtiers seem to have abandoned you. Falkor and I
would be glad to take you wherever you wish, but, frankly, I
don't know if Falkor has the strength. And my foot -- well,
you've seen that it won't carry me."
"Thank you, Atreyu," she said. "Thank you for your brave
and loyal offer. But I'm not planning to take you with me. To
find the Old Man of Wandering Mountain, one must be alone.
And even now Falkor is not where you left him. He has been
moved to a place where his wounds will be healed and his
strength renewed. And you too, Atreyu, will soon be in that same
place."
Her fingers played with AURYN.
"What place is that?"
"There's no need for you to know that now. You will be
moved in your sleep. And one day you will know where you
were."
"But how can I sleep?" cried Atreyu, so shaken that he lost his
sense of tact. "How can I sleep when I know you may die any
minute?"
The Childlike Empress laughed softly.
"I'm not quite as forsaken as you think. I've already told you
that there are some things you can't hope to understand. I have
my seven Powers, which belong to me as your memory or
courage or thoughts belong to you. They cannot be seen or
heard, and yet they are with me at this moment. I shall leave
three of them with you and Falkor to look after you, and I shall
take the other four with me as my escort. You needn't worry,
Atreyu. You can sleep easy."
At these words, all the accumulated weariness of the Great
Quest descended on Atreyu like a dark veil. Yet it was not the
leaden weariness of exhaustion, but a gentle longing for sleep. He
still had many questions to ask the Golden-eyed Commander of
Wishes, but he felt that her last words had vanquished all his
wishes but one, the wish for sleep. His eyes closed and, still in a
sitting position, he glided into the darkness.
The clock in the steeple struck eleven.
As though far in the distance, Atreyu heard the Childlike
Empress give an order in a soft voice. Then he felt powerful arms
lifting him gently and carrying him away.
For a long time, all was dark and warm around him. Much
later he half awoke when a soothing liquid touched his parched
lips and ran down his throat. He had a vague impression that he
was in a great cave with walls of gold. He saw the white
luckdragon lying beside him. And then he saw, or thought he
saw, a gushing fountain in the middle of the cave, encircled by
two snakes, a light one and a dark one, which were biting each
other's tail.
But then an invisible hand brushed over his eyes. The feel of
it was infinitely soothing, and again he fell into a deep and
dreamless sleep.
At that moment, the Childlike Empress left the Ivory Tower.
She lay bedded on soft silken cushions in a glass litter, which
seemed to be moving under its own power, but was actually being
carried by four of the Empress's invisible servants.
They crossed the Labyrinth garden, or rather, what was left of
it, making frequent detours, since many of the paths ended in the
Nothing.
When at length they left the Labyrinth, the invisible carriers
stopped. They seemed to be waiting for a command.
The Childlike Empress sat up on her cushions and cast a
glance back at the Ivory Tower.
Then, sinking back, she said: "Keep going! Just keep going --
no matter where."
Blown by the wind, her snow-white hair trailed behind the
glass litter like a flag.
XII
The Old Man of Wandering Mountain

ong-thundering avalanches descended from the heights, snowstorms
raged between towering ice-coated summits, dipped into
hollows and ravines, and swept howling onward over the great
white expanse of the glaciers. Such weather was not at all unusual
for this part of the country, for the Mountain of Destiny -- that
was its name -- was the highest in all Fantastica, and its peaks
literally jutted into the heights of heaven.
Not even the most intrepid mountain climbers ventured into
these fields of everlasting ice. It had been so very, very long since
anyone had succeeded in climbing this mountain that the feat
had been forgotten. For one of Fantastica's many strange laws
decreed that no one could climb the Mountain of Destiny until
the last successful climber had been utterly forgotten. Thus
anyone who managed to climb it would always be the first.
No living creature could survive in that icy waste -- except for
a handful of gigantic ice-glumps -- who could barely be called
living creatures, for they moved so slowly that they needed years
for a single step and whole centuries for a short walk. Which
meant, of course, that they could only associate with their own
kind and knew nothing at all about the rest of Fantastica. They
thought of themselves as the only living creatures in the universe.
Consequently, they were puzzled to the point of
consternation when they saw a tiny speck twining its way upward
over perilous crags and razor-sharp ridges, then vanishing into
deep chasms and crevasses, only to reappear higher up.
That speck was the Childlike Empress's glass litter, still
carried by four of her invisible Powers. It was barely visible, for
the glass it was made of looked very much like ice, and the
Childlike Empress's white gown and white hair could hardly be
distinguished from the snow roundabout.
She had traveled many days and nights. The four Powers had
carried her through blinding rain and scorching sun, through
darkness and moonlight, onward and onward, just as she had
ordered, "no matter where." She was prepared for a long journey
and all manner of hardship, since she knew that the Old Man of
Wandering Mountain could be everywhere or nowhere.
Still, the four invisible Powers were not guided entirely by
chance in their choice of an itinerary. As often as not, the
Nothing, which had already swallowed up whole regions, left
only a single path open. Sometimes the possibilities narrowed
down to a bridge, a tunnel, or a gateway, and sometimes they
were forced to carry the litter with the deathly ill Empress over
the waves of the sea. These carriers saw no difference between
liquid and solid.
Tireless and persevering, they had finally reached the frozen
heights of the Mountain of Destiny. And they would go on
climbing until the Childlike Empress gave them another order.
But she lay still on her cushions. Her eyes were closed and she
said nothing. The last words she had spoken were the "no matter
where" she had said on leaving the Ivory Tower.
The litter was moving through a deep ravine, so narrow that
there was barely room for it to pass. The snow was several feet
deep, but the invisible carriers did not sink in or even leave footprints.
It was very dark at the bottom of this ravine, which
admitted only a narrow strip of daylight. The path was on a
steady incline and the higher the litter climbed, the nearer the
daylight seemed. And then suddenly the walls leveled off,
opening up a view of a vast white expanse. This was the summit,
for the Mountain of Destiny culminated not, like most other
mountains, in a single peak, but in this high plateau, which was
as large as a whole country.
But then, surprisingly enough, a smaller, odd-looking
mountain arose in the midst of the plateau. It was rather tall and
narrow, something like the Ivory Tower, but glittering blue. It
consisted of innumerable strangely shaped stone teeth, which
jutted into the sky like great inverted icicles. And about halfway
up the mountain three such teeth supported an egg the size of a
house.
Behind the egg large blue columns resembling the pipes of an
enormous organ rose in a semicircle. The great egg had a circular
opening, which might have been a door or a window. And in that
opening a face appeared. The face was looking straight at the
litter.
The Childlike Empress opened her eyes.
"Stop!" she said softly.
The invisible Powers stopped.
The Childlike Empress sat up.
"It's the Old Man of Wandering Mountain," she said. "I
must go the last stretch of the way alone. Whatever may happen,
wait here for me."
The face in the circular opening vanished.
The Childlike Empress stepped out of the litter and started
across the great snowfield. It was hard going, for she was
bare-footed, and there was an icy crust on the snow. At every step
she broke through, and the ice cut her tender feet. The wind
tugged at her white hair and her gown.
At last she came to the blue mountain and stood facing the
smooth stone teeth.
The dark circular opening disgorged a long ladder, much
longer than there could possibly have been room for in the egg. It
soon extended to the foot of the blue mountain, and when the
Childlike Empress took hold of it she saw that it consisted of
letters, which were fastened together. Each rung of the ladder was
a line. The Childlike Empress started climbing, and as she
climbed from rung to rung, she read the words:
TURN BACK! TURN BACK AND GO AWAY!
FOR COME WHAT WILL AND COME WHAT
MAY,
NEVER IN ANY TIME OR PLACE
MUST YOU AND I MEET FACE TO FACE.
TO YOU ALONE, O CHILDLIKE ONE,
THE WAY IS BARRED, TO YOU ALONE.
TURN BACK, TURN BACK, FOR NEVER SHALL
BEGINNING SEEK THE END OF ALL.
THE CONSEQUENCE OF YOUR INTRUSION
CAN ONLY BE EXTREME CONFUSION.
She stopped to rest and looked up. She still had a long way to
go. So far she hadn't even gone halfway.
"Old Man of Wandering Mountain," she said aloud. "If you
don't want us to meet, you needn't have written me this ladder.
It's your disinvitation that brings me."
And she went on climbing.
WHAT YOU ACHIEVE AND WHAT YOU ARE
IS RECORDED BY ME, THE CHRONICLER.
LETTERS UNCHANGEABLE AND DEAD
FREEZE WHAT THE LIVING DID AND SAID.
THEREFORE BY COMING HERE TO ME
YOU INVITE CATASTROPHE.
THUS IS THE END OF WHAT YOU ONCE
BEGAN.
YOU WILL NEVER BE OLD, AND I, OLD MAN,
WAS NEVER YOUNG. WHAT YOU AWAKEN
I LAY TO REST. BE NOT MISTAKEN:
IT IS FORBIDDEN THAT LIFE SHOULD SEE
ITSELF IN DEAD ETERNITY.
Again she had to stop to catch her breath.
By then the Childlike Empress was high up and the ladder
was swaying like a branch in the snowstorm. Clinging to the icy
letters that formed the rungs of the ladder, she climbed the rest of
the way.
BUT IF YOU STILL REFUSE TO HEED
THE WARNING OF THE LADDER'S SCREED,
IF YOU ARE STILL PREPARED TO DO
WHAT IN TIME AND SPACE IS FORBIDDEN
YOU,
I WON'T ATTEMPT TO HOLD YOU BACK,
THEN WELCOME TO THE OLD MAN'S SHACK.
When the Childlike Empress had those last rungs behind her,
she sighed and looked down. Her wide white gown was in tatters,
for it had caught on every bend and crossbar of the
message-ladder. Oh well, she had known all along that letters
were hostile to her. She felt the same way about them.
From the ladder she stepped through the circular opening in
the egg. Instantly it closed behind her, and she stood motionless
in the darkness, waiting to see what would happen next.
Nothing at all happened for quite some time.
At length she said softly: "Here I am." Her voice echoed as in
a large empty room -- or was it another, much deeper voice that
had answered her in the same words?
Little by little, she made out a faint reddish glow in the
darkness. It came from an open book, which hovered in midair at
the center of the egg-shaped room. It was tilted in such a way
that she couldsee the binding, which was of copper-colored silk,
and on the binding, as on the Gem, which the Childlike Empress
wore around her neck, she saw an oval formed by two snakes
biting each other's tail. Inside this oval was printed the title:
The Neverending Story
Bastian's thoughts were in a whirl. This was the very same book
that he was reading! He looked again. Yes, no doubt about it, it was
the book he had in his hand. How could this book exist inside itself?
The Childlike Empress had come closer. On the other side of
the hovering book she now saw a man's face. It was bathed in a
bluish light. The light came from the print of the book, which
was bluish green.
The man's face was as deeply furrowed as if it had been
carved in the bark of an ancient tree. His beard was long and
white, and his eyes were so deep in their sockets that she could
not see them. He was wearing a dark monk's robe with a hood,
and in his hand he was holding a stylus, with which he was
writing in the book. He did not look up.
The Childlike Empress stood watching him in silence. He
was not really writing. His stylus glided slowly over the empty
page and the letters and words appeared as though of their own
accord.
The Childlike Empress read what was being written, and it
was exactly what was happening at that same moment: "The
Childlike Empress read what was being written. . ."
"You write down everything that happens," she said.
"Everything that I write down happens," was the answer,
spoken in the deep, dark voice that had come to her like an echo
of her own voice.
Strange to say, the Old Man of Wandering Mountain had
not opened his mouth. He had written her words and his, and
she had heard them as though merely remembering that he had
just spoken. "Are you and I and all Fantastica," she asked, "are we
all recorded in this book?"
He wrote, and at the same time she heard his answer: "No,
you've got it wrong. This book is all Fantastica -- and you and I."
"But where is this book?"
And he wrote the answer: "In the book."
"Then it's all a reflection of a reflection?" she asked.
He wrote, and she heard him say: "What does one see in a
mirror reflected in a mirror? Do you know that, Golden-eyed
Commander of Wishes?"
The Childlike Empress said nothing for a while, and the Old
Man wrote that she said nothing.
Then she said softly: "I need your help."
"I knew it," he said and wrote.
"Yes," she said. "I supposed you would. You are Fantastica's
memory, you know everything that has happened up to this
moment. But couldn't you leaf ahead in your book and see
what's going to happen?"
"Empty pages," was the answer. "I can only look back at what
has happened. I was able to read it while I was writing it. And I
know it because I have read it. And I wrote it because it
happened. The Neverending Story writes itself by my hand."
"Then you don't know why I've come to you?"
"No." And as he was writing, she heard the dark voice: "And
I wish you hadn't. By my hand everything becomes fixed and
final -- you too, Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes. This egg is
your grave and your coffin. You have entered into the memory of
Fantastica. How do you expect to leave here?"
"Every egg," she said, "is the beginning of new life."
"True," the Old Man wrote and said, "but only if its shell
bursts open."
"You can open it," cried the Childlike Empress. "You let me
in."
"Your power let you in. But now that you're here, your power
is gone. We are shut up here for all time. Truly, you shouldn't
have come. This is the end of the Neverending Story."
The Childlike Empress smiled. She didn't seem troubled in
the least.
"You and I," she said, "can't prolong it. But there is someone
who can."
"Only a human," wrote the Old Man, "can make a fresh
start."
"Yes," she replied, "a human."
Slowly the Old Man of Wandering Mountain raised his eyes
and saw the Childlike Empress for the first time. His gaze seemed
to come from the darkest distance, from the end of the universe.
She stood up to it, answered it with her golden eyes. A silent,
immobile battle was fought between them. At length the Old
Man bent over his book and wrote: "For you too there is a
borderline. Respect it."
"I will," she said, "but the one of whom I speak, the one for
whom I am waiting, crossed it long ago. He is reading this book
while you are writing it. He hears every word we are saying. He is
with us."
"That is true!" she heard the Old Man's voice as he was
writing. "He too is part and parcel of the Neverending Story, for
it is his own story."
"Tell me the story!" the Childlike Empress commanded.
"You, who are the memory of Fantastica -- tell me the story from
the beginning, word for word as you have written it."
The Old Man's writing hand began to tremble.
"If I do that, I shall have to write everything all over again.
And what I write will happen again."
"So be it!" said the Childlike Empress.
Bastian was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
What was she going to do? It had something to do with him. But
if even the Old Man of Wandering Mountain was trembling. . .
The Old Man wrote and said: "If the Neverending Story
contains itself, then the world will end with this book."
And the Childlike Empress answered: "But if the hero comes
to us, new life can be born. Now the decision is up to him."
"You are ruthless indeed," the Old Man said and wrote. "We
shall enter the Circle of Eternal Return, from which there is no
escape."
"Not for us," she replies, and her voice was no longer gentle,
but as hard and clear as a diamond. "Nor for him -- unless he
saves us all."
"Do you really want to entrust everything to a human?"
"I do."
But then she added more softly: "Or have you a better idea?"
After a long silence the Old Man's dark voice said: "No."
He bent low over the book in which he was writing. His face
was hidden by his hood.
"Then do what I ask."
Submitting to her will, the Old Man of Wandering
Mountain began telling the Neverending Story from the
beginning.
At that moment the light cast by the pages of the book
changed color. It became reddish like the letters that now formed
under the Old Man's stylus. His monk's habit and the hood also
took on the color of copper. And as he wrote, his deep, dark voice
resounded.
Bastian too heard it quite clearly.
Yet he did not understand the first words the Old Man said.
They sounded like: "Skoob dlo rednaeroc darnoc Irac."
Strange, Bastian thought. Why is the Old Man suddenly talking
a foreign language? Or was it some sort of magic spell?
The Old Man's voice went on and Bastian couldn't help
listening.
"This inscription could be seen on the glass door of a small
shop, but naturally this was only the way it looked if you were
inside the dimly lit shop, looking out at the street through the
plate-glass door.
"Outside, it was a gray, cold, rainy November morning. The
rain ran down the glass and over the ornate letters. Through the
glass there was nothing to be seen but the rain-splotched wall
across the street."
Bastian was rather disappointed. I don't know that story, he
thought. That's not in the book I've been reading. Oh well, it only
goes to show that I've been mistaken the whole time. I really thought
the Old Man would start telling the Neverending Story from the
beginning.
"Suddenly the door was opened so violently that a little
cluster of brass bells tinkled wildly, taking quite some time to
calm down. The cause of this hubbub was a fat little boy of ten or
twelve. His wet, dark-brown hair hung down over his face, his
coat was soaked and dripping, and he was carrying a school
satchel slung over his shoulder. He was rather pale and out of
breath, but, despite the hurry he had been in a moment before,
he was standing in the open doorway as though rooted to the
spot."
As Bastian read this and listened to the deep, dark voice of the
Old Man of Wandering Mountain, a roaring started up in his ears
and he saw spots before his eyes.
Why, this was all about him! And it was the Neverending Story.
He, Bastian, was a character in the book which until now he had
thought he was reading. And heaven only knew who else might be
reading it at the exact same time, also supposing himself to be just a
reader.
And now Bastian was afraid. He felt unable to breathe, as
though shut up in an invisible prison. He didn't want to read
anymore, he wanted to stop.
But the deep, dark voice of the Old Man of Wandering
Mountain went on,
and there was nothing Bastian could do about it. He held his hands
over his ears, but it was no use, because the voice came from inside
him. He tried desperately to tell himself -- though he knew it wasn't
true -- that the resemblance to his own story was some crazy accident,
but the deep, dark voice went on,
and ever so clearly he heard it saying:
" 'Where are your manners? If you had any, you'd have introduced
yourself.' "
" 'My name is Bastian,' said the boy. 'Bastian Balthazar Bux.'
"
In that moment Bastian made a profound discovery. You wish
for something, you've wanted it for years, and you're sure you want
it, as long as you know you can't have it. But if all at once it looks as
though your wish might come true, you suddenly find yourself
wishing you had never wished for any such thing.
That is exactly how it was with Bastian.
Now that he was in danger of getting his wish, he would have
liked best to run away. But since you can't run "away" unless you
have some idea where you're at, Bastian did something perfectly
absurd. He turned over on his back like a beetle and played dead. He
made himself as small as possible and pretended he wasn't there.
The Old Man of Wandering Mountain went on telling and
writing the story of how Bastian had stolen the book, how he had
fled to the schoolhouse attic and begun to read. And then
Atreyu's Quest began all over again, he spoke with Morla the
Aged One, and found Falkor in Ygramul's net beside the Deep
Chasm, and heard Bastian's cry of fear. Once again he was cured
by old Urgl and lectured by Engywook. He passed through the
three magic gates, entered into Bastian's image, and spoke with
Uyulala. And then came the Wind Giants and Spook City and
Gmork, followed by Atreyu's rescue and the flight to the Ivory
Tower. And in between, everything that Bastian had done, how
he had lit the candles, how he had seen the Childlike Empress,
and how she had waited for him in vain. Once again she started
on her way to find the Old Man of Wandering Mountain, once
again she climbed the ladder of letters and entered the egg, once
again the conversation between her and the Old Man was related
word for word, and once again the Old Man of Wandering
Mountain began to write and tell the Neverending Story.
At that point the story began all over again -- unchanged and
unchangeable -- and ended once again with the meeting between
the Childlike Empress and the Old Man of Wandering
Mountain, who began once again to write and tell the
Neverending Story. . .
. . .and so it would go on for ever and ever, for any change in the
sequence of events was unthinkable. Only he, Bastian, could do
anything about it. And he would have to do something, or else he too
would be included in the circle. It seemed to him that this story had
been repeated a thousand times, as though there were no before and
after and everything had happened at once. Now he realized why the
Old Man's hand trembled. The Circle of Eternal Return was an end
without an end.
Bastian was unaware of the tears that were running down his
cheeks. Close to fainting, he suddenly cried out: "Moon Child, I'm
coming!"
In that moment several things happened at once.
The shell of the great egg was dashed to pieces by some overwhelming
power. A rumbling of thunder was heard. And then
the storm wind came roaring from afar.
It blew from the pages of the book that Bastian was holding on
his knees, and the pages began to flutter wildly. Bastian felt the wind
in his hair and face. He could scarcely breathe. The candle flames in
the seven-armed candelabrum danced, wavered, and lay flat. Then
another, still more violent wind blew into the book, and the candles
went out.
The clock in the belfry struck twelve.
XIII
Perilin, the Might Forest

oon Child, I'm coming!" Bastian repeated in the darkness. He felt
something indescribably sweet and comforting flow into him
from the name and fill his whole being. So he said it again and
again: "Moon Child! Moon Child! I'm coming! Moon Child,
here I am."
But where was he?
He couldn't see the slightest ray of light, but this was no
longer the freezing darkness of the attic. This was a warm, velvety
darkness in which he felt safe and happy.
All fear and dread had left him, ceased to be anything more
than a distant memory. He felt so light and gay that he even
laughed softly.
"Moon Child, where am I?" he asked.
He no longer felt the weight of his body. He groped about
and realized that he was hovering in mid-air. The mats were
gone, and there was no ground under his feet.
It was a wonderful feeling, a sense of release and boundless
freedom that he had never known before. He was beyond the
reach of all the things that had weighed him down and hemmed
him in.
Could he be hovering somewhere in the cosmos? But in the
cosmos there were stars and here there was nothing of the kind.
There was only this velvety darkness and a wonderful, happy
feeling he hadn't known in all his life. Could it be that he was
dead?
"Moon Child, where are you?"
And then he heard a delicate, birdlike voice that answered
him and that may have answered him several times without his
hearing it. It seemed very near, and yet he could not have said
from what direction it came.
"Here I am, my Bastian."
"Is it you, Moon Child?"
She laughed in a strangely lilting way.
"Who else would I be? Why, you've just given me my lovely
name. Thank you for it. Welcome, my savior and my hero."
"Where are we, Moon Child?"
"I am with you, and you are with me."
Dream words. Yet Bastian knew for sure that he was awake
and not dreaming.
"Moon Child," he whispered. "Is this the end?"
"No," she replied, "it's the beginning."
"Where is Fantastica, Moon Child? Where are all the others?
Where are Atreyu and Falkor? And what about the Old Man of
Wandering Mountain and his book? Don't they exist anymore?"
"Fantastica will be born again from your wishes, my Bastian.
Through me they will become reality."
"From my wishes?" Bastian repeated in amazement.
He heard the sweet voice reply: "You know they call me the
Commander of Wishes. What will you wish?"
Bastian thought a moment. Then he inquired cautiously:
"How many wishes have I got?"
"As many as you want -- the more, the better, my Bastian.
Fantastica will be all the more rich and varied."
Bastian was overjoyed. But just because so infinitely many
possibilities had suddenly been held out to him, he couldn't
think of a single wish.
"I can't think of anything," he said finally.
For a time there was silence. And then he heard the birdlike
voice: "That's bad."
"Why?"
"Because then there won't be any more Fantastica."
Bastian made no answer. He felt confused. His sense of
unlimited freedom was somewhat marred by the thought that
everything depended on him.
"Why is it so dark, Moon Child?" he asked.
"The beginning is always dark, my Bastian."
"I'd awfully like to see you again, Moon Child. The way you
were when you looked at me."
Again he heard the soft lilting laugh.
"Why are you laughing?"
"Because I'm happy."
"Happy? Why?"
"You've just made your first wish."
"Will you make it come true?"
He held out his hand and felt she was putting something into
it. Something very small but strangely heavy. It was very cold and
felt hard and dead.
"What is it, Moon Child?"
"A grain of sand," she replied. "All that's left of my boundless
realm. I make you a present of it."
"Thank you," said Bastian, bewildered. What on earth could
he do with such a gift? If at least it had been something living.
As he was mulling it over, he felt something wriggling in his
hand. He raised his hand to see what it was.
"Look, Moon Child," he whispered. "It's glowing and
glittering. And there -- look! a little flame is coming out of it. No,
it's not a grain of sand, it's a seed. It's a luminous seed and it's
starting to sprout!"
"Well done, my Bastian!" he heard her say. "You see how easy
it is for you."
Barely perceptible at first, the glow of the speck in Bastian's
palm grew quickly, making the two child faces, so very different
from each other, gleam in the velvety darkness.
Slowly Bastian withdrew his hand, and the glittering speck
hovered between them like a little star.
The seed sprouted so quickly that one could see it grow. It
put forth leaves and a stem and buds that burst into
many-colored, phosphorescent flowers. Little fruits formed,
ripened, and exploded like miniature rockets, spraying new seeds
all around them.
From the new seeds grew other plants, but these had different
shapes. Some were like ferns or small palms, others like cacti,
bullrushes, or gnarled trees. Each glowed a different color.
Soon the velvety darkness all around Bastian and Moon
Child, over and under them and on every side, was filled with
rapidly growing luminous plants. A globe of radiant colors, a
new, luminous world hovered in the Nowhere, and grew and
grew. And in its innermost center Bastian and Moon Child sat
hand in hand, looking around them with eyes of wonder.
Unceasingly new shapes and colors appeared. Larger and
larger blossoms opened, richer and richer clusters formed. And all
this in total silence.
Soon some of the plants were as big as fruit trees. There were
fans of long emerald-green leaves, flowers resembling peacock
tails with rainbow-colored eyes, pagodas consisting of
superimposed umbrellas of violet silk. Thick stems were
interwoven like braids. Since they were transparent, they looked
like pink glass lit up from within. Some of the blooms looked like
clusters of blue and yellow Japanese lanterns. And little by little,
as the luminous night growth grew denser, they intertwined to
form a tissue of soft light.
"You must give all this a name," Moon Child whispered.
Bastian nodded.
"Perilin, the Night Forest," he said.
He looked into the Childlike Empress's eyes. And once again,
as at their first exchange of glances, he sat spellbound, unable to
take his eyes off her. The first time she had been deathly ill. Now
she was much, much more beautiful. Her torn gown was whole
again, the soft-colored light played over the pure whiteness of the
silk and of her long hair. His wish had come true.
Bastian's eyes swam. "Moon Child," he stammered. "Are you
well again?"
She smiled, "Can't you see that I am?"
"I wish everything would stay like this forever," he said.
"The moment is forever," she replied.
Bastian was silent. He didn't understand what she had said,
but he was in no mood to puzzle it out. He wanted only to sit
there looking at her.
Little by little the thicket of luminous plants had formed a
thick hedge around them. As though imprisoned in a tent of
magic carpets, Bastian paid no attention to what was happening
outside. He didn't realize that Perilin was growing and growing,
that each and every plant was getting big or bigger. Seeds no
bigger than sparks kept raining down and sprouted as they hit the
ground.
Bastian sat gazing at Moon Child. He had eyes for nothing
else.
He could not have said how much time had passed when
Moon Child put her hand over his eyes.
"Why did you keep me waiting so long?" he heard her ask.
"Why did you make me go to the Old Man of Wandering
Mountain? Why didn't you come when I called?"
Bastian gulped.
"It was because," he stammered, "I thought -- all sorts of
reasons -- fear -- well, to tell you the truth, I was ashamed to let
you see me."
She withdrew her hand and looked at him in amazement.
"Ashamed? Why?"
"B-because," Bastian stammered, "you -- you must have
expected somebody who was right for you."
"What's wrong with you?" she asked. "Aren't you right for
me?"
Bastian felt that he was blushing. "I mean," he said,
"somebody strong and brave and handsome -- maybe a prince --
anyway, not someone like me."
He couldn't see her, for he had lowered his eyes, but again he
heard her soft lilting laugh.
"You see," he said. "Now you're laughing at me."
There was a long silence, and when Bastian finally brought
himself to look up, he saw that she was bending very close to
him. Her face was grave.
"Let me show you something, my Bastian," she said. "Look
into my eyes."
Bastian obeyed, though his heart was pounding and he felt
dizzy.
In the golden mirror of her eyes, he saw, small at first as
though far in the distance, a reflection which little by little grew
larger and more distinct. It was a boy of about his own age; but
this boy was slender and wonderfully handsome. His bearing was
proud and erect, his face was noble, manly -- and lean. He looked
like a young prince from the Orient. His turban was of blue silk
and so was the silver-embroidered tunic which reached down to
his knees. His high boots, made of the softest red leather, were
turned up at the toes. And he was wearing a silver-glittering
mantle which hung down to the ground. But most beautiful of
all were the boy's hands, which, though delicately shaped, gave an
impression of unusual strength.
Bastian gazed at the image with wonder and admiration. He
couldn't get enough of it. He was just going to ask who this
handsome young prince might be when it came to him in a flash
that this was his very own self -- his reflection in Moon Child's
golden eyes.
In that moment he was transported, carried out of himself,
and when he returned, he found he had become the handsome
boy whose image he had seen.
He looked down, and saw exactly what he had seen in Moon
Child's eyes: the soft, red-leather boots, the blue tunic
embroidered with silver, the resplendent long mantle. He
touched his turban and felt his face. His face was the same too.
And then he turned toward Moon Child.
She was gone!
He was alone in the round room which the glowing thicket
hadformed.
"Moon Child!" he shouted. "Moon Child!" There was no
answer.
Feeling utterly lost, he sat down. What was he to do now?
Why had she left him alone? Where should he go -- that is, if he
was free to go anywhere, if he wasn't caught in a trap?
While he was wondering why Moon Child should have
vanished without a word of explanation, without so much as
bidding him goodbye, his fingers started playing with a golden
medallion that was hanging from his neck.
He looked at it and let out a cry of surprise.
It was AURYN, the Gem, the Childlike Empress's amulet,
which made its bearer her representative. Moon Child had given
him power over every creature and thing in Fantastica. And as
long as he wore that emblem, it would be as though she were
with him.
For a long while Bastian looked at the two snakes, the one
light, the other dark, which were biting each other's tail, and
formed an oval. Then he turned the amulet over and to his
surprise found an inscription on the reverse side. It consisted of
four words in strangely intricate letters:
Do
What You
Wish
There had been no mention of such an inscription in the
Neverending Story. Could it be that Atreyu hadn't noticed it?
But that didn't matter now. What mattered was that the
words gave him permission, ordered him in fact, to do whatever
he pleased.
Bastian approached the wall of luminous plants to see if he
could slip through somewhere. To his delight he found that the
wall could easily be thrust aside like a curtain. Out he stepped.
In the meantime, the night plants had kept on growing,
gently but irresistibly, and Perilin had become a forest such as no
human eye had ever beheld.
The great trunks were now as high and thick as church
towers, and still growing. In places these shimmering,
milky-white pillars were so close together that it was impossible
to pass between them. And seeds were still falling like a shower of
sparks.
On his way through the luminous forest, Bastian tried hard
not to step on the glittering seeds that lay on the ground, but this
soon proved impossible. There simply wasn't a foot's breadth of
ground from which nothing was sprouting. So he stopped
worrying and went wherever the giant trees left a path open for
him.
Bastian was delighted at being handsome. It didn't bother
him that there was no one to admire him. On the contrary, he
was glad to have the pleasure all to himself. He didn't care a fig
for being admired by the lugs who had always made fun of him.
If he thought of them at all, it was almost with pity.
In this forest, where there were no seasons and no alternation
of day and night, the feeling of time was entirely different from
anything Bastian had ever known. He had no idea how long he
had been on his way. But little by little his pleasure in being
handsome underwent a change. He began to take it for granted.
Not that he was any less happy about it; but now he had the
feeling that he had never been any different.
For this there was a reason which Bastian was not to discover
until much later. The beauty that had been bestowed on him
made him forget, little by little, that he had ever been fat and
bowlegged.
Even if he had known what was happening, he would hardly
have regretted the loss of this particular memory. As it happened,
he didn't even realize that he had forgotten anything. And when
the memory had vanished completely, it seemed to him that he
had always been as handsome as he was now.
At that point a new wish cropped up. Just being handsome
wasn't as wonderful as he had thought. He also wanted to be
strong, stronger than anybody! The strongest in the world!
While going deeper and deeper into the Night Forest, he
began to feel hungry. He picked off a few of the strangely shaped
luminous fruits and nibbled gingerly to see if they were edible.
Edible was no word for it; some were tart, some sweet, some
slightly bitter, but all were delicious. He ate as he walked, and felt
a miraculous strength flowing into his limbs.
In the meantime the glowing underbrush around him had
become so dense that it cut off his view on all sides. To make
matters worse, lianas and aerial roots were becoming inextricably
tangled with the thicket below. Slashing with the side of his hand
as if it had been a machete, Bastian opened up a passage. And the
breach closed directly behind him as if it had never been.
On he went, but the wall of giant tree trunks blocked his
path. Bastian grabbed hold of two great tree trunks and bent
them apart. When he had passed through, the wall closed
soundlessly behind him.
Bastian shouted for joy.
He was the Lord of the Jungle!
For a while he amused himself opening paths for himself, like
an elephant that has heard the Great Call. His strength did not
abate, he had no need to stop for breath. He felt no stitch in his
side, and his heart didn't thump or race.
But after a while he wearied of his new sport. The next thing
he wanted was to look down on his domain from above, to see
how big it was.
He spat on his hands, took hold of a liana, and pulled himself
up hand over hand, without using his legs, as he had seen
acrobats do in the circus. For a moment a vision -- a pale memory
of the past -- came to him of himself in gym class, dangling like a
sack of flour from the bottommost end of the rope, while the rest
of the class cackled with glee. He couldn't help smiling. How
they would gape if they saw him now! They'd be proud to know
him. But he wouldn't even look at them.
Without stopping once he finally reached the branch from
which the liana was hanging, climbed up and straddled it. The
branch gave off a red glow. He stood up and, balancing himself
like a tightrope walker, made his way to the trunk. Here again a
dense tangle of creepers barred his way, but he had no difficulty
in opening up a passage through it.
At that height the trunk was still so thick that five men
clasping hands could not have encircled it. Another, somewhat
higher branch, jutting from the trunk in a different direction, was
beyond his reach. So he leapt through the air, caught hold of an
aerial root, swung himself into place, made another perilous leap,
and grabbed the higher branch. From there he was able to pull
himself up to a still higher one. By then he was high above the
ground, at least three hundred feet, but the glowing branches and
foliage still obstructed his view.
Not until he had climbed to twice that height were there
occasional spaces through which he could look around. But then
the going became difficult, because there were fewer and fewer
branches. And at last, when he had almost reached the top, he
had to stop, for there was nothing to hold on to but the smooth,
bare trunk, which was still as thick as a telegraph pole.
Bastian looked up and saw that the trunk or stalk ended some
fifty feet higher up in an enormous, glowing, dark-red blossom.
He didn'tsee how he could ever reach it, but he had to keep
going, for he couldn'tvery well stay where he was. He threw his
arms around the trunk and climbed the last fifty feet like an
acrobat. The trunk swayed and bent like a blade of grass in the
wind.
At length he was directly below the blossom, which was open
at the top like a tulip. He managed to slip one hand between two
of the petals and take hold. Then, pushing the petals wide apart,
he pulled himself up.
For a moment he lay there, for by then he was somewhat out
of breath. But then he stood up and looked over the edge of the
great, glowing blossom, as from the crow's nest of a ship.
The tree he had climbed was one of the tallest in the whole
jungle and he was able to see far into the distance. Above him he
still saw the velvety darkness of a starless night sky, but below
him, as far as he could see, the treetops of Perilin presented a play
of color that took his breath away.
For a long time Bastian stood there, drinking in the sight.
This was his domain! He had created it! He was the lord of
Perilin.
And once again he shouted for joy!
XIV
The Desert of Colors

ever had Bastian slept so soundly as in that glowing red blossom.
When at last he opened his eyes, the sky overhead was still a
velvety black. He stretched and was happy to feel miraculous
strength in his limbs.
Once again, there had been a change in him. His wish to be
strong had come true.
When he stood up and looked out over the edge of the great
blossom, Perilin seemed to have stopped growing. The Night
Forest looked pretty much the same as when he had last seen it.
He didn't know that this too was connected with the fulfillment
of his wish, and that his memory of his weakness and clumsiness
had been blotted out at the same time. He was handsome and
strong, but somehow that wasn't enough for him. He also felt the
need to be tough and inured to hardship like Atreyu. But how
was he to come by that quality in this luminous garden, where all
manner of fruit was to be had for the picking?
The first pearly streaks of dawn appeared over the eastern
horizon. And with the rising of the light the phosphorescence of
the night plants paled.
"High time!" said Bastian aloud. "I thought the day would
never come."
He sat down on the floor of the blossom and wondered what
he should do. Climb down again and keep going? Of course,
since he was lord of Perilin, no one could stop him from
wandering around in it for days, if not for months or years. This
jungle was so enormous he would never find his way out of it.
But beautiful as he found the night plants, he didn't think this
prospect would suit him in the long run. Exploring a desert --
that would be something else again. The biggest desert in
Fantastica. Yes, that would be something to be proud of.
In that same moment, a violent tremor shook the giant tree.
The trunk bent, and a crackling, groaning sound could be heard.
Bastian had to hold tight to keep from rolling out of his blossom,
the stem of which tilted more and more, until at last it lay flat.
The sun, which had risen in the meantime, disclosed a vision
of devastation. Hardly anything was left of all the enormous
night plants. More quickly than they had sprung up they
crumbled under the glaring sunlight into dust and fine, colored
sand. Gigantic tree trunks collapsed as sand castles do when they
dry out. Bastian's .tree seemed to be the last still standing. But
when he tried to steady himself by grasping at the petals of his
flower, they crumbled in his hands and blew away like a cloud of
dust. Now that there was nothing to obstruct the view, he saw
how terrifyingly high up he was. He knew he would have to
climb down as fast as possible, for the tree was likely to collapse at
any moment.
Cautiously, he climbed out of the blossom and straddled the
stem, which was now bent like a fishing pole. No sooner had he
left the blossom than it broke off behind him and crumbled into
dust in falling.
Ever so gingerly Bastian proceeded downward. Many a man
would have panicked on seeing the ground so very far below, but
Bastian was free from dizziness and his nerves were steel.
Knowing that any abrupt movement might reduce the whole tree
to dust, he crept along the bough and finally reached the place
where the trunk became vertical. Hugging it, he let himself slide,
inch by inch. Several times, great clouds of colored dust fell on
him from above. There were no branches left, and what towering
stumps remained crumbled when Bastian tried to use them for
support. As he continued downward, the trunk became too big
for him to hold. And he was still far above the ground. He
stopped to think; How was he ever going to get down?
But then another tremor passed through the giant stump and
relieved him of the need for further thought. What was left of the
tree disintegrated and settled into a great mound of sand; Bastian
rolled down the side of it in a wild whirl, turning a number of
somersaults on the way, and finally came to rest at the bottom.
He came close to being buried under an avalanche of colored
dust, but he fought his way clear, spat the sand out of his mouth,
and shook it out of his ears and clothes.
Wherever he looked, the sand was moving in slow streams
and eddies. It collected into hills and dunes of every shape and
size, each with a color of its own. Light-blue sand gathered to
form a light-blue hill, and the same with green and violet and so
on. Perilin, the Night Forest, was gone and a desert was taking its
place; and what a desert!
Bastian had climbed a dune of purplish-red sand and all
around him he saw nothing but hill after hill of every imaginable
color. Each hill revealed a shade or tint that recurred in no other.
The nearest was cobalt blue, another was saffron yellow, then
came crimson red, then indigo, apple green, sky blue, orange,
peach, mauve, turquoise blue, lilac, moss green, ruby red, burnt
umber, Indian yellow, vermilion, lapis lazuli. And so on from
horizon to horizon. And between the hills, separating color from
color, flowed streams of gold and silver sand.
"This," said Bastian aloud, "is Goab, the Desert of Colors."
The sun rose higher and higher and the heat became
murderous. The air over the colored sand dunes shimmered, and
Bastian realized that he was in a tight spot. He could not stay in
this desert, that was certain. If he didn't get out of it soon, he
would die of hunger and thirst.
He took hold of the Childlike Empress's emblem in the hope
that it would guide him. And then staunchly he started on his
way.
He climbed dune after dune; hour after hour he plodded on,
never seeing anything but hill after hill. Only the colors kept
changing. His fabulous strength was no longer of any use to him,
for desert distances cannot be vanquished with strength. The air
was a searing blast from hell. His tongue clung to the roof of his
mouth and his face streamed with sweat.
The sun was a whorl of fire in the middle of the sky. It had
been in the same place for a long time and didn't seem to move.
That day in the desert was as long as the night in Perilin.
Bastian's eyes burned and his tongue felt like a piece of
leather. But he didn't give up. His body had dried out, and the
blood in his veins was so thick it could hardly flow. But on he
went, slowly, with even steps, neither hurrying nor stopping to
rest, as if he had had years of experience at crossing deserts on
foot. He ignored the torments of thirst. His will had become as
hard as steel, neither fatigue nor hardship could bend it.
He recalled how easily he had been discouraged in the past.
He had begun all sorts of projects and given up at the first sign of
difficulty. He had always been afraid of not getting enough to
eat, or of falling ill, or having to endure pain. All that was far
behind him.
No one before him had dared to cross Goab, the Desert of
Colors, on foot, nor would anyone undertake to do so in the
future. And most likely no one would ever hear of his exploit.
This last thought saddened Bastian. Goab seemed to be so
inconceivably large he felt sure he would never come to the end
of it. Despite his phenomenal endurance he was bound to perish
sooner or later. That didn't frighten him. He would die with
calm dignity like the hunters in Atreyu's country. But since no
one ever ventured into this desert, the news of his death would
never be divulged. Either in Fantastica or at home. He would
simply be reported missing, and no one would ever know he had
been in Fantastica or in the desert of Goab. All Fantastica, he said
to himself, was contained in the book that the Old Man of
Wandering Mountain had written. This book was the
Neverending Story, which he himself had read in the attic.
Maybe his present adventures and sufferings were in the book
even now. And maybe someone else would read the book
someday -- maybe someone was reading it at that very moment.
In that case, it must be possible to give that someone a sign.
The sand hill where Bastian was standing just then was ultramarine
blue. And separated from it by a narrow cleft there was a
fiery-red dune. Bastian crossed over to it, gathered up sand in
both hands and carried it to the blue hill. Then he strewed a long
line of red sand on the hillside. He went back, brought more red
sand, and repeated the operation. Soon he had fashioned three
enormous red letters against the blue ground:
B B B
He viewed his work with satisfaction. No reader of the
Neverending Story could fail to see his message. So whatever
happened to him now, someone would know where he had been.
He sat down to rest on the red hilltop. The three letters
glittered bright in the desert sun.
Another piece of his memory of the old Bastian had been
wiped out. He forgot that he had once been a namby-pamby,
something of a crybaby, in fact. And he was ever so proud of his
toughness. But already a new wish was taking form.
"It's true that I fear nothing," he said aloud, "but what I still
lack is true courage. Being able to endure hardships is a great
thing. But courage and daring are something else again. I wish I
could run into a real adventure, something calling for great
courage. How grand it would be to meet some dangerous
creature -- maybe not as hideous as Ygramul, but much more
dangerous. A beautiful, but very, very dangerous creature. The
most dangerous creature in all Fantastica. I'd step right up to it
and. . ."
Bastian said no more, for in that same moment he heard a
roaring and rumbling so deep that the ground trembled beneath
his feet.
Bastian turned around. Far in the distance he saw something
that looked like a ball of fire. Moving with incredible speed, it
described a wide arc around the spot where Bastian was sitting,
then came straight toward him. In the shimmering desert air,
which made the outline of things waver like flames, the creature
looked like a dancing fire-demon.
Bastian was stricken with terror. Before he knew it, he had
run down into the cleft between the red dune and the blue dune.
But no sooner had he got there than he felt ashamed and
overcame his fear.
He took hold of AURYN and felt all the courage he had
wished for streaming into his heart.
Then again he heard the deep roar that made the ground
tremble, but this time it was near him. He looked up.
A huge lion was standing on the fiery-red dune. The sun was
directly behind him, and made his great mane look like a wreath
of fire. This lion was not a tawny color like other lions, but as
fiery red as the dune on which he was standing.
The beast did not seem to have noticed the boy, so much
smaller than himself, who was standing in the cleft between the
two dunes, but seemed to be looking at the red letters on the
opposite hill. The great rumbling voice said: "Who did this?"
"I did," said Bastian.
"What is it?"
"It's my initials," said Bastian. "My name is Bastian Balthazar
Bux."
Then for the first time the lion turned toward Bastian, who
for a moment expected to be burned to a crisp by the flames that
seemed to surround the lion. But his fear soon passed and he
returned the lion's gaze.
"I," said the huge beast, "am Grograman, Lord of the Desert
of Colors. I am also known as the Many-Colored Death."
Bastian felt the deadly power that flowed from the lion's eyes.
But he did not avert his own.
When they had measured their strength for some time, the
lion looked down. With slow, majestic movements he descended
from the dune. When he stepped onto the ultramarine sand, he
too changed color, his coat and mane became blue. For a
moment the huge beast stood facing Bastian, who had to look up
at him as a mouse might look up at a cat. Then suddenly
Grograman lay down and touched his head to the ground.
"Master," he said. "I am your servant, I await your
commands."
"I'd like to get out of this desert," said Bastian. "Can you
manage that?"
Grograman shook his mane.
"No, master, that I cannot do."
"Why not?"
"Because I carry the desert with me."
Not knowing what to make of this, Bastian asked: "Isn't there
somebody who can get me out of here?"
"How could that be, master?" said Grograman. "Where I am
no other living creature can exist. My presence alone would
suffice to reduce everybody -- even the most powerful of creatures
-- into ashes for thousands of miles around. That's why I'm called
the Many-Colored Death and Lord of the Desert of Colors."
"That's not so," said Bastian. "Everybody doesn't get burned
up in your desert. Look at me."
"Because you are bearing the Gem, master. AURYN protects
you -- even from me, the deadliest creature in Fantastica."
"You mean that if I didn't have the Gem, I'd be reduced to
ashes?"
"That's how it is, master. That's what would happen, though
personally I'd regret it. Because you're the first and only being
who has ever spoken to me."
Bastian touched the amulet. "Thank you, Moon Child," he
said under his breath.
Grograman stood up to his full height and looked down at
Bastian.
"I believe, master, that we have things to discuss. Perhaps I
can acquaint you with certain secrets. And perhaps you can clear
up the riddle of my existence for me."
Bastian nodded. "But first," he said. "Could you possibly get
me something to drink? I'm very thirsty."
"Your servant hears and obeys," said Grograman. "Will you
deign to sit on my back? I shall carry you to my palace, where you
will find everything you need."
Bastian climbed up on the lion's back and clutched the
flaming mane in both hands. Grograman looked back at his
passenger.
"Hold on tight, master, I'm a swift runner. And one more
thing: as long as you are in my domain and especially when you
are with me -- promise me that you will never for any reason lay
down the amulet that protects you."
"I promise," said Bastian.
The lion started off, at first at a slow, dignified gait, then
faster and faster. To Bastian's amazement, the lion's coat and
mane changed color with every new sand hill. But soon
Grograman was making great leaps from hilltop to hilltop, and
his coat changed color faster and faster. Bastian's eyes swam, and
he saw all the colors at once as in a rainbow. The hot wind
whistled around Bastian's ears and tugged at his mantle, which
fluttered behind him. He felt the movements of the lion's
muscles and breathed the wild, heady smell of the shaggy mane.
The triumphant shout that escaped him resembled the cry of a
bird of prey, and Grograman answered with a roar that made the
desert tremble. For the moment these two different creatures
were one. Bastian's heart and mind were in the clouds. He didn't
come to himself until he heard Grograman saying: "We have
arrived, master! Will you deign to alight?"
Bastian jumped down from the lion's back and landed on the
sandy ground. Before him he saw a cleft mountain of black rock.
Or was it a ruined building? He didn't know, for the stones
which made up the doorframes, walls, columns, and terraces of
the building, as well as those that were lying about half buried in
colored sand, were deeply creviced and smooth, as though the
sandstorms of time had smoothed away all sharp edges and
roughness.
"This, master, is my palace -- and my tomb," Bastian heard
the lion's voice saying. "You are Grograman's first and only guest.
Enter and make yourself at home."
The sun hung low over the horizon, a great pale-yellow disk,
shorn of its searing heat. Apparently the ride had taken much
longer than it had seemed to Bastian. The truncated columns or
spurs of rock, whichever they might be, cast long shadows. It
would soon be night.
As Bastian followed the lion through a dark doorway leading
into the palace, he had the impression that Grograman's steps
sounded tired and heavy.
After passing a dark corridor and up and down a number of
stairways, they came at last to a large double door which seemed
to be made of black rock. As Grograman approached, it opened
of its own accord, and when they had both gone through, it
closed behind them.
Now they were in a large hall, or rather a cave, lit by
hundreds of lamps whose flames resembled the play of colors on
Grograman's coat. The floor was of colored tiles. At the center
was a circular platform surrounded by steps, and on the platform
lay an enormous black rock. Grograman seemed spent as he
turned to Bastian.
"My time is close at hand, master," he said, hardly above a
whisper. "There won't be time for our talk. But don't worry, and
wait for the day. What has always happened will happen once
again. And perhaps you will be able to tell me why."
Then he pointed his head in the direction of a little gate at
the other end of the cave.
"Go in there, master. You will find everything in readiness.
That room has been waiting for you since the beginning of time."
Bastian went to the gate, but before opening it, he glanced
back. Grograman had sat down on the black rock. He was as
black as the stone. In a faint, far-off voice, he said: "Quite
possibly, master, you will hear sounds that will frighten you.
Don't be afraid. As long as you carry the emblem, nothing can
happen to you."
Bastian nodded and passed through the gate.
The room he entered was magnificent. The floor was laid
with soft, richly colored carpets. The graceful columns
supporting the vaulted ceiling were covered with gold mosaic,
which fragmented the varicolored light of the lamps. In one
corner Bastian saw a broad divan covered with soft rugs and
cushions of all kinds, surmounted by a canopy of azure-blue silk.
In the opposite corner the stone floor had been hollowed to form
a pool filled with golden liquid. On a low table stood bowls and
dishes of food, a carafe full of some ruby-red drink, and a golden
cup.
Bastian squatted down at the table and fell to. The drink had
a tart, wild taste and was wonderfully thirst-quenching. The
dishes were unknown to Bastian. Some looked like cakes or nuts,
others like squash or melons, but the taste was entirely different.
Sharp and spicy. Everything was delicious, and Bastian ate his fill.
Then he took his clothes off -- but not the amulet -- and
stepped into the pool. For a while he splashed about, washed
himself, dived under, and came up puffing like a walrus. Then he
discovered some strange-looking bottles at the edge of the pool.
Thinking they must be bath oils, he poured a little of each into
the water. Green, red, and yellow flames darted hissing over the
surface, and a little smoke went up. It smelled of resin and bitter
herbs. And then the flames died.
After a while Bastian got out of the water, dried himself with
the soft towels that lay ready, and put his clothes on. Suddenly he
noticed that the lamps were not burning as brightly as before.
And then he heard a sound that sent the cold shivers down his
spine: a cracking and grinding, as though a rock were bursting
under the pressure of expanding ice.
Bastian's heart pounded. He remembered that Grograman
had told him not to be afraid.
The sound softened to a moan and soon stopped. It was not
repeated, but the stillness was almost more terrible.
Determined to find out what had happened, Bastian opened
the door of the bedchamber. At first he saw no change in the
great hall, except that the lamplight now seemed somber and was
pulsating like a faltering heartbeat. The lion was stillsitting in the
same attitude on the black rock. He seemed to be looking at
Bastian.
"Grograman!" Bastian cried. "What's going on? What was
that sound? Was it you?"
The lion made no answer and didn't move, but when Bastian
approached him, the lion followed him with his eyes.
Hesitantly Bastian stretched out his hand to stroke the lion's
mane, but the moment he touched it he recoiled in horror. It was
hard and ice-cold like the black rock. And Grograman's face and
paws felt the same way.
Bastian didn't know what to do. He saw that the black stone
doors were slowly opening. He left the hall, but it wasn't until he
had passed through the long dark corridor and was on his way up
the stairs that he started wondering what he would do when he
was outside. In this desert there couldn't be anyone capable of
saving Grograman.
But it wasn't a desert anymore!
Whichever way Bastian looked, he saw glittering dots.
Millions of tiny plants were sprouting from the grains of sand
which had become seeds again. Perilin the Night Forest was
growing once more.
Bastian sensed that Grograman's rigidity was somehow
connected with this transformation.
He went back to the cave. The light in the lamps was barely
flickering. He went over to the lion, threw his arms around the
huge neck, and pressed his face to the beast's face.
The lion's eyes were black and as dead as the rock.
Grograman had turned to stone. The lights flared for an instant
and went out, leaving the cave in total darkness.
Bastian wept bitterly. The stone lion was wet with his tears.
In the end, the boy curled up between the great paws and fell
asleep!
XV
Grograman, the Many-Colored Death

master," said the rumbling lion's voice. "Have you spent the
whole night like this?"
Bastian sat up and rubbed his eyes. He had been lying
between the lion's paws, and Grograman was watching him with
a look of amazement. His fur was still as black as the rock he was
sitting on, but his eyes sparkled. The lamps in the cave were
burning again.
"Oh!" Bastian cried. "I thought you had turned to stone."
"So I had," the lion replied. "I die with every nightfall, and
every morning I wake up again."
"I thought it was forever," said Bastian.
"It always is forever," said Grograman mysteriously.
He stood up, stretched, and trotted about the cave. His fur
shone more and more brightly in the colors of the mosaic floor.
Suddenly he stopped still and looked at the boy.
"Did you shed tears over me?" he asked.
Bastian nodded.
"Then," said the lion, "you are not only the only being who
has ever slept between the paws of the Many-Colored Death, but
also the only being who has ever mourned his death."
Bastian looked at the lion, who was trotting about again, and
finally asked him in a whisper: "Are you always alone?"
Again the lion stood still, but this time he did not turn
toward Bastian. He kept his face averted and repeated in his
rumbling voice: "Alone!"
The word echoed through the cave.
"My realm is the desert, and it is also my work. Wherever I
go, everything around me turns to desert. I carry it with me.
Since I am made of deadly fire, must I not be doomed to
everlasting solitude?"
Bastian fell into a dismayed silence.
"Master," said the lion, looking at the boy with glowing eyes.
"You who bear the emblem of the Childlike Empress, can you tell
me this: Why must I always die at nightfall?"
"So that Perilin, the Night Forest, can grow in the Desert of
Colors," said Bastian.
"Perilin?" said the lion. "What's that?"
Then Bastian told him about the miraculous jungle that
consisted of living light. While Grograman listened in fascinated
amazement, Bastian described the diversity and beauty of the
glimmering phosphorescent plants, their silent, irresistible
growth, their dreamlike beauty and incredible size. His
enthusiasm grew as he spoke and Grograman's eyes glowed more
and more brightly.
"All that," Bastian concluded, "can happen only when you
are turned to stone. But Perilin would swallow up everything else
and stifle itself if it didn't have to die and crumble into dust when
you wake up. You and Perilin need each other."
For a long while Grograman was silent.
"Master," he said then. "Now I see that my dying gives life
and my living death, and both are good. Now I understand the
meaning of my existence. I thank you."
He strode slowly and solemnly into the darkest corner of the
cave. Bastian couldn't see what he did there, but he heard a
jangling of metal. When Grograman came back, he was carrying
something in his mouth. With a deep bow he laid this something
at Bastian's feet.
It was a sword.
It didn't look very impressive. The iron sheath was rusty, and
the hilt might have belonged to a child's wooden sword.
"Can you give it a name?" Grograman asked.
Bastian examined it carefully.
"Sikanda," he said.
In that same moment the sword darted from its sheath and
flew into his hand. The blade consisted of pure light and glittered
so brightly that he could hardly bear to look at it. It was
double-edged and weighed no more than a feather.
"This sword has been destined for you since the beginning of
time," said Grograman. "For only one who has ridden on my
back, who has eaten and drunk of my fire and bathed in it like
you, can touch it without danger. But only because you have
given it its right name does it belong to you."
"Sikanda!" said Bastian under his breath as, fascinated by the
gleaming light, he swung the sword slowly through the air. "It's a
magic sword, isn't it?"
"Nothing in all Fantastica can resist it," said Grograman,
"neither rock nor steel. But you must not use force. Whatever
may threaten you, you may wield it only if it leaps into your hand
of its own accord as it did now. It will guide your hand and by its
own power will do what needs to be done. But if your will makes
you draw it from its sheath, you will bring great misfortune on
yourself and on Fantastica. Never forget that."
"I will never forget it," Bastian promised.
The sword flew back into its sheath and again it looked old
and worthless. Bastian grasped the leather belt on which the
sheath hung and slung it around his waist.
"And now, master," Grograman suggested, "let us, if you
wish, go racing through the desert together. Climb on my back,
for I must go out now."
Bastian mounted, and the lion trotted out into the open. The
Night Forest had long since crumbled into colored sand, and the
morning sun rose above the desert horizon. Together they swept
over the dunes -- like a dancing flame, like a blazing tempest.
Bastian felt as though he were riding a flaming comet through
light and colors.
Toward midday Grograman stopped.
"This, master, is the place where we met."
Bastian's head was still reeling from the wild ride. He looked
around but could see neither the ultramarine-blue nor the
fiery-red hill. Nor was there any sign of the letters he had made.
Now the dunes were olive green and pink.
"It's all entirely different," he said.
"Yes, master," said the lion. "That's the way it is -- different
every day. Up until now I didn't know why. But since you told
me that Perilin grows out of the sand, I understand."
"But how do you know it's the same place as yesterday?"
"I feel it as I feel my own body. The desert is a part of me."
Bastian climbed down from Grograman's back and seated
himself on the olive-green hill. The lion lay beside him and now
he too was olive green. Bastian propped his chin on his hand and
looked out toward the horizon.
"Grograman," he said after a long silence. "May I ask you a
question?"
"Your servant is listening."
"Is it true that you've always been here?"
"Always!"
"And the desert of Goab has always existed?"
"Yes, the desert too. Why do you ask?"
Bastian pondered.
"I don't get it," he finally confessed. "I'd have bet it wasn't
here before yesterday morning."
"What makes you think that, master?"
Then Bastian told him everything that had happened since he
met Moon Child.
"It's all so strange," he concluded. "A wish comes into my
head, and then something always happens that makes the wish
come true. I haven't made this up, you know. I wouldn't be able
to. I could never have invented all the different night plants in
Perilin. Or the colors of Goab -- or you! It's all much more
wonderful and real than anything I could have made up. But all
the same, nothing is there until I've wished it."
"That," said the lion, "is because you're carrying AURYN, the
Gem."
"But does all this exist only after I've wished it? Or was it all
there before?"
"Both," said Grograman.
"How can that be?" Bastian cried almost impatiently. "You've
been here in Goab, the Desert of Colors, since heaven knows
when. The room in your palace was waiting for me since the
beginning of time. So, too, was the sword Sikanda. You told me
so yourself."
"That is true, master."
"But I -- I've only been in Fantastica since last night! So it
can't be true that all these things have existed only since I came
here."
"Master," the lion replied calmly. "Didn't you know that
Fantastica is the land of stories? A story can be new and yet tell
about olden times. The past comes into existence with the story."
"Then Perilin, too, must always have been there," said the
perplexed Bastian.
"Beginning at the moment when you gave it its name,"
Grograman replied, "it has existed forever."
"You mean that I created it?"
The lion was silent for a while. Then he said: "Only the
Childlike Empress can tell you that. It is she who has given you
everything."
He arose.
"Master, it's time we went back to my palace. The sun is low
in the sky and we have a long way to go."
That night Grograman lay down again on the black rock, and
this time Bastian stayed with him. Few words passed between
them. Bastian brought food and drink from the bedchamber,
where once again the little table had been laid by an unseen hand.
He seated himself on the steps leading to the lion's rock, and
there he ate his supper.
When the light of the lamps grew dim and began to pulsate
like a faltering heartbeat, he stood up and threw his arms around
the lion's neck. The mane was hard and looked like congealed
lava. Then the gruesome sound was repeated. Bastian was no
longer afraid, but again he wept at the thought of Grograman's
sufferings, for now he knew they would endure for all time.
Later that night Bastian groped his way into the open and
stood for a long while watching the soundless growth of the night
plants. Then he went back into the cave and again lay down to
sleep between the petrified lion's paws.
He stayed with Grograman for many days and nights, and
they became friends. They spent many hours in the desert,
playing wild games. Bastian would hide among the sand dunes,
but Grograman always found him. They ran races, but the lion
was a thousand times swifter than Bastian. They wrestled and
there Bastian was the lion's equal. Though of course it was only
in fun, Grograman needed all his strength to hold his own.
Neither could defeat the other.
Once, after they had been wrestling and tumbling, Bastian sat
down, somewhat out of breath, and said: "Couldn't I stay with
you forever?"
The lion shook his mane. "No, master."
"Why not?"
"Here there is only life and death, only Perilin and Goab, but
no story. You must live your story. You cannot remain here."
"But how can I leave?" Bastian asked. "The desert is much
too big, I'd never get to the end of it. And you can't carry me out
of it, because you take the desert with you."
"Only your wishes can guide you over the pathways of
Fantastica," said Grograman. "You must go from wish to wish.
What you don't wish for will always be beyond your reach. That
is what the words "far" and "near" mean in Fantastica. And
wishing to leave a place is not enough. You must wish to go
somewhere else and let your wishes guide you."
"But I can't wish to leave here," said Bastian.
"You must find your next wish," said Grograman almost
sternly.
"And when I find it," Bastian asked, "how will I be able to
leave here?"
"I will tell you," said Grograman gravely. "There is in
Fantastica a certain place from which one can go anywhere and
which can be reached from anywhere. We call it the Temple of a
Thousand Doors. No one has ever seen it from outside. The
inside is a maze of doors. Anyone wishing to know it must dare
to enter it."
"But how is that possible if it can't be approached from
outside?"
"Every door in Fantastica," said the lion, "even the most
ordinary stable, kitchen, or cupboard door, can become the
entrance to the Temple of a Thousand Doors at the right
moment. And none of these thousand doors leads back to where
one came from. There is no return."
"And once someone is inside," Bastian asked, "can he get out
and go somewhere?"
"Yes," said the lion. "But it's not as simple as in other
buildings. Only a genuine wish can lead you through the maze of
the thousand doors. Without a genuine wish, you just have to
wander around until you know what you really want. And that
can take a long time."
"How will I find the entrance?"
"You've got to wish it."
Bastian pondered a long while. Then he said: "It seems
strange that we can't just wish what we please. Where do our
wishes come from? What is a wish anyway?"
Grograman gave the boy a long, earnest look, but made no
answer.
Some days later they had another serious talk.
Bastian had shown the lion the inscription on the reverse side
of the Gem. "What do you suppose it means?" he asked. " 'DO
WHAT YOU WISH.' That must mean I can do anything I feel
like. Don't you think so?"
All at once Grograman's face looked alarmingly grave, and his
eyes glowed.
"No," he said in his deep, rumbling voice. "It means that you
must do what you really and truly want. And nothing is more
difficult."
"What I really and truly want? What do you mean by that?"
"It's your own deepest secret and you yourself don't know it."
"How can I find out?"
"By going the way of your wishes, from one to another, from
first to last. It will take you to what you really and truly want."
"That doesn't sound so hard," said Bastian.
"It is the most dangerous of all journeys."
"Why?" Bastian asked. "I'm not afraid."
"That isn't it," Grograman rumbled. "It requires the greatest
honesty and vigilance, because there's no other journey on which
it's so easy to lose yourself forever."
"Do you mean because our wishes aren't always good?"
Bastian asked.
The lion lashed the sand he was lying on with his tail. His
ears lay flat, he screwed up his nose, and his eyes flashed fire.
Involuntarily Bastian ducked when Grograman's voice once again
made the earth tremble: "What do you know about wishes? How
would you know what's good and what isn't?"
In the days that followed Bastian thought a good deal about
what the Many-Colored Death had said. There are some things,
however, that we cannot fathom by thinking about them, but
only by experience. So it was not until much later, after all
manner of adventures, that he thought back on Grograman's
words and began to understand them.
At this time another change took place in Bastian. Since his
meeting with Moon Child he had received many gifts. Now he
was favored with a new one: courage. And again something was
taken away from him, namely, the memory of his past timidity.
Since he was no longer afraid of anything, a new wish began,
imperceptibly at first, then more distinctly, to take shape within
him: the wish to be alone no longer. Even in the company of the
Many-Colored Death he was alone in a way. He wanted to
exhibit his talents to others, to be admired and to become
famous.
And one night as he was watching Perilin grow, it suddenly
came to him that he was doing so for the last time, that he would
have to bid the grandiose Night Forest goodbye. An inner voice
was calling him away.
He cast a last glance at the magnificently glowing colors.
Then he descended to the darkness of Grograman's palace and
tomb, and sat down on the steps. He couldn't have said what he
was waiting for, but he knew that he could not sleep that night.
He must have dozed a little, for suddenly he started as if
someone had called his name.
The door leading to the bedchamber had opened. Through
the cleft a long strip of reddish light shone into the dark cave.
Bastian stood up. Had the door been transformed for this
moment into the entrance of the Temple of a Thousand Doors?
Hesitantly he approached the cleft and tried to peer through. He
couldn't see a thing. Then slowly the cleft began to close. In a
moment his only chance would pass.
He turned back to Grograman, who lay motionless, with eyes
of dead stone, on his pedestal. The strip of light from the door
fell full on him.
"Goodbye, Grograman, and thanks for everything," he said
softly. "I'll come again, I promise, I'll come again."
Then he slipped through the cleft, and instantly the door
closed behind him.
Bastian didn't know that he would not keep his promise.
Much much later someone would come in his name and keep it
for him.
But that's another story and shall be told another time.
XVI
The Silver City of Amarganth

urple light passed in slow waves across the floor and the walls of
the room. It was a hexagonal room, rather like the enlarged cell of
a honeycomb. Every second wall had a door in it, and on the
intervening walls were painted strange pictures representing landscapes
and creatures who seemed to be half plant and half animal.
Bastian had entered through one of the doors; the other two, to
the right and left of it, were exactly the same shape, but the
left-hand door was black, while the right-hand one was white.
Bastian chose the white door.
In the next room the light was yellowish. Here again the walls
formed a hexagon. The pictures represented all manner of
contrivances that meant nothing to Bastian. Were they tools or
weapons? The two doors leading onward to the right and left
were the same color, yellow, but the left-hand one was tall and
narrow, while the one on the right was low and wide. Bastian
chose the left-hand one.
The next room was hexagonal like the others, but the light
was bluish. The pictures on the walls were of intricate ornaments
or characters in a strange alphabet. Here the two doors were the
same color, but of different material, one of wood, the other of
metal. Bastian chose the wooden door.
It is not possible to describe all the doors and rooms through
which Bastian passed during his stay in the Temple of a
Thousand Doors. There were doors that looked like large
keyholes, and others that resembled the entrances to caves, there
were golden doors and rusty iron doors, some were padded and
some were studded with nails, some were paper-thin and others
as thick as the doors of treasure houses; there was one that looked
like a giant's mouth and another that had to be opened like a
drawbridge, one that suggested a big ear and one that was made
of gingerbread, one that was shaped like an oven door, and one
that had to be unbuttoned. The two doors leading out of a room
always had something in common -- the shape, the material, the
size, the color -- but there was always some essential difference
between them.
Bastian had passed many times from one hexagonal room to
another. Every decision he made led to another decision that led
to yet another decision. But after all these decisions he was still in
the Temple of a Thousand Doors. As he went on and on, he
began to wonder why this should be. His wish had sufficed to
lead him into the maze, but apparently it was not definite enough
to enable him to find the way out. He had wished for company.
But now he realized that by company he had meant no one in
particular. This vague wish hadn't helped him at all. Thus far his
decisions had been based on mere whim and involved very little
thought. In every case he might just as well have taken the other
door. At this rate he would never find his way out.
Just then he was in a room with a greenish light. Three of the
six walls had variously shaped clouds painted on them. The door
to the left was of white mother-of-pearl, the one on the right of
ebony. And suddenly he knew whom he wished for: Atreyu!
The mother-of-pearl door reminded Bastian of Falkor the
luck-dragon, whose scales glistened like mother-of-pearl. So he
decided on that one.
In the next room one of the two doors was made of plaited
grass, the other was an iron grating. Just then Bastian was
thinking of the Grassy Ocean where Atreyu was at home, so he
picked the grass door.
In the next room he found two doors which differed only in
that one was made of leather and the other of felt. Bastian chose
the leather one.
Then he was faced with two more doors, and again he had
time to think. One was purple, the other olive green. Atreyu was
a Greenskin and his cloak was made from the hide of a purple
buffalo. A symbol such as Atreyu had had on his forehead and
cheeks when Cairon came to him was painted in white on the
olive-green door. But the purple door had the same symbol on it,
and Bastian didn't know that Atreyu's cloak had been
ornamented with just such symbols. That door, he thought, must
lead to someone else, not to Atreyu.
He opened the olive-green door -- and then he was outside.
To his surprise he found himself not in the Grassy Ocean but
in a bright springtime forest. Sunbeams shone through the young
foliage and played their games of light and shade on the mossy
ground. The place smelled of earth and mushrooms and the
balmy air was filled with the twittering of birds.
Bastian turned around and saw that he had just stepped out
of a little forest chapel. For that moment its door had been the
way out of the Temple of a Thousand Doors. Bastian opened it
again, but all he saw was the inside of a small chapel. The roof
consisted only of a few rotten beams, and the walls were covered
with moss.
Bastian started walking. He had no idea where he was going,
but he felt certain that sooner or later he would find Atreyu. The
thought made him so happy that he whistled to the birds, who
answered him and sang every merry tune that entered his head.
A while later he caught sight of a group of figures in a
clearing. As he came closer, they proved to be four men in
magnificent armor and a beautiful lady, who was sitting on the
grass, strumming a lute. Five richly caparisoned horses and a pack
mule were standing in the background. A white cloth laid with all
manner of viands and drink was spread out on the grass before
the company.
Before joining the group, Bastian hid the Childlike Empress's
amulet under his shirt. He thought it best to see what these
people were up to before allowing himself to be recognized.
The men stood up and bowed low at his approach, evidently
taking him for an Oriental prince or something of the kind. The
fair lady nodded, smiled at him, and went on strumming her lute.
One of the men was taller than the rest and more magnificently
clad. He had fair hair that hung down over his shoulders.
"I am Hero Hynreck," he announced, "and this lady is
Princess Oglamar, daughter of the king of Luna. These men are
my friends Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn. And what may your
name be, young friend?"
"I may not say my name -- not yet," Bastian replied.
"A vow?" Princess Oglamar asked on a note of mockery. "So
young, and you've already made a vow?"
"Have you come a long way?" Hero Hynreck inquired.
"A very long way," Bastian replied.
"Are you a prince?" asked the princess with a gracious smile.
"That I may not reveal," said Bastian
"Well, welcome in any case to our gathering!" cried Hero
Hynreck. "Will you honor us by partaking of our repast?"
Bastian accepted with thanks, sat down, and began to eat.
From the conversation between the lady and the four knights
Bastian learned that a tournament was to be held in the large and
magnificent Silver City of Amarganth, which was not far distant.
From far and near the boldest heroes, the most skillful hunters,
the bravest warriors, and all manner of adventurers as well, had
come to take part. Only the three bravest and best, who defeated
all the others, were to have the honor of joining in a long and
perilous expedition, the aim of which was to find a certain
person, the so-called Savior, who was known to be somewhere in
one of the numerous regions of Fantastica. Thus far no one knew
his name. It appeared that at some time in the past Fantastica had
been struck by disaster, but that this Savior had appeared on the
scene and saved it in the nick of time by giving the Childlike
Empress the name of Moon Child, by which she was now known
to everyone in Fantastica. Since then he had been wandering
about the country unknown, and the purpose of the expedition
was to find him and keep him safe by serving him as a kind of
bodyguard. Only the bravest and ablest men would be chosen for
the mission, since it seemed more than likely that formidable
adventures awaited them.
The tournament at which the three were to be chosen had
been organized by Querquobad, the Silver Sage -- the city of
Amarganth was always ruled by its oldest man or woman, and
Querquobad was a hundred and seven years old. The winners,
however, would not be selected by him, but by one Atreyu, a
young Greenskin, who was then visiting Sage Querquobad. This
Atreyu was to lead the expedition. For he alone was capable of
recognizing the Savior, since he had seen him once in his magic
mirror.
Bastian listened in silence. It wasn't easy for him, for he soon
realized that this Savior was his very own self. And when Atreyu's
name came up, his heart laughed within him, and he found it
very hard not to give himself away. But he was determined to
keep his identity a secret for the present.
Hero Hynreck, as it turned out, was not so much concerned
with the expedition as with the heart of Princess Oglamar.
Bastian had seen at a glance that he was head over heels in love
with the young lady. For no apparent reason he kept sighing and
casting mournful glances at her. And she would pretend not to
notice. As Bastian learned later on, she had vowed to marry no
one but the greatest of all heroes, who proved himself able to
defeat all others. She wouldn't be satisfied with less. But how
could Hero Hynreck prove that he was the greatest? After all, he
couldn't just go out and kill someone who had done him no
harm. And as for wars, there hadn't been any for ages. He would
gladly have fought monsters or demons, he would gladly have
brought her a fresh dragon's tail for breakfast every morning, but
far and wide there were no monsters, demons, or dragons to be
found. So naturally, when the messenger from Querquobad, the
Silver Sage, had invited him to the tournament, he had accepted
forthwith. But Princess Oglamar had insisted on coming along,
for she wanted to see his performance with her own eyes.
"Everybody knows," she said with a smile, "that heroes are
not to be believed. They all tend to exaggerate their
achievements."
"Exaggeration or not," said Hero Hynreck, "I can assure you
that I'm a better man than this legendary Savior."
"How can you know that?" Bastian asked.
"Well," said Hero Hynreck, "if the fellow was half as strong
and brave as I am, he wouldn't need a bodyguard to take care of
him. He sounds kind of pathetic to me."
"How can you say such a thing!" cried Oglamar with
indignation. "Didn't he save Fantastica from destruction?"
"What of it!" said Hero Hynreck with a sneer. "That didn't
take much of a hero."
Bastian decided to teach him a little lesson at the first
opportunity.
The three other knights had merely fallen in with the couple
en route. Hykrion, who had a bristling black moustache, claimed
to be the most powerful swordsman in all Fantastica. Hysbald,
who had red hair and seemed frail in comparison with the others,
claimed that no one was quicker and more nimble with a sword
than he. And Hydorn was convinced that he had no equal for
endurance in combat. His exterior seemed to support his
contention, for he was tall and lean, all bone and sinew.
After the meal they prepared to resume their journey. The
crockery and provisions were packed into the saddlebags. Princess
Oglamar mounted her white palfrey and trotted off without so
much as a backward look at the others. Hero Hynreck leapt on
his coal-black stallion and galloped after her. The three other
knights offered Bastian a ride on their pack mule, which he
accepted. Whereupon they started through the forest on their
splendidly caparisoned steeds, while Bastian brought up the rear.
Bastian's mount, an aged she-mule, dropped farther and farther
behind. Bastian tried to goad her on, but instead of quickening
her pace, the mule stopped still, twisted her neck to look back at
him, and said: "Don't urge me on, sire, I've lagged behind on
purpose."
"Why?" Bastian asked.
"Because I know who you are."
"How can that be?"
"When a person is only half an ass like me, and not a
complete one, she senses certain things. Even the horses had an
inkling. You needn't say anything, sire. I'd have been so glad to
tell my children and grandchildren that I carried the Savior on
my back and was first to welcome him. Unfortunately mules
don't get children."
"What's your name?" Bastian asked.
"Yikka, sire."
"Look here, Yikka. Don't spoil my fun. Could you keep what
you know to yourself for the time being?"
"Gladly, sire."
And the mule trotted off to catch up with the others.
The group were waiting on a knoll at the edge of the forest,
looking down with wonderment at the city of Amarganth, which
lay gleaming in the sunlight before them. From the height where
they stood, the travelers had a broad view over a large, violet blue
lake, surrounded on all sides by similar wooded hills. In the
middle of this lake lay the Silver City of Amarganth. The houses
were all supported by boats, and the larger palaces by great
barges. Every house and every ship was made of finely chiseled,
delicately ornamented silver. The windows and doors of the
palaces great and small, the towers and balconies, were all of
finely wrought silver filigree, unequaled in all Fantastica. The lake
was studded with boats of all sizes, carrying visitors to the city
from the mainland. Hero Hynreck and his companions hastened
down to the shore, where a silver ferry with a magnificently
curved prow was waiting. There was room in it for the whole
company, horses, pack mule, and all.
On the way over, Bastian learned from the ferryman, whose
clothes were of woven silver, that the violet-blue water of the lake
was so salty and bitter that only silver, and a special kind of silver
at that, could withstand its corrosive action for any length of
time. The name of this lake was Moru, or Lake of Tears. In times
long past the people of Amarganth had ferried their city to the
middle of the lake to protect it from invasion, since ships of wood
or iron were quick to disintegrate in the acrid water. And at
present there was yet another reason for leaving Amarganth in the
middle of the lake, for the inhabitants had got into the habit of
regrouping their houses and moving their streets and squares
about when the fancy struck them. Suppose, for instance, that
two families, living at opposite ends of town, made friends or
intermarried. Why, then they would simply move their silver
ships close together and become neighbors.
Bastian would gladly have heard more, but the ferry had
reached the city, and he had to get out with his traveling
companions.
Their first concern was to find lodgings for themselves and
their mounts -- no easy matter, since Amarganth was literally
overrun by visitors who had come from far and near for the
tournament. At length they found lodgings in an inn.
After taking the she-mule to the stable, Bastian whispered in
her ear: "Don't forget your promise, Yikka. I'll be seeing you
soon again."
Yikka nodded.
Then Bastian told his traveling companions that he didn't
wish to be a burden to them any longer and would look about
the town on his own. After thanking them for their kindness, he
took his leave. Actually he was intent on finding Atreyu.
The large and small boats were connected by gangplanks,
some so narrow that only one person could cross them at a time,
others as wide as good-sized streets. There were also arched
bridges with roofs over them, and in the canals between the
palace-ships hundreds of small boats were moving back and forth.
But wherever you went or stood, you felt a gentle rise and fall
underfoot, just enough to remind you that the whole city was
afloat.
The visitors, who had literally flooded the city, were so varied
and colorful that it would take a whole book to describe them.
The Amarganthians were easy to recognize, for they all wore
clothes of a silver fabric that was almost as fine as Bastian's
mantle. Their hair too was silver; they were tall and well-built,
and their eyes were as violet-blue as Moru, the Lake of Tears.
Most of the visitors were not quite so attractive. There were
muscle-bound giants with heads that seemed no larger than
apples between their huge shoulders. There were sinister-looking
night-rowdies, bold, solitary individuals whom, as one could see
at a glance, it was best not to tangle with. There were flimflams
with shifty eyes and nimble fingers, and berserkers with smoke
coming out of their mouths and noses. There were topsy-turvies
who spun like living tops and wood-goblins who trotted about on
gnarled, crooked legs, carrying stout clubs over their shoulders.
Once Bastian even saw a rock chewer, with teeth like steel chisels
jutting out of his mouth. The silver gangplank bent under his
weight as he came stomping along. But before Bastian could ask
him if by any chance he was Pyornkrachzark, he had vanished in
the crowd.
At length Bastian reached the center of the city, where the
tournament was already in full swing. In a circular open space
that looked like a giant arena, hundreds of contestants were
measuring their strength, showing their mettle. Around the edges
a crowd of onlookers egged the participants on, and the windows
and balconies of the surrounding palace-ships were packed with
enthusiasts. Some had even managed to climb up on the
filigree-ornamented roofs.
At first Bastian paid little attention to the tournament. He
was looking for Atreyu, feeling sure that he must be somewhere
in the crowd. Then he noticed that the onlookers kept turning
expectantly toward one of the palaces -- especially when a
contestant had performed some particularly impressive feat. But
before he could get a good look at the palace, Bastian had to
thrust his way across one of the bridges and climb a sort of
lamppost.
Two silver chairs had been set up on a wide balcony. In one
sat an aged man whose silver beard and hair hung down to his
waist. That must be Querquobad, the Silver Sage. Beside him sat
a boy of about Bastian's age. He was wearing long trousers made
of soft leather, but he was bare from the waist up, and Bastian
saw that his skin was olive green. The expression of his lean face
was grave, almost stern. His long, blue-black hair was gathered
together and held back by leather thongs. Over his shoulders he
wore a purple cloak. He was looking calmly and yet somehow
eagerly down at the arena. Nothing seemed to escape his dark
eyes. Who could it be but Atreyu!
At that moment an enormous face appeared in the open
balcony door behind Atreyu. It looked rather like a lion's, except
that it had white mother-of-pearl scales instead of fur, and long
white fangs jutted out of the mouth. The eyeballs sparkled ruby
red, and when the head rose high above Atreyu, Bastian saw that
it rested on a long, supple neck, from which hung a mane that
looked like white fire. Of course, it was Falkor the luckdragon,
and he seemed to be whispering something in Atreyu's ear, for
Atreyu nodded.
Bastian slid down the lamppost. He had seen enough. Now
he could watch the tournament.
"Tournament" was hardly the right word. The contests that
were in progress added up to something more like a big circus.
There was a wrestling match between two giants, who twined
their bodies into one huge knot that kept rolling this way and
that; individuals of like or divergent species vied with one another
in swordsmanship or in skill at handling the club or the lance,
but none had any serious intention of killing his adversary. The
rules called for fair fighting and the strictest self-control. Any
contestant so misled by anger or ambition as to injure an
opponent seriously would have been automatically disqualified.
Many defeated combatants had left the arena when Bastian
saw Hykrion the Strong, Hysbald the Swift, and Hydorn the
Enduring make their appearance. Hero Hynreck and Princess
Oglamar were not with them.
By then there were scarcely more than a hundred contestants
left. Since these were a selection from among the best and
strongest, Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn had a much harder
time of it than they may have expected. It took all afternoon for
Hykrion to prove himself the strongest among the strong,
Hysbald the swiftest among the swift, and Hydorn the most
enduring among the enduring. The onlookers applauded with a
will and all three bowed in the direction of the balcony, where
Silver Sage Querquobad and Atreyu were sitting. Atreyu was
getting up to say something when yet another contestant
appeared -- Hynreck. An expectant silence fell and Atreyu sat
down. Since only three men were to accompany him on his
expedition, there was one too many in the field. One would have
to withdraw.
"Sires," said Hynreck in a loud voice, "I would not suggest
that your strength can have been impaired by the little display
you have just made of your abilities. Under the circumstances,
however, it would be unworthy of me to challenge you singly.
Since I have thus far seen no adversary up to my standards, I have
not participated in the contests. Consequently, I am still fresh. If
any of you should feel too exhausted, he is free to staud aside.
Otherwise, I am prepared to face all three of you at once. Any
objections?"
"No!" replied all three in unison.
A furious battle followed. Hykrion's blows had lost none of
their force, but Hero Hynreck was stronger. Hysbald assailed him
from all sides like streaks of lightning, but Hynreck was quicker.
Hydorn tried to wear him down, but Hero Hynreck had greater
endurance. After barely ten minutes all three were disarmed and
all three bent their knees to Hero Hynreck. He looked proudly
about him, evidently hoping for an admiring glance from his
lady, who must have been somewhere in the crowd. The cheers of
the onlookers swept over the arena like a hurricane and could no
doubt be heard on the farthermost shore of Lake Moru.
When the applause died down, Querquobad, the Silver Sage,
stood up and asked in a loud voice: "Does anyone wish to oppose
Hero Hynreck?"
A hush fell on the crowd. Then a boy's voice was heard: "Yes!
I do!"
All eyes turned toward Bastian. The crowd opened a path for
him and he strode into the arena. Cries of amazement and pity
were heard. "How handsome he is!" "What a shame!" "This must
be stopped!"
"Who are you?" asked Silver Sage Querquobad.
"I will reveal my name afterward," said Bastian.
He saw that Atreyu had narrowed his eyes and was studying
him closely, but had not yet made up his mind.
"Young friend," said Hero Hynreck. "We have eaten and
drunk together. Why do you want me to put you to shame? I
pray you, withdraw your challenge and go away."
"No," said Bastian. "I meant what I said."
Hero Hynreck hesitated a moment. Then he said: "It would
be wrong of me to measure myself in combat with you. Let us
first see who can shoot an arrow higher."
"Very well!" said Bastian.
A stout bow and an arrow were brought for each of them.
Hynreck drew the bowstring and shot the arrow so high that the
eye could not follow. At almost the same moment Bastian pulled
his bowstring and shot his arrow after it.
It was some time before the arrows came down and fell to the
ground between the two archers. Then it became evident that
Bastian's red-feathered arrow had struck Hero Hynreck's
blue-feathered arrow at its apogee with such force as to split it
open and wedge itself into it.
Hero Hynreck stared at the telescoped arrows. He had turned
rather pale, but his cheeks had broken out in red spots.
"That can only be an accident," he muttered. "Let's see who
does better with the foils."
He asked for two foils and two decks of cards. Both were
brought. He shuffled both decks of cards carefully.
Then he threw one deck high into the air, drew his blade with
the speed of lightning, and thrust. When all the other cards had
fallen to the ground, it could be seen that he had struck the ace of
hearts in the center of its one heart. And holding up his foil with
the card spitted on it, he again looked about for his lady.
Then Bastian tossed the other deck into the air and his blade
flashed. Not a single card fell to the ground. He had pierced all
fifty-two cards of the deck exactly in the middle and moreover in
the right order -- though Hero Hynreck had shuffled them ever
so carefully.
Hero Hynreck looked at the cards. He said nothing, but his
lips trembled.
"But you won't outdo me in strength," he stammered finally.
A number of weights were still lying about from the previous
contests. He seized the heaviest and slowly, straining every
muscle, lifted it. But before he could set it down, Bastian had
grabbed hold of him and lifted him along with the weight. Hero
Hynreck's face took on a look of such misery that some of the
onlookers could not repress a smile.
"Thus far," said Bastian, "you have chosen the nature of our
contests. Will you allow me to suggest something?"
Hero Hynreck nodded in silence. "Nothing can daunt my
courage."
"In that case," said Bastian, "I propose a swimming race.
Across the Lake of Tears."
A breathless silence fell on the assemblage.
Hero Hynreck turned red and pale by turns.
"That's no test of courage," he expostulated. "It's madness."
"I'm ready," said Bastian.
At that Hero Hynreck lost his self-control.
"No!" he shouted, stamping his foot. "You know as well as I
do that the water of Moru dissolves everything. It would be
certain death."
"I'm not afraid," said Bastian calmly. "I've crossed the Desert
of Colors. I've eaten and drunk the fire of the Many-Colored
Death and bathed in it. I'm not afraid of any water."
"You're lying!" roared Hero Hynreck, purple with rage. "No
one in all Fantastica can survive the Many-Colored Death. Any
child knows that."
"Hero Hynreck," said Bastian slowly. "Instead of calling me a
liar, why not admit that you're just plain scared?"
That was too much for Hero Hynreck. Beside himself with
rage, he drew his big sword from its sheath and flung himself on
Bastian. Bastian stepped back. He was about to say a word of
warning, but Hero Hynreck didn't leave him time. He struck out
in earnest, and in that same moment the sword Sikanda leapt
from its rusty sheath into Bastian's hand, and began to dance.
What happened next was so amazing that not one of the
onlookers would forget it as long as he lived. Luckily Bastian
couldn't let go of the hilt and was obliged to follow all Sikanda's
lightning-like movements. First it sliced Hero Hynreck's lovely
armor into little pieces. They flew in all directions, but his skin
was not even scratched. Hero Hynreck swung his sword like a
madman in a desperate effort to defend himself, but he was
blinded by Sikanda's whirling light, and none of his blows struck
home. At length he was stripped to his underclothes, but still he
went on fighting. And then Sikanda cut his weapon into little bits
so quickly that what had been a whole sword only a moment
before fell tinkling to the ground like a pile of coins. Hero
Hynreck stared aghast at the useless hilt, dropped it, and hung his
head. Sikanda left Bastian's hand and flew back into its rusty
sheath.
A cry of admiration rose from a thousand throats. The
onlookers stormed the arena, seized Bastian, lifted him onto their
shoulders, and carried him around in triumph. From his lofty
perch Bastian looked for Hero Hynreck. He felt sorry for the
poor fellow and wanted to give him a kind word; he hadn't
intended to make such a fool out of him. But Hero Hynreck was
nowhere to be seen.
Then silence fell. The crowd moved aside. There stood
Atreyu, smiling up at Bastian. Bastian smiled back. His bearers let
him down from their shoulders. For a long while the two boys
looked at each other in silence. Then Atreyu spoke:
"If I still needed someone to accompany me on the search for
the Savior of Fantastica, I would content myself with just this
one, for he is worth more than a hundred others. But I need no
companion, because there will be no expedition."
A murmur of surprise and disappointment was heard.
"The Savior of Fantastica has no need of our protection,"
Atreyu went on, raising his voice, "for he can defend himself
better than all of us together could defend him. And we have no
need to look for him, because he has already found us. I didn't
recognize him at first, for when I saw him in the Magic Mirror
Gate of the Southern Oracle, he was different from now --
entirely different. But I didn't forget the look in his eyes. It's the
same look that I see now. I couldn't be mistaken."
Bastian shook his head and said with a smile: "You're not
mistaken, Atreyu. It was you who brought me to the Childlike
Empress to give her a new name. And for that I thank you."
An awed whisper passed over the crowd like a gust of wind.
"You promised," Atreyu replied, "to tell me your name,
which is known to no one in Fantastica except the Golden-eyed
Commander of Wishes. Will you tell us now?"
"My name is Bastian Balthazar Bux."
At that the onlookers could contain themselves no longer.
Their rejoicing exploded in a thousand cheers. Many of them
started dancing. Bridges and gangplanks, the whole square for
that matter, began to sway.
Laughing, Atreyu held out his hand to Bastian. Bastian took
it, and so -- hand in hand -- they went to the palace. Silver Sage
Querquobad and Falkor the luckdragon were waiting on the
palace steps.
That night the city of Amarganth staged the finest celebration
in all its history. All who had legs, long or short, straight or
crooked, danced, and all who had voices, sweet or sour, high or
low, sang and laughed.
When night fell, the Amarganthians lit thousands of colored
lamps on their silver ships and palaces. And at midnight there
were fireworks such as had never been seen in Fantastica. Bastian
stood on the balcony with Atreyu. To the left and right of them
stood Falkor and Silver Sage Querquobad, watching as sheaves of
many-colored light and the Silver City's thousands of lamps were
reflected in the dark waters of Moru, the Lake of Tears.

XVII
A Dragon for Hero Hynreck

uerquobad, the Silver Sage, had slumped down in his chair
asleep, for already the hour was late. Consequently, he missed an
experience more beautiful and more extraordinary than any he
had known in the hundred and seven years of his life. And so did
many others in Amarganth, citizens as well as visitors, who,
exhausted by the festivities, had gone to bed. Only a few were still
awake, and those few were uniquely privileged:
Falkor, the white luckdragon, was singing.
High in the night sky, he flew in circles over the Lake of
Tears, and let his bell-like voice ring out in a song without words,
a simple, grandiose song of pure joy. The hearts of all those who
heard it opened wide.
And so it was with Bastian and Atreyu, who were sitting side
by side on the broad balcony of Querquobad's palace. Neither
had ever heard the song of a luckdragon before. Hand in hand,
they listened in silent delight. Each knew that the other shared
his feeling, a feeling of joy at having found a friend. And they
took care not to spoil it with idle words.
The great hour passed. Falkor's song grew faint and gradually
died away.
When all was still, Querquobad woke up and excused
himself: "I'm afraid," he said, "that old men like me need their
sleep. I'm sure you youngsters will forgive me, I must really be off
to bed."
They wished him a good night and Querquobad left them.
Again the two friends sat for a long while in silence, looking
up at the night sky, where the luckdragon was still flying in great
slow circles. From time to time he passed across the full moon
like a drifting cloud.
"Doesn't Falkor ever sleep?" Bastian asked finally.
"He's asleep now," Atreyu replied.
"In the air?"
"Oh yes. He doesn't like to stay in houses, even when they're
as big as Querquobad's palace. He feels cramped. He's just too
big and he's afraid of knocking things over. So he usually sleeps
way up in the air."
"Do you think he'd let me ride him sometime?"
"Of course he would," said Atreyu. "Though it's not so easy.
You've got to get used to it."
"I've already ridden Grograman," said Bastian.
Atreyu nodded and looked at him with admiration.
"So you said during your contest with Hero Hynreck. How
did you tame the Many-Colored Death?"
"I have AURYN," said Bastian.
"Oh!" said Atreyu. He seemed surprised, but he said nothing
more.
Bastian took the Childlike Empress's emblem from under his
shirt and showed it to Atreyu. Atreyu looked at it for a while.
Then he muttered: "So now you are wearing the Gem."
Thinking he detected a note of displeasure, Bastian hastened
to ask: "Would you like to have it back?"
He started undoing the chain.
"No!"
Atreyu's voice sounded almost harsh, and Bastian wondered
what was wrong. Atreyu smiled apologetically and repeated
gently: "No, Bastian, I haven't worn it in a long while."
"As you like," said Bastian. Then he turned the amulet over.
"Look," he said. "Have you seen the inscription?"
"Yes," said Atreyu. "I've seen it, but I don't know what it
says."
"How come?"
"Greenskins can read tracks in the forest, but not letters."
This time it was Bastian who said: "Oh!"
"What does it say?" Atreyu asked.
" 'DO WHAT YOU WISH,' " Bastian read.
Atreyu stared at the amulet.
"So that's what it says." His face revealed nothing, and
Bastian couldn't guess what he was thinking.
"If you had known," he asked, "would it have changed
anything for you?"
"No," said Atreyu. "I did what I wanted to do."
"That's true," said Bastian, and nodded.
Again they were both silent for a time.
"There's something I have to ask you," said Bastian finally.
"You said I looked different from when you saw me in the Magic
Mirror Gate."
"Yes, entirely different."
"In what way?"
"You were fat and pale and you were wearing different
clothes."
Bastian smiled. "Fat and pale?" he asked incredulously. "Are
you sure it was me?"
"Wasn't it?"
Bastian thought it over.
"You saw me. I know that. But I've always been the way I am
now."
"Really and truly?"
"I should know. Shouldn't I?" Bastian cried.
"Yes," said Atreyu, looking at him thoughtfully. "YOU
should know."
"Maybe it was a deforming mirror."
Atreyu shook his head.
"I don't think so."
"Then how do you explain your seeing me that way?"
"I don't know," Atreyu admitted. "I only know that I wasn't
mistaken."
After that they were silent for a long while, and at length they
went to sleep.
As Bastian lay in his bed, the head and foot of which were
made of the finest silver filigree, his conversation with Atreyu ran
through his head. Somehow it seemed to him that Atreyu was less
impressed by his victory over Hero Hynreck and even by his stay
with Grograman since he heard that he, Bastian, was wearing the
Gem. And true enough, he thought, maybe his feats didn't
amount to much, considering that he had the amulet to protect
him. But he wanted to win Atreyu's wholehearted admiration.
He thought and thought. There had to be something that no
one in Fantastica could do, even with the amulet. Something of
which only he, Bastian, was capable.
At last it came to him: making up stories.
Time and time again he had heard it said that no one in
Fantastica could create anything new. Even the voice of Uyulala
had said something of the kind. And just that was his special gift.
He would show Atreyu that he, Bastian, was a great storyteller.
He resolved to prove himself to his friend at the first
opportunity. Maybe the very next day. For instance, there might
be a storytelling contest, and he would put all others in the shade
with his inventions!
Or better still: suppose all the stories he told should come
true! Hadn't Grograman said that Fantastica was the land of
stories and that even something long past could be born again if
it occurred in a story.
Atreyu would be amazed!
And while picturing Atreyu's amazement, Bastian fell asleep.
The next morning, as they were enjoying a copious breakfast
in the banquet hall of the palace, Silver Sage Querquobad said:
"We have decided to hold a very special sort of festival for the
benefit of our guest, the Savior of Fantastica, and his friend, who
brought him to us. Perhaps, Bastian Balthazar Bux, it is unknown
to you that in keeping with an age-old tradition we
Amarganthians have always been the ballad singers and
storytellers of Fantastica. From an early age our children are
instructed in these skills. When they grow to adulthood they
journey from country to country for several years, practising their
art for the benefit of all. Everywhere they are welcomed with joy
and respect. But we have one regret: Quite frankly, our stock of
stories is small. And many of us must share this little. But word
has gone round -- whether true or not, I don't know -- that you,
in your world, are famous for your stories. Is that the truth?"
"Yes," said Bastian. "They even made fun of me for it."
Silver Sage Querquobad raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
"Made fun of you for telling stories that no one had ever
heard? How is that possible? None of us can make up new stories,
and we, my fellow citizens and I, would all be infinitely grateful if
you would give us a few. Will you help us with your genius?"
"With pleasure," said Bastian.
After breakfast Bastian, Atreyu, and the Silver Sage went out
to the steps of Querquobad's palace, where Falkor was already
waiting for them.
A large crowd had gathered, but on this occasion it included
few of the outsiders who had come for the tournament and
consisted largely of Amarganthians, men, women, and children,
all comely and blue-eyed, and all clad in silver. Most were
carrying stringed instruments, harps, lyres, guitars, or lutes, all of
silver. For almost everyone there hoped to display his art in the
presence of Bastian and Atreyu.
Again chairs had been put in place. Bastian sat in the middle
between Querquobad and Atreyu, and Falkor stood behind
them.
Querquobad clapped his hands. When the crowd fell silent,
he announced: "The great storyteller is going to grant our wish
and make us a present of some new stories. Therefore, friends,
give us your best, to put him in the right mood."
The Amarganthians all bowed low. Then the first stepped
forward and began to recite. After him came another and still
others. All had fine, resonant voices and told their stories well.
Some of their tales were exciting, others merry or sad, but it
would take us too long to tell them here. In all, there were no
more than a hundred different stories. Then they began to repeat
themselves. Those who came last could only tell what their
predecessors had told before them.
Bastian grew more and more agitated while waiting for his
turn. His last night's wish had been fulfilled to the letter, and he
could hardly bear the excitement of waiting to see whether
everything else would come true as well. He kept casting glances
at Atreyu, but Atreyu's face was impassive, showing no sign of
what he might be thinking.
At length Querquobad bade his compatriots desist and turned
to Bastian with a sigh: "I told you, Bastian Balthazar Bux, that
our stock of tales was small. It's not our fault. Won't you give us
a few of yours?"
"I will give you all the stories I've ever told," said Bastian,
"For I can always think up new ones. I told many of them to a
little girl named Kris Ta, but most I thought up only for myself.
No one else has heard them. But it would take weeks and months
to tell them all, and we can't stay with you that long. So I've
decided to tell you a story that contains all the others in it. It's
called 'The Story of the Library of Amarganth,' and it's very
short." Then after a moment's thought he plunged in:
"In the gray dawn of time, the city of Amarganth was ruled
by a Silver Sagess named Quana. In those long-past days Moru,
the Lake of Tears, hadn't been made yet, nor was Amarganth
built of the special silver that withstands the water of Moru. It
was still like other cities with houses of stone and wood. And it
lay in a valley among wooded hills.
"Quana had a son named Quin, who was a great hunter. One
day in the forest Quin caught sight of a unicorn, which had a
glittering stone at the end of its horn. He killed the beast and
took the stone home with him. His crime (for it is a crime to kill
unicorns) brought misfortune on the city. From then on fewer
and fewer children were born to the inhabitants. If no remedy
were found, the city would die out. But the unicorn couldn't be
brought back to life, and no one knew what to do.
"Quana, the Silver Sagess, sent a messenger to consult
Uyulala in the Southern Oracle. But the Southern Oracle was far
away. The messenger was young when he started out, but old by
the time he got back. Quana had long been dead and her son
Quin had taken her place. He too, of course, was very old, as
were all the other inhabitants. There were only two children left,
a boy and a girl. His name was Aquil, hers was Muqua.
"The messenger reported what Uyulala's voice had revealed.
The only way of preserving Amarganth was to make it the most
beautiful city in all Fantastica. That alone would make amends
for Quin's crime. But to do so the Amarganthians would need
the help of the Acharis, who are the ugliest beings in Fantastica.
Because they are so ugly they weep uninterruptedly, and for that
reason they are also known as the Weepers. Their stream of tears
wash the special silver deep down in the earth, and from it they
make the most wonderful filigree.
"All the Amarganthians went looking for the Acharis, but
were unable to find them, for they live deep down in the earth.
At length only Aquil and Muqua were left. They had grown up
and all the others had died. Together they managed to find the
Acharis and persuade them to make Amarganth the most
beautiful city in Fantastica.
"First the Acharis built a small filigree palace, set it on a silver
barge, and moved it to the marketplace of the dead city. Then
they made their streams of underground tears well up in the
valley among the wooded hills. The bitter water filled the valley
and became Moru, the Lake of Tears. On it the first silver palace
floated, and in the palace dwelt Aquil and Muqua.
"But the Acharis had granted the plea of Aquil and Muqua on
one condition, namely, that they and all their descendants should
devote their lives to ballad singing and storytelling. As long as
they did so, the Acharis would help them, because then their
ugliness would help to create beauty.
"So Aquil and Muqua founded a library -- the famous library
of Amarganth -- in which they stored up all my stories. They
began with the one you have just heard, but little by little they
added all those I have ever told, and in the end there were so
many stories that their numerous descendants, who now inhabit
the Silver City, will never come to the end of them.
"If Amarganth, the most beautiful city in Fantastica, is still in
existence today, it is because the Acharis and the Amarganthians
kept their promise to each other -- though today the
Amarganthians have quite forgotten the Acharis and the Acharis
have quite forgotten the Amarganthians. Only the name of
Moru, the Lake of Tears, recalls that episode from the gray dawn
of history."
When Bastian had finished, Silver Sage Querquobad rose
slowly from his chair.
"Bastian Balthazar Bux," he said, smiling blissfully. "You have
given us more than a story and more than all the stories in the
world. You have given us our own history. Now we know where
Moru and the silver ships and palaces on it came from. Now we
know why we have always, from the earliest times, been a people
of ballad singers and storytellers. And best of all, we know what is
in that great round building in the middle of the city, which
none of us, since the founding of Amarganth, has ever entered,
because it has always been locked. It contains our greatest treasure
and we never knew it. It contains the library of Amarganth."
Bastian himself could hardly believe it. Everything in his story
had become reality (or had it always been? Grograman would
probably have said: both!). In any event he was eager to see all
this with his own eyes.
"Where is this building?" he asked.
"I will show you," said Querquobad, and turning to the
crowd, he cried: "Come along, all of you! Perhaps we shall be
favored with more wonders."
A long procession, headed by the Silver Sage, Bastian, and
Atreyu, moved over the gangplanks connecting the silver ships
with one another and finally stopped outside a large building
which rested on a circular ship and was shaped like a huge silver
box. The outside walls were smooth, without ornaments or
windows. It had only one large door, and that door was locked.
In the center of the smooth silver door there was a stone set in
a kind of ring. It looked like a piece of common glass. Over it the
following inscription could be read:
Removed from the unicorn's horn, I lost my light.
I shall keep the door locked until my light
is rekindled by him who calls me by name.
For him I will shine a hundred years.
I will guide him in the dark depths
of Yor's Minroud.
But if he says my name a second time
from the end to the beginning,
I will glow in one moment
with the light of a hundred years.
"None of us can interpret this inscription," said Querquobad.
"None of us knows what the words 'Yor's Minroud' mean. None
of us to this day has ever discovered the stone's name, though we
have all tried time and again. For we can only use names that
already exist in Fantastica. And since these are all names of other
things, none of us has made the stone glow or opened the door.
Can you find the name, Bastian Balthazar Bux?"
A deep, expectant silence fell on the Amarganthians and
non-Amarganthians alike.
"Al Tsahir!" cried Bastian.
In that moment the stone glowed bright and jumped straight
from its setting into Bastian's hand. The door opened.
A gasp of amazement arose from a thousand throats.
Holding the glowing stone in his hand, Bastian entered the
building, followed by Querquobad and Atreyu. The crowd
surged in behind them.
It was dark in the large circular room and Bastian held the
stone high. Though brighter than a candle, it was not enough to
light the whole room but showed only that the walls were lined
with tier upon tier of books.
Attendants appeared with lamps. In the bright light it could
be seen that the walls of books were divided into sections, bearing
signs such as "Funny Stories," "Serious Stories," "Exciting
Stories," and so on.
In the center of the circular room, the floor was inlaid with an
inscription so large that no one could fail to see it:
LIBRARY
OF THE COLLECTED WORKS
OF BASTIAN BALTHAZAR BUX
Atreyu looked around in amazement. Bastian saw to his
delight that his friend was overcome with admiration.
"Is it true," asked Atreyu, pointing at the silver shelves all
around, "that you made up all those stories?"
"Yes," said Bastian, slipping Al Tsahir into his pocket.
Atreyu could only stand and gape.
"I just can't understand it," he said.
The Amarganthians had flung themselves on the books and
were leafing through them or reading to one another. Some sat
down on the floor and began to learn passages by heart.
News of the great event spread though the whole city like
wildfire.
As Bastian and Atreyu were leaving the library, they ran into
Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn.
"Sir Bastian," said the red-haired Hysbald, evidently the
deftest of the three not only with the sword but with his tongue
as well, "we have heard about your incomparable gifts, and
humbly pray you: Take us into your service and let us accompany
you on your further travels. Each one of us longs to acquire a
story of his own. And though you surely have no need of our
protection, you may derive some advantage from the service of
three such able and willing knights. Will you have us?"
"Gladly," said Bastian. "Anyone would be proud of such
companions."
The three knights wished to swear fealty by Bastian's sword,
but he held them back.
"Sikanda," he explained, "is a magic sword. No one can touch
it without mortal peril, unless he has eaten, drunk, and bathed in
the fire of the Many-Colored Death."
So they had to content themselves with a friendly handshake.
"What has become of Hero Hynreck?" Bastian asked.
"He's a broken man," said Hykrion.
"Because of his lady," Hydorn added.
"Perhaps you can do something to help him," said Hysbald.
All five of them went to the inn where they had stopped on
their arrival in Amarganth and where Bastian had brought Yikka
to the stable.
When they entered, one man was sitting there, bent over the
table, his hands buried in his fair hair. The man was Hynreck.
Evidently he had had a change of armor in his luggage, for
the outfit he was now wearing was rather simpler than the one
that had been cut to pieces the day before.
In response to Bastian's greeting, he merely stared. His eyes
were rimmed with red.
When Bastian asked leave to sit down with him, he shrugged
his shoulders, nodded, and sank back in his chair. Before him on
the table was a sheet of paper, which looked as if it had been
many times crumpled and smoothed out again.
"Can you forgive me?" said Bastian.
Hero Hynreck shook his head.
"It's all over for me," he said mournfully. "Here. Read it."
He pushed the note across the table, and Bastian read it.
"I want only the best. You have failed me. Farewell."
"From Princess Oglamar?" Bastian asked.
Hero Hynreck nodded.
"Immediately after our contest, she mounted her palfrey and
rode off to the ferry. God knows where she is now. I'll never see
her again."
"Can't we overtake her?"
"What for?"
"Maybe she'll change her mind."
Hero Hynreck gave a bitter laugh.
"You don't know Princess Oglamar," he said. "I trained more
than ten years to acquire my different skills. With iron discipline
I avoided everything that could have impaired my physique. I
fenced with the greatest fencing masters and wrestled with the
greatest wrestlers, until I could beat them all. I can run faster than
a horse, jump higher than a deer. I am best at everything -- or
rather, I was until yesterday. At the start she wouldn't honor me
with a glance, but little by little my accomplishments aroused her
interest. I had every reason to hope -- and now I see it was all in
vain. How can I live without hope?"
"Maybe," Bastian suggested, "you should forget Princess
Oglamar. There must be others you could love just as much."
"No," said Hero Hynreck. "I love Princess Oglamar just
because she won't be satisfied with any but the greatest."
"I see," said Bastian. "That makes it difficult. What could you
do? Maybe you could take up a different trade. How about
singing? Or poetry?"
Hynreck seemed rather annoyed. "No," he said flatly. "I'm a
hero and that's that. I can't change my profession and I don't
want to. I am what I am."
"I see," said Bastian.
All were silent for a time. The three knights cast sympathetic
glances at Hero Hynreck. They understood his plight. Finally
Hysbald cleared his throat and turned to Bastian.
"Sir Bastian," he said. "I think you could help him."
Bastian looked at Atreyu, but Atreyu had put on his
impenetrable face.
"A hero like Hynreck," said Hydorn, "is really to be pitied in
a world without monsters. See what I mean?"
No, Bastian didn't see. Not yet at any rate.
"Monsters," said Hykrion, winking at Bastian and stroking
his huge moustache, "monsters are indispensable if a hero is to be
a hero."
At last Bastian understood.
"Listen to me, Hero Hynreck," he said. "When I suggested
giving your heart to another lady, I was only putting your love to
the test. The truth is that Princess Oglamar needs your help right
now, and that no one else can save her."
Hero Hynreck pricked up his ears.
"Is that true, Sir Bastian?"
"It's true, as you will soon see. Only a few minutes ago
Princess Oglamar was seized and kidnapped."
"By whom?"
"By one of the most terrible monsters that have ever existed
in Fantastica. The dragon Smerg. She was riding across a clearing
in the woods when the monster saw her from the air, swooped
down, lifted her off her palfrey's back, and carried her away."
Hynreck jumped up. His eyes flashed, his cheeks were aglow.
He clapped his hands for joy. But then the light went out of his
eyes and he sat down.
"That's not possible," he said. "There are no more dragons
anywhere."
"You forget, Hero Hynreck, that I come from far away. From
much farther than you have ever been."
"That's true," said Atreyu, joining in for the first time.
"And this monster really carried her away?" Hero Hynreck
cried. Then he pressed both hands to his heart and sighed: "Oh,
my adored Oglamar! How you must be suffering! But never fear,
your knight is coming, he is on his way. Tell me, what must I do?
Where must I go?"
"Far, far from here," Bastian began, "there's a country called
Morgul, or the Land of the Cold Fire, because flames there are
colder than ice. How you are to reach that country, I can't tell
you, you must find out for yourself. In the center of Morgul there
is a petrified forest called Wodgabay. And in the center of that
petrified forest stands the leaden castle of Ragar. It is surrounded
by three moats. The first is full of arsenic, the second of steaming
nitric acid, and the third is swarming with scorpions as big as
your feet. There are no bridges across them, for the lord of the
leaden castle is Smerg, the winged monster. His wings are made
of slimy skin and their spread is a hundred feet. When he isn't
flying, he stands on his hind legs like a gigantic kangaroo. He has
the body of a mangy rat and the tail of a scorpion, with a sting at
the end of it. The merest touch of that sting is fatal. He has the
hind legs of a giant grasshopper. His forelegs, however, which
look small and shriveled, resemble the hands of a small child. But
don't let them fool you, there's a deadly power in those hands.
He can pull in his long neck as a snail does its feelers. There are
three heads on it. One is large and looks like the head of a
crocodile. From its mouth he can spit icy fire. But where a
crocodile has its eyes, it has two protuberances. These are extra
heads. One resembles the head of an old man. With it he can see
and hear. But he talks with the second head, which has the
wrinkled face of an old woman."
While listening to this description, Hero Hynreck went pale.
"What was this monster's name?" he asked.
"Smerg," Bastian repeated. "He has been wreaking his
mischief for a thousand years. Because that's how old he is. It's
always a beautiful maiden that he kidnaps, and she has to keep
house for him until the end of her days. When she dies, he
kidnaps another."
"Why haven't I ever heard of this dragon?"
"Smerg flies incredibly far and fast. Up to now he has always
chosen other parts of Fantastica for his raids. Besides, they only
happen once in every fifty years or so."
"Hasn't any of these maidens ever been rescued?"
"No, that would take a very special sort of hero."
These words brought the color back to Hero Hynreck's
cheeks. And remembering what he had learned about dragons, he
asked: "Has this Smerg a vulnerable spot?"
"Oh," said Bastian, "I almost forgot. In the bottommost
cellar of Ragar Castle there's a lead ax. It's the only weapon
Smerg can be killed with, so naturally he guards it well. You have
to cut off the two smaller heads with it."
"How do you know all this?" asked Hero Hynreck.
Bastian didn't have to answer, for at that moment cries of
terror were heard in the street.
"A dragon!" -- "A monster!" -- "Up there in the sky!" --
"Horrible!" -- "He's coming this way!" -- "Run for your lives!" --
"No, he's already got somebody!"
Hero Hynreck rushed out into the street, and all the others
followed.
Up in the sky something that looked like a giant bat was
flapping its enormous wings. For a moment, as it came closer, he
looked exactly as Bastian had just made him up. And in his two
shriveled, but oh so dangerous little arms, he was clutching a
young lady, who was screaming and struggling with all her might.
"Hynreck!" she screamed. "Hynreck! Hynreck, my hero!
Help!"
And then they were gone.
Hynreck had already brought his black stallion from the
stable and boarded one of the silver ferries that crossed to the
mainland.
"Faster! Faster!" he could be heard shouting at the ferryman.
"I'll give you anything you ask! But hurry!"
Bastian looked after him and muttered: "I only hope I haven't
made it too hard for him."
Atreyu cast a sidelong glance at Bastian. Then he said softly:
"Maybe we should get going too."
"Going where?"
"I brought you to Fantastica," said Atreyu. "I think I ought to
help you find the way back to your own world. You mean to go
back sooner or later, don'tyou?"
"Oh," said Bastian. "I hadn't thought about it. But you're
right, Atreyu. Yes, of course you are."
"You saved Fantastica," Atreyu went on. "And it seems to me
you've received quite a lot in return. I have a hunch that you're
aching to go home and make your own world well again. Or is
there something that keeps you here?"
Bastian, who had forgotten that he hadn't always been strong,
handsome, and brave, replied: "No, I can't think of anything."
Atreyu gave his friend a thoughtful look, and said: "It may be
a long, hard journey. Who knows?"
"Yes," Bastian agreed. "Who knows? We can start right now
if you like."
Then the three knights had a short friendly argument,
because each claimed the privilege of giving Bastian his horse.
Bastian soon settled the matter by asking them for Yikka, their
pack mule. Of course, they thought her unworthy of Bastian, but
he insisted, and in the end they gave in.
While the knights were making ready for the journey, Bastian
and Atreyu went to Querquobad's palace to thank the Silver Sage
for his hospitality and bid him goodbye. Falkor the luckdragon,
who was waiting for Atreyu outside the palace, was delighted to
hear they were leaving. Cities just didn't appeal to him -- even if
they were as beautiful as Amarganth.
Silver Sage Querquobad was deep in a book he had borrowed
from the Bastian Balthazar Bux Library.
"I'm sorry you can't stay longer," he said rather absently. "It's
not every day that a great author like you comes to see us. But at
least we have your works to console us."
Whereupon they took their leave.
After seating himself on Falkor's back Atreyu asked Bastian:
"Didn't you want to ride Falkor?"
"Later," said Bastian. "Now Yikka is waiting for me. And I've
given her my promise."
"Then we'll wait for you on the mainland," cried Atreyu. The
luckdragon rose into the air and was soon out of sight.
When Bastian returned to the inn, the three knights were
ready. They had taken the pack saddle off Yikka and replaced it
with a richly ornamented riding saddle. Yikka didn't learn why
until Bastian came over and whispered in her ear: "You belong to
me now, Yikka."
As the ferry carried them away from the silver city, the old
pack mule's cries of joy resounded over the bitter waters of Moru,
the Lake of Tears.
As for Hero Hynreck he actually succeeded in reaching
Morgul, the Land of the Cold Fire. He ventured into the
petrified forest of Wodgabay, crossed the three moats of Ragar
Castle, found the lead ax, and slew the dragon Smerg. Then he
brought Oglamar back to her father. At that point she would
gladly have married him. But by then he didn't want her
anymore. That, however, is another story and shall be told
another time.
XVIII
The Acharis

ain was coming down in buckets. The black, wet clouds hung so
low they seemed almost to graze the heads of the riders. Then
big, sticky snowflakes began to fall, and in the end it was snowing
and raining in one. The wind was so strong that even the horses
had to brace themselves against it. The riders' cloaks were soaked
through and flapped heavily against the backs of the beasts.
For the last three days they had been riding over a desolate
high plateau. The weather had been getting steadily worse, and
the ground was a mixture of mud and sharp stones that made for
hard going. Here and there the monotony of the landscape was
broken by clumps of bushes or of stunted wind-bowed trees.
Bastian, who rode in the lead on his mule Yikka, was fairly
well off with his glittering silver mantle, which, though light and
thin, proved to be remarkably warm and shed water like a duck.
The low-slung body of Hykrion the Strong almost vanished in
his thick blue woolen coat. The delicately built Hysbald had
pulled his great loden hood over his red hair. And Hydorn's gray
canvas cloak clung to his gaunt frame.
Yet in their rather crude way the three knights were of good
cheer. They hadn't expected their adventure with Sir Bastian to
be a Sunday stroll. Now and then, with more spirit than art, they
sang into the storm, sometimes singly and sometimes in chorus.
Their favourite song seemed to be one that began with the words:
"When that I was a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain. . ."
As they explained, this had been sung by a human who had
visited Fantastica long years before, name of Shexper, or
something of the sort.
The only one in the group who didn't seem to mind the cold
and the rain was Atreyu. On Falkor's back he rode high above the
clouds, flying far ahead to reconnoiter and rejoining the company
from time to time to report on what he had seen.
They all, even the luckdragon, believed they were looking for
the road that would take Bastian back to his world. Bastian
thought so too. He himself didn't realize that he had agreed to
Atreyu's suggestion only to oblige his friend and that wasn't what
he really wanted. But the geography of Fantastica is determined
by wishes, which may or may not be conscious. And since it was
Bastian who led the way, they were actually going deeper and
deeper into Fantastica, heading for the Ivory Tower at its very
center. What the consequences for him would be, he wouldn't
learn until much later. For the present, neither he nor his
companions had any idea where they were going.
Bastian's thoughts were busy with a different problem.
On the second day of their journey, in the forests
surrounding the Lake of Tears, he had seen unmistakable traces
of the dragon Smerg. Some of the trees had been turned to stone,
no doubt by contact with the monster's ice-cold fire. And the
prints of the giant grasshopper feet were clearly discernible.
Atreyu, who was skilled in woodcraft, had seen other tracks as
well, those of Hero Hynreck's horse. Which meant that Hynreck
was close on the dragon's heels.
"That doesn't really thrill me," said Falkor, rolling his
ruby-red eyes. "Monster or not, this Smerg is a relative of mine --
a distant one, to be sure, but a relative all the same." He was only
half in jest.
They had not followed Hero Hynreck's track but had taken a
different direction, since their supposed aim was to find Bastian's
way home.
And now Bastian was asking himself: Had it really been such
a good idea to invent a dragon for Hero Hynreck? True, Hynreck
had needed a chance to show his mettle. But was it certain that
he would win? What if Smerg killed him? And what about
Princess Oglamar? Yes, of course, she had been haughty, but was
that a reason for getting her into such a fix? And on top of all
that, how was he to know what further damage Smerg might do
in Fantastica? Without stopping to think, Bastian had created an
unpredictable menace. It would be there long after he was gone
and quite possibly kill or maim any number of innocents. As he
knew, Moon Child drew no distinction between good and evil,
beautiful and ugly. To her mind, all the creatures in Fantastica
were equally important and worthy of consideration. But had he,
Bastian, the right to take the same attitude? And above all, did he
wish to?
No, Bastian said to himself, he had ho wish to go down in the
history of Fantastica as a creator of monsters and horrors. How
much finer it would be to become famous for his unselfish
goodness, to be a shining model for all, to be revered as the "good
human" or the "great benefactor." Yes, that was what he wanted.
The country became mountainous, and Atreyu, returning
from a reconnaissance flight, reported that a few miles ahead he
had sighted a glen which seemed to offer shelter from the wind.
In fact, if his eyes had not deceived him, there were several caves
round about where they could take refuge from the rain and
snow.
It was already late afternoon, high time to find suitable
quarters for the night. So all the others were delighted at Atreyu's
news and spurred their mounts on. They were making their way
through a valley, possibly a dried-out riverbed, enclosed in
mountains which grew higher as the travelers advanced. Some
two hours later they reached the glen, and true enough, there
were several caves in the surrounding cliffs. They chose the largest
and made themselves as comfortable as they could. The three
knights gathered brushwood and branches that had been blown
down by the storm, and soon they had a splendid fire going in
the cave. The wet cloaks were spread out to dry, the beasts were
brought in and unsaddled, and even Falkor, who ordinarily
preferred to spend the night in the open, curled up at the back of
the cave. All in all, it wasn't such a bad place to be in.
While Hydorn the Enduring tried to roast a big chunk of
meat over the fire and the others watched him eagerly, Atreyu
turned to Bastian and said: "Tell us some more about Kris Ta."
"About what?" Bastian asked.
"You friend Kris Ta, the little girl you told your stories to."
"I don't know any little girl by that name," said Bastian.
"And what makes you think I told her stories?"
Once again Atreyu had that thoughtful look.
"Back in your world," he said slowly, "you used to tell lots of
stories, some to her and some to yourself."
"How do you know that, Atreyu?"
"You said so yourself. In Amarganth. And you also said that
people made fun of you for it."
Bastian stared into the fire.
"That's true," he muttered. "I did say that. But I don't know
why. I can't remember."
It all seemed very strange.
Atreyu exchanged glances with Falkor and nodded gravely as
though something one of them had said had now been proved
true. But he said nothing more. Evidently he didn't wish to
discuss such matters in front of the three knights.
"The meat's done," Hydorn announced.
He cut off a chunk for each one and they all began to eat.
"Done" was a gross exaggeration. The meat was charred on the
outside and raw on the inside, but under the circumstances there
was no point in being picky and choosy.
For a while they were all busy chewing. Then Atreyu said to
Bastian: "Tell us how you came to Fantastica."
"You know all about that," said Bastian. "It was you who
brought me to the Childlike Empress."
"I mean before that," said Atreyu. "In your world. Where did
you live and how did it all happen?"
Then Bastian told how he had stolen the book from Mr.
Coreander, how he had carried it off to the schoolhouse attic and
begun to read. When he came to Atreyu's Great Quest, Atreyu
motioned him to stop. He didn't seem interested in what the
book said about him. What interested him in the extreme was the
how and why of Bastian's visit to Mr. Coreander and of his flight
to the attic of the schoolhouse.
Bastian racked his brains, but about those things he could
remember nothing more. He had forgotten everything connected
with the fact that he had once been fat and weak and cowardly.
His memory had been broken into bits, and the bits seemed as
vague and far away as if they had concerned an entirely different
person.
Atreyu asked for other memories, and Bastian spoke about
the days when his mother was still alive, about his father and his
home, about school and the town he lived in -- as much as he
remembered.
The three knights had fallen asleep, and Bastian was still
talking. It surprised him that Atreyu should take such an interest
in the most everyday happenings. Maybe it was because of the
way Atreyu listened that these everyday things took on a new
interest for Bastian, as though they contained a secret magic that
he had never noticed before.
At last he ran out of memories. It was late in the night, the
fire had died down. The three knights were snoring softly. Atreyu
sat there with his inscrutable look, as though deep in thought.
Bastian stretched out, wrapped himself in his silver mantle,
and had almost fallen asleep when Atreyu said softly: "It's because
of AURYN."
Bastian propped his head on his hand and looked sleepily at
his friend.
"What do you mean by that?"
"The Gem," said Atreyu, as though talking to himself,
"doesn't work the same with humans as with us."
"What makes you think that?"
"The amulet gives you great power, it makes all your wishes
come true, but at the same time it takes something away: your
memory of your world."
Bastian thought it over. He didn't feel as if anything had been
taken away from him.
"Grograman told me to find out what I really wanted. And
the inscription on AURYN says the same thing. But for that I
have to go from one wish to the next without ever skipping any.
That's why I need the Gem."
"Yes," said Atreyu. "It gives you the means, but it takes away
your purpose."
"Oh well," said Bastian, undismayed. "Moon Child must
have known what she was doing when she gave me the amulet.
You worry too much, Atreyu. I'm sure AURYN isn't a trap."
"No," said Atreyu. "I don't think so either."
And after a while he added: "Anyway, it's good we're looking
for the way back to your world. We are, aren't we?"
"Oh yes," said Bastian, already half asleep.
In the middle of the night he was awakened by a strange
sound. He had no idea what it was. The fire had gone out and he
was lying in total darkness. Then he felt Atreyu's hand on his
shoulder and heard him whisper: "What's that?"
"I don't know," Bastian whispered back.
They crept to the mouth of the cave and listened.
A great many creatures seemed to be trying to fight back their
sobs. There was nothing human about it, and it didn't sound like
animals in pain. Starting as a whisper, it swelled to a sigh, then
ebbed and rose, ebbed and rose. Never had Bastian heard
anything so mournful.
"If at least we could see something," Atreyu whispered.
"Wait," said Bastian. "I've got Al Tsahir."
He took the glittering stone from his pocket and held it high.
It gave hardly more light than a candle, but in its faint glow, the
friends saw enough to make their skin crawl with horror.
The whole glen was alive with hideous, foot-long worms, who
looked as if they had been wrapped in soiled rags. Slimy little
limbs protruded from the folds in their skin. At one end, two
lidless eyes peered out from under the rags, and from every eye
flowed tears. Thousands of tears. The whole glen was wet with
them.
The moment the light from Al Tsahir hit them, the creatures
froze, and the friends were able to see what they had been doing.
At the center of the glen stood a tower of the finest silver filigree
-- more beautiful and more valuable than any building Bastian
had seen in Amarganth. Some of the wormlike creatures had
evidently been climbing about on the tower, joining its
innumerable parts. But at present they all stood motionless,
staring at the light of Al Tsahir.
A ghoulish whisper passed over the glen: "Alas! Alas! What
light has fallen on our ugliness? Whose eye has seen us? Cruel
intruder, whoever you may be, have mercy, take that light away."
Bastian stood up.
"I am Bastian Balthazar Bux. Who are you?"
"We are the Acharis. We are the unhappiest beings in all
Fantastica."
Bastian said nothing and looked in dismay at Atreyu.
"Then," he said,"it's you who created Amarganth, the most
beautiful city in Fantastica?"
"Yes!" the creatures cried. "But take that light away! And
don't look at us! Have mercy!"
"And with your weeping you made Moru, the Lake of Tears?"
"Master," they groaned, "it's true. But we'll die of shame and
horror if you make us stand in this light. Why must you add to
our torment? We've never done anything to you."
Bastian put Al Tsahir back in his pocket and again the night
was as black as pitch.
"Thank you!" cried the mournful voices. "Thank you for your
merciful kindness."
"I want to talk with you," said Bastian. "I want to help you."
He was almost sick with disgust, but he felt very sorry for the
poor things. It was clear to him that they were the creatures he
had mentioned in his story about the origin of Amarganth, but
here again he couldn't be sure whether they had always been
there or whether they owed their existence to him. In the latter
case, he was responsible for their misery. But either way he was
determined to help them.
"Oh, oh!" the plaintive voices whimpered. "No one can help
us."
"I can," said Bastian. "I have AURYN."
At that, they all seemed to stop weeping at once.
"Where have you come from?" Bastian asked.
A chorus of many voices whispered: "We live in the lightless
depths of the earth to hide our ugliness from the sun, and there
we weep all day and all night. Our tears wash the indestructible
silver out of the bedrock, and from it we spin the filigree you
have seen. On the darkest nights we mount to the surface, and
these caves are our coming-out places. Up here we join together
the sections we've made down below. We've come tonight
because it was dark enough for us to work without seeing one
another. We work to make amends to the world for our ugliness,
and that comforts us a little."
"But you're not to blame for your ugliness," said Bastian.
"Oh, there are different ways of being to blame," the Acharis
replied. "In what you do. In what you think. . . We're to blame
for just living."
"How can I help you?" Bastian asked. He felt so sorry for
them that he could hardly hold back his own tears.
"Ah, great benefactor!" the Acharis cried. "You've got
AURYN. With AURYN you can save us -- we have only one
thing to ask of you. Give us different bodies!"
"Don't worry," said Bastian. "I will. Here's my wish: That
you shall fall asleep. That when you wake up, you shall crawl out
of your skins and turn into bright-colored butterflies. That you
shall be lighthearted and happy. And that, beginning tomorrow,
you shall no longer be the Acharis, the Everlasting Weepers, but
the Shlamoofs, the Everlasting Laughers."
Bastian awaited their answer, but no sound came from the
darkness.
"They've fallen asleep," Atreyu whispered.
The two friends went back into their cave. Hysbald, Hydorn,
and Hykrion were still snoring gently. They had slept through
the whole incident.
Bastian lay down. He was extremely pleased with himself.
Soon all Fantastica would learn of the good deed he had
done. It had really been unselfish, since no one could claim that
he had wished anything for himself. There would be nothing to
mar the glory of his goodness.
"What do you think, Atreyu?" he whispered.
Atreyu was silent for a while. Then he replied: "I only wonder
what it may have cost you."
Not until somewhat later, after Atreyu had fallen asleep, did
it dawn on Bastian that his friend had been referring, not to his
self-abnegation, but to his loss of memory. But he gave the matter
no further thought and fell asleep in joyful anticipation of the
morrow.
The next morning the three knights woke him up with their
cries of amazement.
"Would you look at that! My word, even my old mare is
giggling."
They were standing in the mouth of the cave, and Atreyu was
with them. But Atreyu wasn't laughing.
Bastian got up and went out.
The whole glen was crawling and flitting and tumbling with
the most comical little creatures he had ever seen. They all had
bright-colored butterfly wings on their backs and were wearing
the weirdest outfits -- some checkered, some striped, some
ringed, some dotted. All their clothes looked either too loose or
too tight, too big or too small, and they were pieced together
every which way. Nothing was right and there were patches all
over, even on the wings. No two of these creatures were alike.
They had faces like clowns, splotched with every imaginable
color, little round red noses or absurdly long ones, and enormous
rubbery mouths. Some wore top hats, others peaked caps. Some
had only three brick-red tufts of hair, and some had shiny bald
heads. Most were sitting or hopping about on the delicate filigree
tower, or dangling from it, doing gymnastics, and in general
doing their best to wreck it.
Bastian ran out to them.
"Hey, you guys!" he shouted. "Cut that out! You can't do
that!"
The creatures stopped and looked down at him.
One at the very top of the tower asked: "What did he say?"
And one from further down replied: "The whatchamaycallim
says we can't do this."
"Why does he say we can't do it?" asked a third.
"Because you just can't!" Bastian screamed. "You can't just
smash everything up!"
"The whatchamaycallim says we can't smash everything up,"
the first butterfly-clown informed the others.
"We can too!" said another, tearing a big chunk out of the
tower.
Hopping about like a lunatic, the first called down to Bastian:
"We can too!"
The tower swayed and creaked alarmingly.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Bastian shouted. He was angry
and he was frightened, but at the same time he had all he could
do to keep from laughing.
The first butterfly-clown turned to his companions. "The
whatchamaycallim wants to know what we're doing."
"What are we doing?" asked another.
"We're having fun," said a third.
"But the tower will collapse if you don't stop!" Bastian
screamed.
"The whatchamaycallim," the first clown informed the
others,"says the tower will collapse if we don't stop."
"So what?" said another.
And the first called down: "So what?"
Bastian was speechless, and before he could find a suitable
answer, all the butterfly-clowns on the tower began to do a sort of
aerial round dance. But instead of holding hands they grabbed
one another by the legs or collars, while some simply whirled
head over heels through the air. And all bellowed and laughed.
The act that the winged creatures were putting on was so
light-hearted and comical that Bastian gave up trying to hold
back his laughter.
"But you can't do that," he called to them. "The Acharis
made it and it's beautiful."
The first butterfly-clown turned back to the others. "The
whatchamaycallim says we can't do it."
"We can do anything that's not forbidden!" cried another,
turning somersaults in the air. "And who's going to forbid us?
We're the Shlamoofs!"
"Who's going to forbid us anything?" all cried in chorus.
"We're the Shlamoofs!"
"I am!" cried Bastian.
"The whatchamaycallim," the first clown explained to the
others, "says 'I'."
"You?" said the others. "How can you forbid us anything?"
"No," said the first. "Not I. The whatchamaycallim says 'he'."
"Why does the whatchamaycallim say 'he'?" the others
wanted to know. "And who is he saying 'he' to in the first place?"
"Who are you saying 'he' to?" the first butterfly-clown called
down to Bastian.
"I didn't say 'he'," Bastian screamed, half fuming, half
laughing. "I said I forbid you to wreck this tower."
"He forbids us," said the first clown to the others, "to wreck
this tower."
"Who does?" inquired one who had just turned up from the
farend of the glen.
"The whatchamaycallim," the others replied.
"I don't know any whatchamaycallim," said the newcomer.
"Who is he anyway?"
The first sang out: "Hey, whatchamaycallim, who are you
anyway?"
"I'm not a whatchamaycallim," said Bastian, who by then was
moderately angry. "I'm Bastian Balthazar Bux, and I turned you
into Shlamoofs so you wouldn't have to cry and moan the whole
time. Last night you were still miserable Acharis. It wouldn't hurt
to show your benefactor some respect."
The Shlamoofs all stopped hopping and dancing at once and
stood gaping at Bastian. A breathless silence fell.
"What did the whatchamaycallim say?" whispered a
butterfly-clown at the edge of the crowd, but his next-door
neighbor cracked him on the head so hard that his hat slid down
over his eyes and ears, and all the others went: "Psst!"
"Would you be so kind as to repeat all that very slowly and
distinctly," the first butterfly-clown requested.
"I am your benefactor!" cried Bastian.
This threw the Shlamoofs into an incredible state of agitation.
One passed the word on to the next and in the end the
innumerable creatures, who up until then had been scattered all
over the glen, gathered into a knot around Bastian, shouting in
one another's ears.
"Did you hear that? He's our bemmafixer! His name is
Nastiban Baltebux! No, it's Buxian Banninector. Rubbish, it's
Saratit Buxibem! No, it's Baldrian Hix! Shlux! Babeltran
Billy-scooter! Nix! Flax! Trix!"
Beside themselves with enthusiasm, they shook hands all
around, tipped their hats to one another, and raised great clouds
of dust by slapping one another on the back or belly.
"We're so lucky!" they cried. "Three cheers for Buxifactor
Zanzibar Bastelben!"
Screaming and laughing, the whole great swarm shot upward
and whirled away. The hubbub died down in the distance.
Bastian stood there hardly knowing what his right name was.
By that time he wasn't so sure he had really done a good
deed.
XIX
The Traveling Companions

unbeams were fighting their way through the cloud cover as the
travelers started out that morning. At last the rain and wind had
let up. In the course of the morning the travelers ran into two or
three sudden showers, but then there was a marked improvement
in the weather, and it seemed to grow warmer by the minute.
The three knights were in a merry mood; they laughed and
joked and played all sorts of tricks on one another. But Bastian
seemed quiet and out of sorts as he rode ahead on his mule. And
the knights had far too much respect for him to break in on his
thoughts.
The rocky high plateau over which they were riding seemed
endless. But little by little the trees became larger and more
frequent.
Atreyu had noticed Bastian's bad humor. When he and
Falkor started on their usual reconnaissance flight, he asked the
luckdragon what he could do to cheer his friend up. Falkor rolled
his ruby-red eyeballs and answered: "That's easy -- didn't he want
to ride on me?
When some time later the little band rounded a jutting cliff,
they found Atreyu and the luckdragon lying comfortably in the
sun.
Bastian looked at them in amazement.
"Are you tired?" he asked.
"Not at all," said Atreyu. "I just wanted to ask if you'd let me
ride Yikka for a while. I've never ridden a mule. It must be
wonderful, because you never seem to get sick of it. I'll lend you
my old Falkor in return."
Bastian flushed with pleasure.
"Is that true, Falkor?" he asked. "You wouldn't mind carrying
me?"
"Of course not, all-powerful sultan," said the dragon with a
wink. "Hop on and hold tight."
Without touching the ground, Bastian vaulted directly from
mule to dragon back and clutched the silvery-white mane as
Falkor took off.
Bastian hadn't forgotten how Grograman had carried him
through the Desert of Colors. But riding a white luckdragon was
something else again. If sweeping over the ground on the back of
the fiery lion had been like a cry of ecstasy, this gentle rising and
falling as the dragon adjusted his movements to the air currents
was like a song, now soft and sweet, now triumphant with power.
Especially when Falkor was looping the loop, when his mane, his
fangs, and the long fringes on his limbs flashed through the air
like white flames, it seemed to Bastian that the winds were
singing in chorus.
Toward noon they sighted the others and landed. The
ground party had pitched camp beside a brook in a sunlit
meadow. There was a flatbread to eat and a kettle of soup was
cooking over a wood fire. The horses and the mule were grazing
nearby.
When the meal was over, the three knights decided to go
hunting, for supplies, especially of meat, were running low. They
had heard the cry of pheasants in the thicket, and there seemed to
be hares as well. Knowing the Greenskins to be great hunters,
they asked Atreyu to join them, but he declined. Thereupon the
knights took their long bows, buckled on their quivers full of
arrows, and went off to the woods.
Atreyu, Falkor, and Bastian stayed behind.
After a short silence, Atreyu suggested: "How about telling us
a little more about your world, Bastian?"
"What would interest you?" Bastian asked.
Atreyu turned to the luckdragon: "What do you say, Falkor?"
"I'd like to hear something about the children in your
school," said the dragon.
Bastian seemed bewildered. "What children?" he asked.
"The ones who made fun of you," said Falkor.
"Children who made fun of me?" Bastian repeated. "I don't
know of any children -- and I'm sure no child would have dared
to make fun of me."
Atreyu broke in: "But you must remember that you went to
school."
"Yes," said Bastian thoughtfully. "I remember school. Yes,
that's right."
Atreyu and Falkor exchanged glances.
"I was afraid of that," Atreyu muttered.
"Afraid of what?"
"You've lost some more of your memory," said Atreyu
gravely. "This time it came of changing the Acharis into
Shlamoofs. You shouldn't have done that."
"Bastian Balthazar Bux," said the luckdragon -- and his tone
seemed almost stern -- "if my advice means anything to you, stop
using the power that AURYN gives you. If you don't, you're
likely to lose your last memories, and without memory how will
you ever find your way back to where you came from?"
"To tell the truth," said Bastian, "I don't want to go back
anymore."
Atreyu was horrified. "But you have to go back. You have to
go back and straighten out your world so humans will start
coming to Fantastica again. Otherwise Fantastica will disappear
sooner or later, and all our trouble will have been wasted."
At that point Bastian felt rather offended. "But I'm still here,"
he protested. "It's been only a little while since I gave Moon
Child her new name."
Atreyu could think of nothing to say. But then Falkor spoke
up. "Now," he said, "I see why we haven't made the slightest
progress in finding Bastian's way back. If he himself doesn't want
to. . ."
"Bastian," said Atreyu almost pleadingly. "Isn't there
anything that draws you? Something you love? Don't you ever
think of your father, who must be waiting for you and worrying
about you?"
Bastian shook his head.
"I don't think so. Maybe he's even glad to be rid of me."
Atreyu looked at his friend in horror.
"The way you two carry on!" said Bastian bitterly. "You
almost sound as if you wanted to get rid of me too."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Atreyu with a catch in
his voice.
"Well," said Bastian. "You seem to have only one thing on
your minds: getting me out of Fantastica as quickly as possible."
Atreyu looked at Bastian and slowly shook his head. For a
long while none of them said a word. Already Bastian was
beginning to regret his angry words. He himself knew they were
unjust.
Then Atreyu said softly: "I thought we were friends."
"You were right!" Bastian cried. "We are and always will be.
Forgive me. I've been talking nonsense."
Atreyu smiled. "You'll have to forgive us, too, for hurting
your feelings. We didn't mean it."
"Anyway," said Bastian. "I'm going to take your advice."
After a while the three knights returned with several
partridges, a pheasant, and a hare. When the party started out
again, Bastian was riding Yikka.
In the afternoon, they came to a forest consisting entirely of
tall, straight evergreens, which formed, high overhead, a green
roof so dense that a ray of sunlight seldom reached the ground.
That may have been why there was no underbrush.
The soft, smooth forest floor was pleasant to ride on. Falkor
had resigned himself to trotting along with the company, because
if he had flown above the treetops with Atreyu, he would
undoubtedly have lost sight of the others.
All afternoon they rode through the dark-green twilight.
Toward nightfall they spied a ruined castle on a hilltop. They
climbed up to it and in the midst of all the crumbling walls and
turrets, halls and passageways, they found a vaulted chamber that
was in fairly good condition. There they settled down for the
night. It was redheaded Hysbald's turn to cook, and he proved to
be much better at it than his predecessor. The pheasant he
roasted over the fire was as tasty as you please.
The next morning they resumed their journey. All day they
rode through the forest, which looked the same on all sides. It
was late in the day when they noticed that they must have been
riding in a great circle, for ahead of them they saw the ruins of
the castle they had left in the morning, but this time they were
approaching it from a different direction.
"This has never happened to me before!" said Hykrion,
twirling his black moustache.
"I can't believe my eyes!" grumbled Hysbald, stalking through
the ruins on his long, thin legs.
But so it was. The remains of yesterday's dinner left no room
for doubt.
Atreyu and Falkor said nothing, but their thoughts were hard
at work. How could they have made such a mistake?
At the evening meal -- this time it was roast hare, prepared
more or less competently by Hykrion -- the three knights asked
Bastian if he would care to impart some of his memories of the
world he came from. Bastian excused himself by saying he had a
sore throat, and since he had been very quiet all that day, the
knights believed him. After suggesting a few effective remedies,
they lay down to sleep.
Only Atreyu and Falkor suspected what Bastian was thinking.
Early in the morning they started off again. All day they rode
through the forest, trying their best to keep going in a straight
line. But at nightfall they were back at the same ruined castle.
"Well, I'll be!" Hykrion blustered.
"I'm going mad!" groaned Hysbald.
"Friends," said Hydorn disgustedly, "we might as well throw
our licenses in the trash bin. Some knights errant we turned out
to be!"
On their first night at the castle, Bastian, knowing that Yikka
liked to be alone with her thoughts now and then, had found her
a special little niche. The company of the horses, who could think
of nothing to talk about but their distinguished ancestry, upset
her. That night, after Bastian had taken her back to her place, she
said to him: "Master, I know why we're not getting ahead."
"How can you know that, Yikka?"
"Because I carry you, master. And because I'm only half an
ass, I feel certain things."
"So, according to you, why is it?"
"You don't want to get ahead, master. You've stopped
wishing for anything."
Bastian looked at her in amazement.
"You are really a wise animal, Yikka."
The mule flapped her long ears in embarrassment.
"Do you know which way we've been going?"
"No," said Bastian. "Do you?"
Yikka nodded.
"We've been heading for the center of Fantastica."
"For the Ivory Tower?"
"Yes, master. And we made good headway as long as we kept
going in that direction."
"That's not possible," said Bastian. "Atreyu would have
noticed it, and certainly Falkor would have. But they didn't."
"We mules," said Yikka, "are simple creatures, not in a class
with luckdragons. But we do have certain gifts. And one of them
is a sense of direction. We never go wrong. That's how I knew for
sure that you wanted to visit the Childlike Empress."
"Moon Child. . ." Bastian murmured. "Yes, I would like to
see her again. She'll tell me what to do."
Then he stroked the mule's white nose and whispered:
"Thanks, Yikka. Thanks."
Next morning Atreyu took Bastian aside.
"Listen, Bastian. Falkor and I want to apologize. The advice
we gave you was meant well -- but it was stupid. We just haven't
been getting ahead. Falkor and I talked it over last night. You'll
be stuck here and so will we, until you wish for something. It's
bound to make you lose some more of your memory, but that
can't be helped, there's nothing else you can do. We can only
hope that you find the way back before it's too late. It won't do
you any good to stay here. You'll just have to think of your next
wish and use AURYN's power."
"Right," said Bastian. "Yikka said the same thing. And I
already know what my next wish will be. Let's go, I want you all
to here it.
They rejoined the others.
"Friends," said Bastian in a loud voice. "So far we have been
looking in vain for the way back to my world. Now I've decided
to go and see the one person who can help me find it. That one
person is the Childlike Empress. Our destination is now the Ivory
Tower."
"Hurrah!" cried the three knights in unison.
But then Falkor's bronze voice rang out: "Don't do it, Bastian
Balthazar Bux. What you wish is impossible. Don't you know
that no one can meet the Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes
more than once? You will never see her again."
Bastian clenched his fists.
"Moon Child owes me a lot," he said angrily. "I'm sure she
won't keep me away."
"You'll see," Falkor replied, "that her decisions are sometimes
hard to understand."
Bastian felt the color rising to his cheeks. "You and Atreyu,"
he said, "are always giving me advice. You can see where your
advice has got us. From now on I'll do the deciding. I've made up
my mind, and that's that."
He took a deep breath and went on a little more calmly:
"Besides, you always speak from your point of view. You two are
Fantasticans and I'm a human. How can you be sure that the
same rules apply to me as to you? It was different when Atreyu
had AURYN. And who else but me is going to give the Gem
back to Moon Child? No one can meet her twice, you say. But
I've already met her twice. The first time we saw each other for
only a moment, when Atreyu went into her chamber, and the
second time when the big egg exploded. With me everything is
different. I will see her a third time."
All were silent. The knights because they didn't know what it
was all about, Atreyu and Falkor because they were beginning to
have doubts.
"Well," said Atreyu finally, "maybe you're right. We have no
way of knowing how the Childlike Empress will deal with you."
After that they started out, and before noon they reached the
edge of the forest.
Before them lay sloping meadows as far as the eye could see.
Soon they came to a winding river and followed its course.
Again Atreyu and Falkor explored the country, describing
wide circles around their slow-moving companions. But both
were troubled and their flight was not as light and carefree as
usual. Looking ahead, they saw that the country changed
abruptly at a certain point in the distance. A steep slope led from
the plateau to a low-lying, densely wooded plain and the river
descended the slope in a mighty waterfall. Knowing that the
riders couldn't hope to get that far before the next day, the two
scouts turned back.
"Falkor," Atreyu asked, "do you suppose the Childlike
Empress cares what becomes of Bastian?"
"Maybe not," said Falkor. "She draws no distinctions."
"Then," said Atreyu, "she is really a. . ."
"Don't say it," Falkor broke in. "I know what you mean, but
don't say it."
For a while Atreyu was silent. Then he said: "But he's my
friend, Falkor. We've got to help him. Even against the Childlike
Empress's will, if we have to. But how?"
"With luck," the dragon replied, and for the first time the
bronze bell of his voice seemed to have sprung a crack.
That evening the company chose a deserted log cabin on the
riverbank as their night lodging. For Falkor, of course, it was too
small, and he preferred to sleep on the air. The horses and Yikka
also had to stay outside.
During the evening meal Atreyu told the others about the
waterfall and the abrupt change in the country. Then he added
casually: "By the way, we're being followed."
The three knights exchanged glances.
"Oho!" cried Hykrion, giving his black moustache a martial
twirl. "How many are they?"
"I counted seven behind us," said Atreyu. "But even if they
ride all night they can't be here before morning."
"Are they armed?" asked Hysbald.
"I couldn't tell," said Atreyu, "but there are more coming
from other directions. I saw six in the west, nine in the east, and
twelve or thirteen are coming from up ahead."
"We'll wait and see what they want," said Hydorn.
"Thirty-five or thirty-six men would hardly frighten the three of
us -- much less Sir Bastian and Atreyu."
Ordinarily Bastian ungirt the sword Sikanda before lying
down to sleep. But that night he kept it on and slept with his
hand on the hilt. In his dreams he saw Moon Child smiling at
him and her smile seemed full of promise. If there was any more
to the dream, he forgot it by the time he woke up, but his vision
encouraged him in his hope of seeing her again.
Glancing out of the door of the cabin, he saw seven blurred
shapes through the mist that had risen from the river. Two were
on foot, the others mounted on different sorts of steeds. Bastian
quietly awakened his companions.
The knights unsheathed their swords, and together they
stepped out of the cabin. When the figures waiting outside
caught sight of Bastian, the riders dismounted and all seven went
down on their left knees, bowed their heads and cried out: "Hail
and welcome to Bastian Balthazar Bux, the Savior of Fantastica!"
The newcomers were a weird-looking lot. One of the two
who had come on foot had an uncommonly long neck and a
head with four faces, one pointed in each of the four directions.
The first was merry, the second angry, the third sad, and the
fourth sleepy. All were rigid and unchanging, but he was able at
any time to face forward with the one expressing his momentary
mood. This individual was a four-quarter troll, sometimes known
as a moody-woody.
The second pedestrian was what is known in Fantastica as a
head-footer. His head was connected directly with his long, thin
legs, there being neither neck nor trunk. Headfooters are always
on the go and have no fixed residence. As a rule, they roam about
in swarms of many hundreds, but from time to time one runs
across a loner. They feed on herbs and grasses. The one that was
kneeling to Bastian looked young and red-cheeked.
The three creatures riding on horses no larger than goats were
a gnome, a shadowscamp, and a blondycat. The gnome had a
golden circlet around his head and was obviously a prince. The
shadow-scamp was hard to recognize, because to all intents and
purposes he consisted only of a shadow cast by no one. The
blondycat had a catlike face and long golden-blond curls that
clothed her like a coat. Her whole body was covered with equally
blond shaggy fur. She was no bigger than a five-year-old child.
Another, who was riding on an ox, came from the land of the
Sassafranians, who are born old and die when they have grown
(that is, dwindled) to infancy. This one had a long white beard, a
bald head, and a heavily wrinkled face. By Sassafranian standards,
he was a youngster, about Bastian's age.
A blue djinn had come on a camel. He was tall and thin and
was wearing an enormous turban. His shape was human, but his
bare torso with its bulging muscles seemed to be made of some
glossy blue metal. Instead of a nose and mouth, he had a huge,
hooked eagle's beak.
"Who are you and what do you want?" Hykrion asked rather
brusquely. Despite the ceremonious greeting, he wasn't quite
convinced of the visitors' friendly intentions. He still had his
hand on his sword hilt.
The four-quarter troll, who up until then had been keeping
his sleepy face foremost, now switched to the merry one. Ignoring
Hykrion, he addressed himself to Bastian:
"Your Lordship," he declared, "we are princes from many
different parts of Fantastica, and we have all come to welcome
you and ask for your help. The news of your presence has flown
from country to country, the wind and the clouds speak your
name, the waves of the sea proclaim your glory, and every last
brooklet is celebrating your power."
Bastian cast a glance at Atreyu, but Atreyu looked at the troll
unsmilingly and almost severely.
"We know," the blue djinn broke in, and his voice sounded
like the rasping cry of an eagle, "we know that you created
Perilin, the Night Forest, and Goab, the Desert of Colors. We
know you have eaten and drunk the fire of the Many-Colored
Death and bathed in it, something that no one else in Fantastica
could have done and still lived. We know that you passed
through the Temple of a Thousand Doors, and we know what
happened in the Silver City of Amarganth. We know, my lord,
that there is nothing you cannot do. When you make a wish,
your wishes come to pass. And so we invite you to come and stay
with us and favor us with a story of our own. For none of our
nations has a story."
Bastian thought it over, then shook his head. "I can't do what
you ask of me just yet. I'll help you later on. But first I must go to
the Childlike Empress. I hope you will join us and help me to
find the Ivory Tower."
The creatures didn't seem at all disappointed. After brief
deliberation they agreed to accompany Bastian on his journey.
Whereupon the procession, which by now had the look of a small
caravan, started out again.
Throughout the day they were joined by new adherents, not
only those Atreyu had sighted the day before, but many more.
There were goat-legged fauns and gigantic night-hobs, there were
elves and kobolds, beetle riders and three-legses, a man-sized
rooster in jackboots, a stag with golden antlers who walked erect
and wore a Prince Albert. Many of the new arrivals bore no
resemblance whatsoever to human beings. There were helmeted
copper ants, strangely shaped wandering rocks, flute birds, who
made music with their long beaks, and there were three so-called
puddlers, who moved by dissolving into a puddle at every step
and resuming their usual form a little farther on. But perhaps the
most startling of all was a twee, whose fore- and hindquarters had
a way of running about independently of one another. Except for
its red and white stripes it looked rather like a hippopotamus.
Soon the procession numbered at least a hundred. And all
had come to welcome Bastian, the Savior of Fantastica, and beg
him for a story of their own. But the original seven told the
others that they would first have to go to the Ivory Tower, and all
were agreed.
Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn rode with Bastian in the lead
of the now rather impressive procession.
Toward evening they came to a waterfall. Leaving the plateau,
they made their way down a winding mountain trail, at the end
of which they found themselves in a forest of tree-sized orchids
with enormous spotted blossoms. These blossoms looked so
frightening that when the travelers stopped for the night, they
decided to post sentries.
Bastian and Atreyu gathered some of the deep, soft moss that
lay all about and made themselves a comfortable bed. Falkor
protected the two friends by lying down in a circle around them.
The air was warm and heavy with the strange and none too
pleasant scent of the orchids. That scent seemed fraught with evil.
XX
The Seeing Hand

he dewdrops on the orchids glistened in the morning sun as the
caravan started out again. The night had been uneventful except
that more and more emissaries kept trailing in. The procession
now numbered close to three hundred.
The farther they went into the orchid forest, the stranger
grew the shapes and colors of the flowers. And soon Hykrion,
Hysbald, and Hydorn discovered that the fears which had led
them to post sentries had not been entirely groundless. For many
of the orchids were carnivorous and big enough to swallow a
whole calf. True, they could not move of their own volition -- it
hadn't been really necessary to post sentries -- but if something or
someone touched them, they snapped shut like traps. And several
times when a blossom seized the hand, foot, or mount of a fellow
traveler the knights were obliged to draw their swords and hack
the blossom to pieces.
Throughout the ride Bastian was besieged by all sorts of
fantastic creatures who tried to attract his attention or at least get
a look at him. But Bastian rode on in withdrawn silence. A new
wish had come to him, and for the first time it was one that made
him seem standoffish and almost sullen.
He felt that despite their reconciliation, Atreyu and Falkor
were treating him like a child, that they felt responsible for him
and thought he had to be led by the nose. But come to think of
it, hadn't they been that way from the start? Oh yes, they were
friendly enough, but they seemed to feel superior to him for some
reason, to regard him as a harmless innocent who needed
protecting. And that didn't suit him at all. He wasn't innocent,
he wasn't harmless, and he'd soon show them. He wanted to be
dangerous, dangerous and feared. Feared by all -- including
Atreyu and Falkor.
The blue djinn -- his name, incidentally, was Ilwan --
elbowed his way through the crush around Bastian, crossed his
arms over his chest, and bowed.
Bastian stopped.
"What is it, Ilwan? Speak!"
"My lord," said the djinn in his eagle's voice. "I've been
listening in on the conversations of our new traveling
companions. Some of them claim to know this part of the
country and their teeth are chattering with fear."
"What are they afraid of?"
"This forest of carnivorous orchids, my lord, belongs to
Xayide, the wickedest and most powerful sorceress in all
Fantastica. She lives in Horok Castle, also known as the Seeing
Hand."
"Tell the scaredy-cats not to worry," said Bastian, "I'm here
to protect them."
Ilwan bowed and left him.
A little later Falkor and Atreyu, who had flown far ahead,
returned to Bastian. The procession had stopped for the
noon-day meal.
"I don't know what to make of it," said Atreyu. "Three or
four hours' journey from here, in the middle of the orchid forest,
we saw a building that looks like a big hand jutting out of the
ground. There's something sinister about it, and it's directly in
our line of march."
Bastian told them what he had heard from Ilwan.
"If that's the case," said Atreyu, "wouldn't it be more sensible
to change our direction?"
"No," said Bastian.
"But there's no reason why we should tangle with this Xayide.
I think we should steer clear of her."
"There is a reason," said Bastian.
"What reason?"
"Because I feel like it," said Bastian.
Atreyu looked at him openmouthed. The conversation
stopped there because Fantasticans were crowding in from all
sides to get a look at Bastian. But when the meal was over, Atreyu
rejoined Bastian. Trying to make it sound casual, he suggested:
"How about taking a ride with Falkor and me?"
Bastian realized that Atreyu wanted a private talk with him.
They hoisted themselves up on Falkor's back, Atreyu in front,
Bastian behind him, and the dragon took off. It was the first time
the two friends had flown together.
Once they were airborne, Atreyu said: "It's been hard seeing
you alone these days. But we have to talk things over, Bastian."
"Just as I thought," said Bastian with a smile. "What's on
your mind?"
Atreyu began hesitantly. "Have we come to this place and are
we heading where we are because of some new wish of yours?"
"I imagine so," said Bastian rather coldly.
"That's what Falkor and I have been thinking," said Atreyu.
"What kind of wish is it?"
Bastian made no answer.
"Don't get me wrong," said Atreyu. "It's not that we're afraid
of anything or anyone. But we're your friends, and we worry
about you."
"No need to," said Bastian still more coldly.
Falkor twisted his neck and looked back at them.
"Atreyu," he said, "has a sensible suggestion. I advise you to
listen to him, Bastian Balthazar Bux."
"Some more of your good advice?" said Bastian with a
sardonic smile.
"No, Bastian," said Atreyu. "No advice. A suggestion. You
may not like it at first. But think it over before you turn it down.
We want to help you, and we've been wondering how. The
whole trouble is the way the Childlike Empress's amulet affects
you. Without AURYN's power you can't wish yourself ahead,
but with AURYN's power you're losing yourself and forgetting
where you want to go. Pretty soon, unless we do something about
it, you won't have any idea where you're going."
"We've already been through that," said Bastian. "So what?"
"When I was wearing the Gem," said Atreyu, "it was entirely
different. It guided me and it didn't take anything away from me.
Maybe because I'm not a human and I have no memory of the
human world to lose. In other words, it helped me and did me no
harm. So here's what I suggest: Let me have AURYN and trust
me to guide you. What do you say?"
Bastian replied instantly: "I say no!"
Again Falkor looked back.
"Couldn't you at least think it over for a moment?"
"No!" said Bastian.
For the first time Atreyu grew angry.
"Bastian," he said, "think sensibly! You can't go on like this!
Haven't you noticed that you've changed completely? You're not
yourself anymore."
"Thanks," said Bastian. "Thank you very much for minding
my business all the time. But frankly, I can get along without
your advice. In case you've forgotten, I saved Fantastica, and
Moon Child entrusted her power to me. She must have had some
reason for it, because she could have let you keep AURYN. But
she took it away from you and gave it to me. I've changed, you
say. Yes, my dear Atreyu, you may be right. I'm no longer the
harmless innocent you take me for. Shall I tell you the real reason
why you want me to give up AURYN? Because you're just plain
jealous. You don't know me yet, but if you go on like this --
you'll get to know me."
Atreyu did not reply. Falkor's flight had suddenly lost all its
buoyancy, he seemed to be dragging himself through the air,
sinking lower and lower like a wounded bird.
At length Atreyu spoke with difficulty.
"Bastian," he said. "You can't seriously believe what you've
said. Let's forget about it. As far as I'm concerned, you never said
it."
"All right," said Bastian, "let's forget it. Anyway, I didn't start
the argument."
For a time they rode on in silence.
In the distance Horok Castle rose up from the orchid forest.
It really did look like a giant hand with five outstretched fingers.
"But there's something I want to make clear once and for all,"
said Bastian suddenly. "I've made up my mind. I'm not going
back at all. I'm going to stay in Fantastica for good. I like it here.
So I can manage without my memories. And if it's the future of
Fantastica you're worried about, I can give Moon Child
thousands of new names. We don't need the human world
anymore."
Falkor banked for a U-turn.
"Hey!" Bastian shouted. "What are you doing? Fly ahead! I
want to see Horok close up!"
"I can't," Falkor gasped. "I honestly can't go on!"
On their return to the caravan they found their traveling
companions in a frenzy of agitation. They had been attacked by a
band of some fifty giants, covered with black armor that made
them look like enormous two-legged beetles. Many of the
traveling companions had fled and were just beginning to return
singly or in groups; others had done their best to defend
themselves, but had been no match for the armored giants. The
three knights, Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn, had fought
heroically, but without making a dent in any of their assailants.
In the end they had been disarmed and dragged away in chains.
One of the armored giants had shouted in a strangely metallic
voice:
"Xayide, the mistress of Horok Castle, sends greetings to
Bastian Balthazar Bux, the Savior of Fantastica, and makes the
following demands: "Submit to me unconditionally and swear to
serve me with body and soul as my faithful slave. Should you
refuse, or should you attempt to circumvent my will by guile or
stratagem, your three friends Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn will
die a slow, shameful, and cruel death by torture. You have until
sunrise tomorrow to make up your mind." That is the message of
Xayide, the mistress of Horok Castle. It has been duly delivered."
Bastian bit his lips. Atreyu and Falkor had wiped all
expression off their faces, but Bastian knew exactly what they
were thinking. What he minded most was their mask of secrecy.
But this was hardly the time to have it out with them. That could
wait. Instead, he addressed the company in a loud voice: "I will
never give in to Xayide's blackmail! We must set the prisoners
free, and without delay."
"It won't be easy," said Ilwan, the blue djinn with the eagle
beak. "All of us together are no match for those black devils. And
even if you, my lord, and Atreyu and his luckdragon were to lead
us into battle, it would take us too long to capture Horok Castle.
The lives of the three knights are in Xayide's hands. She will kill
them the moment she finds out that we are attacking."
"Then we mustn't let her find out," said Bastian. "We must
take her by surprise."
"How can we do that?" asked the four-quarter troll, putting
forward his angry face, which was rather terrifying. "Xayide is
crafty. I'm sure she has an answer for anything we can think up."
"I agree," said the prince of the gnomes. "There are too many
of us. If we move on Horok Castle, she's sure to know it. Even at
night so large a troop movement can't be kept secret. She has her
spies."
"Good," said Bastian. "We'll fool her with the help of her
spies."
"How can we do that, my lord?"
"The rest of you will start off in a different direction, to make
her think we've given up trying to free the prisoners and we're
running away."
"And what will become of the prisoners?"
"I'll attend to that with Atreyu and Falkor."
"Just the three of you?"
"Yes," said Bastian. "That is, if Atreyu and Falkor agree to
come with me. If not, I'll go alone."
The traveling companions looked at him with admiration.
Those closest to him passed his words on to those further back in
the crowd.
"My lord," the blue djinn cried out, "regardless of whether
you conquer or die, this will go down in the history of
Fantastica."
Bastian turned to Atreyu and Falkor. "Are you coming, or
have you got some more of your suggestions?"
"We're coming," said Atreyu.
"In that case," Bastian decreed, "the caravan must start
moving while it's still light. You must hurry -- make it look as if
you were in flight. We'll wait here until dark. We'll join you
tomorrow morning -- with the three knights or not at all. Go
now."
After taking a respectful leave of Bastian, the traveling
companions started out. Bastian, Atreyu, and Falkor hid in a
clump of orchid trees and waited for nightfall.
In the late afternoon a faint jangling was heard and five of the
black giants approached the abandoned camp. They seemed to be
all of black metal, even their faces were like iron masks, and their
movements were strangely mechanical. All stopped at once, all
looked in the direction where the caravan had gone. Then
without a word, all marched off in step.
"My plan seems to be working," Bastian whispered.
"There were only five," said Atreyu. "Where are the others?"
"The five are sure to communicate with the rest," said
Bastian.
At length, when it was quite dark, Bastian, Atreyu, and
Falkor crept from their hiding place, and Falkor rose soundlessly
into the air with his two riders. Flying as low as possible over the
orchid forest to avoid being seen, he headed in the direction they
had taken that afternoon. The darkness was impenetrable, and
they wondered how they would ever find the castle. But a few
minutes later Horok appeared before them in a blaze of light.
There seemed to be a lamp in every one of its thousand windows.
Evidently Xayide wanted her castle to be seen. But that was only
reasonable, for she was expecting Bastian's visit -- a different sort
of visit, to be sure.
To be on the safe side, Falkor glided to the ground among the
orchids, for his pearly-white scales would have reflected the glow
of the castle.
Under cover of the trees they approached. Outside the gate,
ten of the armored guards were on watch. And at each of the
brightly lit windows stood one of them, black, motionless, and
menacing.
Horok Castle was situated on a rise from which the orchid
trees had been cleared. True enough, it was shaped like an
enormous hand. Each finger was a tower, and the thumb was an
oriel surmounted by yet another tower. The whole building was
many stories high, and the windows were like glittering eyes
looking out over the countryside. It was known with good reason
as the Seeing Hand.
"The first thing we have to do," Bastian whispered into
Atreyu's ear, "is locate the prisoners."
Atreyu nodded and told Bastian to stay there with Falkor.
Then he crawled soundlessly away. He was gone a long time.
When he returned, he reported: "I've been all around the
castle. There's only this one entrance, and it's too well guarded.
But I've discovered a skylight high up at the tip of the middle
finger that seems to be unguarded. Falkor could easily take us up
there, but we'd be seen. The prisoners are probably in the cellar.
At any rate, I heard a long scream of pain that seemed to come
from deep down."
Bastian thought hard. Then he whispered: "I'll try to reach
that skylight. Meanwhile you and Falkor must keep the guards
busy. Make them think we're trying to get in by the gate. But
don't do any more. Don't get into a fight. Keep them here as
long as you can. Give me a few minutes' time before you do
anything."
Atreyu pressed his friend's hand in silence. Then Bastian took
off his silver mantle and slipped away through the darkness. He
had almost circled the castle when he heard Atreyu shouting:
"Attention! Bastian Balthazar Bux, the Savior of Fantastica, is
here. He has come not to beg Xayide for mercy, but to give her a
last chance to release the prisoners. If she sets them free, her
miserable life will be spared!"
Looking around the corner of the castle, Bastian caught a
glimpse of Atreyu, who had put on the silver mantle and coiled
his blue-black hair into a kind of turban. To anyone who didn't
know the two boys very well there was a certain resemblance
between them.
For a moment the armored giants seemed undecided. Then
Bastian could hear in the distance the metallic stamping of their
feet as they rushed at Atreyu. The shadows in the windows also
began to move as the guards left their posts to see what was going
on. And many more of the armored giants poured out through
the gate. When the first had almost reached Atreyu, he slipped
nimbly away and a moment later appeared over their heads,
riding Falkor. The armored giants brandished their swords and
leapt high in the air, but they couldn't reach him.
Bastian started climbing the wall. Here and there he was
helped by outcroppings and window ledges, but more often he
had to hold fast with his fingertips. Higher and higher he
climbed; once the jutting stone he had set his foot on crumbled
away and left him hanging by one hand, but he pulled himself
up, found a hold for his other hand, and kept climbing. When at
last he reached the towers he made better progress, for they were
so close together that he could push himself up by bracing
himself between them.
At length he reached the skylight and slipped through. True
enough, there was no guard in the tower room, heaven knows
why. Opening a door, he came to a narrow winding staircase and
started down. When he reached the floor below, he saw two black
guards standing at a window watching the excitement outside.
He managed to pass behind them without attracting their notice.
On he crept, down more stairways, through passages and
corridors. One thing was certain. Those armored giants might
have been great fighters, but they didn't amount to much as
guards.
At last the cold and the musty smell told him he was in the
cellar. Luckily all the guards seemed to have raced upstairs in
pursuit of the supposed Bastian Balthazar Bux. Torches along the
walls lit the way for him. Lower and lower he went. He had the
impression that there were as many floors below the ground as
above. Finally he came to the bottommost cellar and soon found
the dungeon where Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn were
languishing. It was a pitiful sight.
They were hanging by their wrists over what seemed to be a
bottomless pit. The long iron chains that held them were
connected by way of overhead rollers with a winch, but the winch
was fastened with a great padlock and couldn't be budged.
Bastian stood perplexed.
The three prisoners' eyes were closed. They seemed to be
asleep or unconscious. Then Hydorn the Enduring opened his
left eye and sang out: "Hey, friends. Look who's here!"
The others managed to open their eyes and a smile crossed
their lips.
"We knew you wouldn't leave us in the lurch!" cried Hydorn.
"How can I get you down?" Bastian asked. "The winch is
locked."
"Just take your sword and cut the chains," said Hysbald.
"And drop us into the pit?" said Hykrion. "That's not such a
good idea."
"Anyway," said Bastian, "I can't draw my sword. I can't use
Sikanda unless it jumps into my hand."
"That's the trouble with magic swords," said Hydorn. "When
you need them, they go on strike."
"Hey!" Hysbald whispered. "The guards had the key to that
winch. Where could they have put it?"
"I remember a loose stone," said Hykrion. "But I couldn't see
very well while they were hoisting me up here."
Bastian looked and looked. The light was dim and flickering,
but after a while he discovered a stone flag that was not quite
even with the rest. He lifted it cautiously, and there indeed was
the key.
He opened the big padlock and removed it from the winch.
Then slowly he began to turn. It creaked and groaned so loud
that the armored giants must have heard it by then if they weren't
totally deaf. Even so, there was nothing to be gained by stopping.
Bastian went on turning until the three knights were level with
the floor, though still over the pit. Then, after swinging them to
and fro until their feet touched the ground, he let them down.
They stretched out exhausted and showed no inclination to
move. Besides, they still had the heavy chains on their wrists.
Bastian had little time to think, for metallic steps came
clanking down the stone stairs. The guards! Their armor glittered
in the torchlight like the carapaces of giant insects. All with the
same movement, they drew their swords and rushed at Bastian.
Then at last Sikanda leapt from the rusty sheath and into his
hand. With the speed of lightning the blade attacked the first of
the armored giants and hacked him to pieces before Bastian
himself knew what was happening. It was then that he saw what
the giants were made of. They were hollow shells of armor. There
was nothing inside! He had no time to wonder what made them
move.
Bastian was in a good position, for only one giant at a time
could squeeze through the narrow doorway of the dungeon, and
one at a time Sikanda chopped them to bits. Soon their remains
lay piled up on the floor like enormous black eggshells. After
some twenty of them had been disposed of, the rest withdrew,
evidently in the hope of waylaying Bastian in a position more
favorable to themselves.
Taking advantage of the breathing spell, Bastian let Sikanda
cut the shackles from the knights' wrists. Hykrion and Hydorn
dragged themselves to their feet and tried to draw their swords,
which strangely enough had not been taken away from them, but
their hands were numb from the long hanging and refused to
obey them. Hysbald, the most delicate of the three, wasn't even
able to stand by himself. His two friends had to hold him up.
"Never mind," said Bastian. "Sikanda needs no help. Just stay
behind me and don't get in my way."
They left the dungeon, slowly climbed the stairs, and came to
a large hall. Suddenly all the torches went out. But Sikanda shone
bright.
Again they heard the heavy metallic tread of many armored
giants.
"Quick!" cried Bastian. "Back to the stairs! This is where I'm
going to fight!"
He couldn't see whether the three knights obeyed his order
and there was no time to find out, because Sikanda was already
dancing in his hand. The entire hall was ablaze with its sharp
white light. The assailants managed to push Bastian back from
the top of the stairs and to attack him from all sides, yet not one
of their mighty blows touched him. Sikanda whirled around him
so fast that it looked like hundreds of swords. And a few
moments later he was surrounded by a heap of shattered black
armor in which nothing stirred.
"Come on up!" Bastian cried to his companions.
The three knights stood gaping on the stairs. Hykrion's
moustache was trembling. "I've never seen anything like it!" he
cried.
"Something to tell my grandchildren!" Hysbald stammered.
"The only trouble," said Hydorn mournfully, "is that they
won't believe you."
Bastian stood there with sword in hand, wondering what to
do next. Suddenly it sprang back into its sheath.
"The danger seems to be over," he said.
"At least the part that calls for a sword," said Hydorn. "What
do we do now?"
"Now," said Bastian, "I want to make this Xayide's
acquaintance. I've got a bone to pick with her."
After climbing several more flights of stairs, Bastian and the
knights reached the ground floor, where Atreyu and Falkor were
waiting for them in a kind of lobby.
"Well done, you two!" cried Bastian, slapping Atreyu on the
back.
"What's become of the armored giants?" asked Atreyu.
"Hollow shells!" said Bastian contemptuously. "Where's
Xayide?"
"Up in her magic throne room," answered Atreyu.
"Come along," said Bastian, taking the silver mantle which
Atreyu held out to him. And all together, including Falkor, they
climbed the broad stairway leading to the upper floors.
When Bastian, followed by his companions, entered the
magic throne room, Xayide arose from her red-coral throne. She
was wearing a long gown of violet silk, and her flaming red hair
was coiled and braided into a fantastic edifice. Her face and her
long, thin hands were as pale as marble. There was something
strangely disturbing about her eyes. It took Bastian a few
moments to figure out what it was -- they were of different
colors, one green, one red. She was trembling, evidently in fear of
Bastian. He looked her straight in the face and she lowered her
long lashes.
The room was full of weird objects whose purpose it was hard
to determine. There were large globes covered with designs,
sidereal clocks, and pendulums hanging from the ceiling. There
were costly censers from which rose heavy clouds of
different-colored smoke, which crept over the floor like fog.
Thus far Bastian hadn't said a word. That seemed to shatter
Xayide's composure, for suddenly she threw herself on the floor
in front of him, took one of his feet and set it on her neck.
"My lord and master!" she said in a deep voice that sounded
somehow mysterious. "No one in Fantastica can withstand you.
You are mightier than the mighty and more dangerous than all
the demons together. If you wish to take revenge on me for being
too stupid to recognize your greatness, trample me underfoot. I
have earned your anger. But if you wish once again to
demonstrate your far-famed magnanimity, suffer me to become
your obedient slave, who swears to obey you body and soul.
Teach me to do what you deem desirable and I will be your
humble pupil, obedient to your every hint. I repent of the harm I
tried to do you and beg your mercy!"
"Arise, Xayide!" said Bastian. He had been very angry, but her
speech pleased him. If she had really acted out of ignorance and
really regretted it so bitterly, then it was beneath his dignity to
punish her. And since she even wished to learn what he deemed
desirable, he could see no reason to reject her plea.
Xayide arose and stood before him with bowed head. "Will
you obey me unconditionally," he asked, "however hard you may
find it to do my bidding? Will you obey me without argument
and without grumbling?"
"I will, my lord and master," said Xayide. "You will see there
is nothing we cannot accomplish if we combine my artifices and
your power."
"Very well," said Bastian. "Then I will take you into my
service. You will leave this castle and go with me to the Ivory
Tower, where I am expecting to meet Moon Child."
For a fraction of a second Xayide's eyes glowed red and green,
but then, veiling them with her long lashes, she said: "I am yours
to command, my lord and master."
Thereupon all descended the stairs. Once outside the castle,
Bastian observed: "The first thing to do is find our traveling
companions. Goodness knows where they are."
"Not very far from here," said Xayide. "I've led them slightly
astray."
"For the last time," said Bastian.
"For the last time," she agreed. "But how will we get there?
Do you expect me to walk? Through the woods and at night?"
"Falkor will carry us," said Bastian. "He's strong enough to
carry us all."
Falkor raised his head and looked at Bastian. His ruby-red
eyes glittered.
"I'm strong enough, Bastian Balthazar Bux," boomed the
bronze bell-like voice. "But I will not carry that woman."
"Oh yes, you will," said Bastian. "Because I command it."
The luckdragon looked at Atreyu, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
But Bastian had seen that nod.
All took their places on Falkor's back, and he rose into the air.
"Which way?" he asked.
"Straight ahead," said Xayide.
"Which way?" Falkor asked again, as if he hadn't heard.
"Straight ahead!" Bastian shouted. "You heard her."
"Do as she says," said Atreyu under his breath. And Falkor
complied.
Half an hour later -- already the dawn was graying -- they saw
innumerable campfires down below and the luckdragon landed.
In the meantime many more Fantasticans had turned up and a
lot of them had brought tents. The camp, spread out on a wide,
flower-strewn meadow at the edge of the orchid forest, looked
like a tent city.
"How many are you now?" Bastian asked.
Ilwan, the blue djinn, who had taken charge of the caravan in
Bastian's absence, replied that he had not yet been able to make
an exact count, but that he guessed there were close to a
thousand. "And there's something else to report," he added.
"Something rather strange. Soon after we pitched camp, shortly
before midnight, five of those armored giants appeared. But they
were peaceful and they've kept to themselves. Of course, no one
dared to go near them. They brought a big litter made of red
coral. But it was empty."
"Those are my carriers," said Xayide in a pleading tone to
Bastian. "I sent them ahead last night. That's the pleasantest way
to travel. If it does not displease you, my lord."
"I don't like the look of this," Atreyu interrupted.
"Why not?" said Bastian. "What's your objection?"
"She can travel any way she likes," said Atreyu drily. "But she
wouldn't have sent her litter here last night if she hadn't known
in advance that she'd be coming here. She had planned the whole
thing. Your victory was really a defeat. She purposely let you win.
That was her way of winning you over."
"Enough of this!" cried Bastian, purple with anger. "I didn't
ask for your opinion. You make me sick with your lecturing. And
now you question my victory and ridicule my magnanimity."
Atreyu was going to say something, but Bastian screamed at
him: "Shut up and leave me be! If the two of you aren't satisfied
with what I do and the way I am, go away. I'm not keeping you.
Go where you please! I'm sick of you!"
Bastian folded his arms over his chest and turned his back on
Atreyu. The Fantasticans who had gathered around were dumbfounded.
For a time Atreyu stood silent. Up until then Bastian
had never reprimanded him in the presence of others. He was so
stunned he could hardly breathe. He waited a while, then, when
Bastian did not turn back to him, he slowly walked away. Falkor
followed him.
Xayide smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile.
In that moment, Bastian's memory of having been a child in
his world was effaced.
XXI
The Star Cloister

ninterruptedly, new emissaries from all parts of Fantastica poured
in to swell the army of those accompanying Bastian on his march
to the Ivory Tower. It proved impossible to take a count, because
new ones kept arriving while the counting was in progress. Each
morning an army several thousand strong got under way. And
each night it set up the strangest tent city imaginable. Since
Bastian's traveling companions varied enormously in shape and
size, some of their night lodgings might have been mistaken for
circus tents, while others, at the opposite end of the scale, were
no bigger than a thimble. Their vehicles also showed astonishing
variety, ranging from common covered wagons and diligences to
the most extraordinary rolling barrels, bouncing balls, and
crawling containers with automotive legs.
Of all the tents the most magnificent was the one that had
been procured for Bastian. The shape and size of a small house, it
was made of lustrous, many-colored silk, embroidered with gold
and silver. A flag affixed to the roof was decorated with Bastian's
coat of arms, a seven-armed candelabrum. The inside was
furnished with soft blankets and cushions. Bastian's tent was
always set up at the center of the camp. And the blue djinn, who
had become his factotum, stood guard at the entrance.
Atreyu and Falkor were still among the host of Bastian's
companions, but since the public reprimand he hadn't exchanged
a word with them. Secretly, he was waiting for Atreyu to give in
and apologize. But Atreyu did nothing of the kind. Nor did
Falkor show any inclination to humble himself before Bastian.
And that, said Bastian to himself, was just what they must learn
to do. If they expected him to back down they had another thing
coming; his will was of steel. But if they gave in, he'd welcome
them with open arms. If Atreyu knelt down to him, he would lift
him up and say: Don't kneel to me, Atreyu, you are and remain
my friend. . .
But for the time being Atreyu and Falkor brought up the rear
of the procession. Falkor seemed to have forgotten how to fly; he
trudged along on foot and Atreyu walked beside him, most of the
time with bowed head. A sad comedown for the proud
reconnaissance flyers. Bastian wasn't happy about it, but there
was nothing he could do.
He began to be bored riding the mule Yikka in the lead of the
caravan, and took to visiting Xayide in her litter instead. She
received him with a great show of respect, gave him the most
comfortable seat, and squatted down at his feet. She could always
think of something interesting to talk about, and when she
noticed that he disliked speaking of his past in the human world,
she stopped questioning him about it. Most of the time she
smoked her Oriental water pipe. The stem looked like an
emerald-green viper, and the mouthpiece, which she held
between her marble-white fingers, suggested a snake's head. She
seemed to be kissing it as she smoked. The clouds of smoke
which poured indolently from her mouth and nose changed color
with every puff, from blue to yellow, to pink, to green, and so on.
"Xayide," said Bastian on one of his visits, looking
thoughtfully at the armored giants who were carrying the litter.
"There's something I've been wanting to ask you."
"Your slave is listening," said Xayide.
"When I fought your guards," said Bastian, "I discovered that
there was nothing inside their shell of armor. So what makes
them move?"
"My will," said Xayide with a smile. "It's because they're
empty that they do my will. My will can control anything that's
empty."
She turned her red and green gaze on Bastian. For a moment
it gave him a strangely eerie feeling, but quickly she lowered her
lashes.
"Could I control them with my will?" he asked.
"Of course you could, my lord and master," she replied. "You
could do it a hundred times better than I. I am as nothing beside
you. Would you care to try?"
"Not now," said Bastian, who was rather frightened at the
idea. "Maybe some other time."
"Tell me," said Xayide. "Do you really enjoy riding an old
mule? Wouldn't you rather be carried by beings you can move
with your will?"
"But Yikka likes to carry me," said Bastian almost peevishly.
"It gives her pleasure."
"Then you do it to please her?"
"Why not?" said Bastian. "What's wrong with that?"
Xayide let some green smoke rise from her mouth.
"Oh, nothing at all, my lord. How can anything you do be
wrong?"
"What are you driving at, Xayide?"
She bowed her head of flaming red hair.
"You think of others too much, my lord and master," she
whispered. "No one is worthy to divert your attention from your
own all-important development. If you promise not to be angry,
I will venture a piece of advice: Think more of your own
perfection."
"What has that got to do with Yikka?"
"Not much, my lord. Hardly anything. Just this: she's not a
worthy mount for someone as important as you. It grieves me to
see you riding such an undistinguished animal. All your traveling
companions are surprised. You alone, my lord and master, seem
unaware of what you owe to yourself."
Bastian said nothing, but Xayide's words had made an impression.
Next day, as the procession with Bastian and Yikka in the
lead was passing through lush rolling meadows, interspersed here
and there by small copses of fragrant lilac, he decided to take
Xayide's advice.
At noon, when the caravan stopped to rest, he patted the old
mule on the neck and said: "Yikka, the time has come for us to
part."
Yikka let out a cry of dismay. "Why, master?" she asked.
"Have I done my job so badly?" And tears flowed from the
corners of her dark eyes.
"Not at all," Bastian hastened to reassure her. "You've been
carrying me so gently all this time, you've been so patient and
willing that I've decided to reward you."
"I don't want any other reward," said Yikka. "I just want to
go on carrying you. How could I wish for anything better?"
"Didn't you once tell me it made you sad that mules can't
have children?"
"Yes," said Yikka, "because when I'm very old I'd like to tell
my children about these happy days."
"Very well," said Bastian. "Then I'll tell you a story that will
come true. And I'll tell it only to you, to you and no one else,
because it's your story."
Then he took hold of one of Yikka's long ears and whispered
into it: "Not far from here, in a little lilac copse, the father of
your son is waiting for you. He's a white stallion with the white
wings of a swan. His mane and his tail are so long they touch the
ground. He has been following you secretly for days, because he's
immortally in love with you."
"With me?" cried Yikka, almost frightened. "But I'm only a
mule, and I'm not as young as I used to be."
"In his eyes," said Bastian in an undertone, "you're the most
beautiful creature in all Fantastica just as you are. And also
perhaps because you've carried me. But he's very bashful, he
doesn't dare approach you with all these creatures about. You
must go to him or he'll die of longing for you."
"Myohmy!" Yikka sighed. "Is it as bad as all that?"
"Yes," Bastian whispered in her ear. "And now, goodbye,
Yikka. Just run along, you'll find him."
Yikka took a few steps, but then she looked back again.
"Frankly," she said. "I'm kind of scared."
"There's nothing to worry about," said Bastian with a smile.
"And don't forget to tell your children and grandchildren about
me."
"Thank you, master," said Yikka, and off she went.
For a long while Bastian looked after her as she hobbled off.
He wasn't really happy about sending her away. He went to his
luxurious tent, lay down on the soft cushions, and gazed at the
ceiling. He kept telling himself that he had made Yikka's dearest
wish come true. But that didn't make him feel any better. A
person's reason for doing someone a good turn matters as much
as the good turn itself.
But that made no difference to Yikka, for she really did find
the white, winged stallion. They married and she had a son who
was a white, winged mule. His name was Pataplan and he made
quite a name for himself in Fantastica, but that's another story
and shall be told another time.
From then on Bastian traveled in Xayide's litter. She even
offered to get out and walk alongside so as to give him every
possible comfort, but that was more than Bastian would accept.
So they sat together in the comfortable red-coral litter, which
from then on led the procession.
Bastian was still rather gloomy and felt a certain resentment
toward Xayide for persuading him to part with his mule. He kept
answering her in monosyllables, so that no real conversation was
possible. Xayide soon realized what the trouble was.
To guide his thoughts into different channels, she said
brightly: "I would like to make you a present, my lord and
master, if you deign to accept one from me."
She rummaged under her cushions and found a richly
ornamented casket. As Bastian tingled with eagerness, she opened
it and took out a belt with chain links. Each link as well as the
clasp was made of clear glass.
"What is it?" Bastian asked.
"It's a belt that makes its wearer invisible. But if you want it
to belong to you, my lord, you must give it its name."
Bastian examined it. "The belt Ghemmal," he said then.
Xayide nodded. "Now it is yours," she said with a smile.
Bastian took the belt and held it irresolutely in his hand.
"Would you like to try it now?" she asked. "Just to see how it
works?"
To Bastian's surprise, the belt was a perfect fit. But it gave
him a most unpleasant feeling not to see his own body. He
wanted to take the belt off, but that wasn't so easy since he could
see neither the buckle nor his own hands.
"Help!" he cried in a panic, suddenly afraid that he would
never find the buckle and would remain invisible forever.
"You have to learn to handle it," said Xayide. "I had the same
trouble at first. Permit me to help you, my lord and master."
She reached into the empty air. A moment later she had unfastened
the belt and Bastian was relieved to see himself again. He
laughed, while Xayide drew smoke from her water pipe and
smiled.
If nothing else, she had cheered him up.
"Now you are safe from harm," she said gently, "and that
means more to me than you can imagine."
"Harm?" asked Bastian, still slightly befuddled. "What sort of
harm?"
"Oh, no one can contend with you," Xayide whispered. "Not
if you are wise. The danger is inside you, and that's why it's hard
to protect you against it."
"Inside me? What does that mean?"
"A wise person stands above things, he neither loves nor
hates. But you, my lord, set store by friendship. Your heart
should be as cold and indifferent as a snow-covered mountain
peak, and it isn't. That's why someone can harm you."
"Someone? What someone?"
"Someone you still care for in spite of all his insolence."
"Speak more plainly."
"That rude, arrogant little savage from the Greenskin
country, my lord."
"Atreyu?"
"Yes, and that outrageous, impertinent Falkor!"
"You think they'd want to harm me?" Bastian could hardly
keep from laughing.
Xayide bowed her head and said nothing.
"I'll never believe that," said Bastian. "I won't listen to
another word."
Xayide still said nothing. She bowed her head still lower.
After a long silence Bastian asked: "What do you suppose
Atreyu is plotting?"
"My lord," Xayide whispered. "I wish I hadn't spoken."
"Well, now that you've started," Bastian cried, "tell me
everything. Stop beating about the bush. What do you know?"
"I tremble at your anger, my lord," Xayide stammered, and
true enough, she was all atremble. "But even if it costs me my life,
I will tell you. Atreyu is plotting to take the Childlike Empress's
amulet away from you, by stealth or by force."
For a moment Bastian could hardly breathe.
"Can you prove it?" he asked.
Xayide shook her head.
"My knowledge," she murmured, "is not of the kind that can
be proved."
"Then keep it to yourself," said Bastian, the blood rising to
his face. "And don't malign the truest, bravest boy in all
Fantastica."
With that he jumped out of the litter and left her.
Xayide's fingers played with the snake's head and her
green-and-red eyes glowed. After a while she smiled again. Violet
smoke rose from her mouth and she whispered: "You will see, my
lord and master. The belt Ghemmal will show you."
When the camp was set up that night, Bastian went to his
tent. He ordered Ilwan, the blue djinn, not to admit anyone, and
especially not Xayide. He wanted to be alone and to think.
What the sorceress had told him about Atreyu hardly seemed
worth troubling his head about. He had something else on his
mind: those few words she dropped about wisdom.
He had been through so much; he had known joy and fear,
discouragement and triumph; he had rushed from wish
fulfillment to wish fulfillment, never stopping to rest. And
nothing had brought him calm and contentment. To be wise was
to be above joy and sorrow, fear and pity, ambition and
humiliation. It was to hate nothing and to love nothing, and
above all to be utterly indifferent to the love and hate of others. A
truly wise man attached no importance to anything. Nothing
could upset him and nothing could harm him. Yes, to be like that
would be his final wish, the wish that would bring him to what
he really wanted. Now he thought he understood what
Grograman had meant by those words. And so he wished to
become wise, the wisest being in Fantastica.
A little later he stepped out of his tent.
The moon cast its light on a landscape that he had scarcely
noticed up until then. The tent city lay in a hollow ringed about
by strangely shaped mountains. The silence was complete. The
hollow was fairly well wooded, while on the mountain slopes the
vegetation became more sparse and farther up there was none at
all. The peaks formed all manner of figures, almost as though a
giant sculptor had shaped them. No breeze was blowing and
there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The stars glittered and seemed
nearer than usual.
At the top of one of the highest peaks Bastian made out a sort
of cupola. It seemed to be inhabited, for it gave off a faint light.
"I've noticed it too, my lord," said Ilwan in his rasping voice.
He was standing at his post by the entrance to the tent. "What
can it be?"
He had no sooner spoken than Bastian heard a strange cry in
the distance. It suggested the long-drawn-out hooting of an owl,
but it was deeper and louder. It sounded a second and then a
third time, but now there were several voices.
Owls they were indeed, six in number, as Bastian was soon to
find out. Coming from the direction of the cupola, they glided at
an incredible speed on almost motionless wings. Soon they were
close enough for Bastian to see how amazingly large they were.
Their eyes glittered, and their erect ears were capped with
bundles of down. The flight was soundless, but as they landed, a
faint whirring of their wings could be heard.
Then they were sitting on the ground in front of Bastian's
tent, swiveling their heads with their great round eyes in all
directions. Bastian went up to them.
"Who are you?" he asked, "and who are you looking for?"
"We were sent by Ushtu, the Mother of Intuition," said one
of the six owls. "We are messengers from Ghigam, the Star
Cloister."
"What sort of cloister is that?" Bastian asked.
"It is the home of wisdom," said another of the owls, "where
the Monks of Knowledge live."
"And who is Ushtu?" Bastian asked.
"One of the Three Deep Thinkers who direct the cloister and
instruct the monks," said a third owl. "We are the night
messengers, which puts us in her department."
"If it were daytime," said the fourth owl, "Shirkry, the Father
of Vision, would have sent his messengers, who are eagles. And in
the twilight hours between day and night, Yisipu, the Son of
Reason, sends his messengers, who are foxes."
"Who are Shirkry and Yisipu?"
"They are the other Deep Thinkers, our Superiors."
"And what are you doing here?"
"We are looking for the Great Knower," said the sixth owl.
"The Three Deep Thinkers know he is in this tent city and have
sent us to beg him for illumination."
"The Great Knower?" asked Bastian. "Who's that?"
"His name," replied all six owls at once, "is Bastian Balthazar
Bux."
"You've found him," said Bastian. "It's me."
They bowed low, which because of their jerky movements
looked almost comical in spite of their great size.
"The Three Deep Thinkers," said the first owl, "beg you
humbly and respectfully to visit them. They hope you will solve a
problem they have been trying in vain to solve all their long
lives."
Bastian stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"Very well," he answered after a while. "But I must take my
two disciples with me."
"There are six of us," said the owl. "Two of us will carry each
one of you."
Bastian turned to the blue djinn.
"Ilwan," he said. "Bring me Atreyu and Xayide."
The djinn bowed and went his way.
"What is this problem they want me to solve?" Bastian asked.
"O Great Knower," said one of the owls, "we are only poor
ignorant messengers. We don't even belong to the lowest rank of
the Monks of Knowledge. How could we possibly have
cognizance of the problem which the Deep Thinkers in all their
long lives have been unable to solve?"
A few minutes later Ilwan came back with Atreyu and Xayide.
On the way he had told them what it was all about.
As he stood before Bastian, Atreyu asked in an undertone:
"Why me?"
"Indeed," said Xayide. "Why him?"
"You will find out," said Bastian.
With admirable foresight, the owls had brought trapezes, one
for every two owls. Bastian, Atreyu, and Xayide sat on the bars,
and the great night birds, each holding a trapeze rope in its claws,
rose into the air.
When the travelers reached the Star Cloister of Ghigam, they
round that the great cupola was only the uppermost part of a
large building composed of many cubical compartments. It had
innumerable little windows and its outer wall might have been
taken for the continuation of a sheer cliff. An unbidden visitor
could hardly have gained admittance to the place.
The cubical compartments contained the cells of the Monks
of Knowledge, the libraries, the refectories, and the lodgings of
the messengers. The meeting hall, where the Three Deep
Thinkers delivered their lectures, was situated under the cupola.
The Monks of Knowledge were Fantasticans of all kinds,
from every part of the realm. But anyone wishing to enter the
cloister had to break off all contact with family and country. The
lives of these monks were hard and frugal, devoted exclusively to
knowledge. The community was far from accepting all
applicants. The examinations were difficult and the Three Deep
Thinkers set the highest standards. Thus there were seldom more
than three hundred monks in the cloister at one time, but these
were by far the most intelligent persons in all Fantastica.
Occasionally the community dwindled to seven members, but
even then there was no thought of relaxing the entrance
requirements. At the moment the monks and monkesses
numbered roughly two hundred.
When Bastian, followed by Atreyu and Xayide, was led into
the large lecture hall, he saw a motley assortment of Fantasticans,
who differed from his own retinue only in that they all were
dressed in rough dark-brown monk's robes. A wandering cliff or a
tiny must have looked very strange in such an outfit.
The Superiors of the order, the Three Deep Thinkers, were
built like humans except for their heads. Ushtu, the Mother of
Intuition, had the head of an owl; Shirkry, the Father of Vision,
the head of an eagle; and Yisipu, the Son of Reason, the head of a
fox. They sat in raised stone chairs and looked enormous. The
sight of them seemed to intimidate Atreyu and even Xayide. But
Bastian stepped right up to them.
With a motion of his head, Shirkry, who was evidently the
oldest of the three and was sitting in the middle, indicated an
empty chair facing the Deep Thinkers. Bastian sat down in it.
After a prolonged silence, Shirkry spoke. He spoke softly, but
his voice sounded surprisingly deep and full.
"Since time immemorial we have been pondering the enigma
of our world. Yisipu's reasonings in the matter are different from
Ushtu's intuitions, and Ushtu's intuitions differ from my vision,
which in turn is different from Yisipu's reasonings. This is
intolerable and must not be allowed to go on. That is why we
have asked the Great Knower to come here and instruct us. Are
you willing?"
"I am," said Bastian.
"Then, O Great Knower, hear our question: What is
Fantastica?"
After a short silence Bastian replied: "Fantastica is the
Neverending Story."
"Give us time to understand your answer," said Shirkry. "Let
us meet again here tomorrow at the same hour."
Silently the Three Deep Thinkers and the Monks of
Knowledge arose, and all left the hall.
Bastian, Atreyu, and Xayide were led to guest cells, where a
simple meal awaited them. Their beds were wooden planks
covered with rough woolen blankets. Though this didn't matter
to Bastian and Atreyu, Xayide would have liked to conjure up a
more comfortable bed. But she soon found to her dismay that her
magic powers were without effect in this cloister.
Late the following night the monks and the Three Deep
Thinkers met again in the great meeting hall. Once again Bastian
occupied the high seat. Xayide and Atreyu sat to the left and right
of him.
This time it was Ushtu, the Mother of Intuition, who
scrutinized Bastian with her great owl's eyes and said: "We have
meditated on your answer, O Great Knower. But a new question
has occurred to us. If, as you say, Fantastica is the Neverending
Story, where is the Neverending Story to be found?"
After a short silence Bastian replied: "In a book bound with
copper-colored silk."
"Give us time to understand your words," said Ushtu. "Let us
meet again tomorrow at the same hour."
When they had gathered in the meeting hall the following
night, Yisipu, the Son of Reason, took the floor.
"Again we have meditated on your answer, O Great
Knower," he said. "And again a new question comes to perplex
us. If our world, Fantastica, is a Neverending Story and if this
Neverending Story is in a book bound in copper-colored silk --
where then is this book?"
After a short silence Bastian replied: "In the attic of a
schoolhouse."
"O Great Knower," said the fox-headed Yisipu, "we do not
doubt the truth of what you say. But now we would like to ask
you to let us see this truth. Can you do that?"
Bastian thought it over. Then he said: "I believe I can."
Atreyu looked at Bastian with surprise. Xayide too had a
questioning look in her red-and-green eyes.
"Let us meet again tomorrow night at the same hour," said
Bastian. "But not here. Let us meet on the roof of the Star
Cloister. And then you must keep your eyes fixed on the
heavens."
The following night was as clear as the three before it. At the
appointed hour the Three Deep Thinkers and all the Monks of
Knowledge were gathered on the roof of the Star Cloister. Atreyu
and Xayide, who had no idea what Bastian was up to, were there
too.
Bastian climbed to the top of the great cupola and looked
around. For the first time he saw the Ivory Tower far off on the
horizon, shimmering in the moonlight.
He took the stone Al Tsahir from his pocket. It sent out a soft
glow. He then called to mind the inscription he had seen on the
door of the Amarganth Library:
. . . But if he says my name a second time
from the end to the beginning,
I will glow in one moment
with the light of a hundred years.
He held the stone up high and cried out: "Rihast-la!"
At that moment there came a flash of lightning so bright that
the stars paled and the dark cosmic space behind them was
illumined. And that space was the schoolhouse attic with its
age-blackened beams. In a moment the vision passed and the
light of a hundred years was gone. Al Tsahir had vanished
without a trace.
It was some time before the eyes of those present, including
Bastian's, became accustomed to the feeble light of the moon and
the stars.
Shaken by what they had seen, all gathered in the great
lecture hall. Bastian was the last to enter. The Monks of
Knowledge and the Three Deep Thinkers arose from their seats
and bowed low to him.
"I have no words," said Shirkry, "with which to thank you for
that flash of illumination, O Great Knower. For in that
mysterious attic I glimpsed a being of my own kind, an eagle."
"You are mistaken, Shirkry," said the owl-faced Ushtu with a
gentle smile. "I saw the creature plainly. It was an owl."
"You are both mistaken," cried Yisipu, his eyes aflame. "That
being is a relative of mine, a fox."
Shirkry raised his hands in horror.
"Here we are back where we started!" he said. "You alone, O
Great Knower, can answer this new question. Which of us is
right?"
Smiling serenely, Bastian replied: "All three."
"Give us time to understand your answer," said Ushtu.
"All the time you wish," Bastian replied, "for we shall be
leaving you now."
Bitter disappointment could be read on the faces of the Three
Deep Thinkers and of the Monks of Knowledge. They implored
Bastian to stay longer, or better still, forever, but with a rather
disrespectful shrug he declined.
Whereupon the six messengers carried him and his two
disciples back to the tent city.
That night the usual harmony of the Three Deep Thinkers
was disturbed by a first radical difference of opinion, which years
later led to the breakup of the community. Then Ushtu the
Mother of Intuition, Shirkry the Father of Vision, and Yisipu the
Son of Reason each founded a cloister of his own. But that is
another story and shall be told another time.
That night Bastian lost all memory of having gone to school.
The attic and the stolen book bound in copper-colored silk
vanished from his mind. And he even stopped asking himself
how he had come to Fantastica.

XXII
The Battle for the Ivory Tower

igilant scouts returned to camp, reporting that the Ivory Tower
was not far off and could be reached in two or at the most three
days' marches.
But Bastian seemed irresolute. He kept ordering rest stops,
but before the troops were half settled he would make them start
out again. No one knew why he was behaving so strangely, and
no one dared ask him. Since his great feat at the Star Cloister he
had been unapproachable, even for Xayide. All sorts of
conjectures were rife, but most of the traveling companions were
quite willing to obey his contradictory orders. Great wise men,
they thought, often strike the common run of people as
unpredictable. Atreyu and Falkor were equally at a loss. The
incident at the Star Cloister had baffled them completely.
Within Bastian two feelings were at war, and he was unable
to silence either one. He longed to meet Moon Child. Now that
he was famous and admired throughout Fantastica, he could
approach her as an equal. But at the same time he was afraid she
would ask him to return AURYN to her. And what then? Would
she try to send him back to the world he had almost forgotten?
He didn't want to go back. And he wanted to keep the Gem. But
then he had another idea. Was it so certain that she wanted it
back? Maybe she would let him have it as long as he wished.
Maybe she had made him a present of it and it was his for good.
At such moments he could hardly wait to see her again. He
rushed the caravan on. But then, assailed by doubts, he would
order a stop and think it all over again.
After alternating forced marches and prolonged delays, the
procession finally reached the edge of the famous Labyrinth, the
immense flower garden with its winding avenues and pathways.
On the horizon the Ivory Tower gleamed white against the
gold-shimmering evening sky.
Awed by the splendor and beauty of the sight, the army of
Fantasticans stood silent. And so did Bastian. Even Xayide's face
showed a look of wonderment, which had never been seen before
and which soon vanished. Atreyu and Falkor, who were in the
rear of the procession, remembered how different the Labyrinth
had looked the last time they had seen it: wasted with the ravages
of the Nothing. Now it was greener and more flourishing than
ever before.
Bastian decided to go no farther that day and the tents were
pitched for the night. He sent out messengers to bring greetings
to Moon Child and let her know that he would be arriving at the
Ivory Tower next day. Then he lay down in his tent and tried to
sleep. He tossed and turned on his cushions, his worries left him
no peace. But he was far from suspecting that this would be his
worst night since coming to Fantastica.
Toward midnight, soon after falling into a restless sleep, he
was awakened by excited whisperings outside his tent. He got up
and went out.
"What's going on?" he asked sternly.
"This messenger," replied Ilwan, the blue djinn, "claims he is
bringing you news so important that it can't wait until
tomorrow."
The messenger, whom Ilwan had picked up by the collar, was
a nimbly, a creature bearing a certain resemblance to a rabbit,
except that its coat was of bright-colored feathers instead of fur.
Nimblies are among the swiftest runners in Fantastica, and can
cover enormous distances with incredible speed. When running
they become almost invisible except for the trail of dust clouds
they leave behind them. That is why the nimbly had been chosen
as messenger. After running to the Ivory Tower and back in next
to no time, he was desperately out of breath when the djinn set
him down in front of Bastian.
"Forgive me, sire," he said, bowing and panting. "Forgive me
if I make so bold as to disturb your rest, but you would have
every reason to be displeased with me if I failed to do so. Moon
Child is not in the Ivory Tower; she has not been there for a
long, long time, and no one knows where she is."
Suddenly Bastian felt cold and empty inside. "You must be
mistaken. That can't be."
"The other messengers will tell you the same thing when they
get back, sire."
After a long silence Bastian said tonelessly: "Thank you. Dismissed."
He went back into his tent, sat down on his bed, and buried
his head in his hands. This seemed impossible. Moon Child must
have known he was on his way to her. Could it be that she didn't
want to see him again? Or had something happened to her? No,
how could anything happen to her in her own realm?
But the fact remained: she was gone, which meant that he
didn't have to return AURYN to her. At the same time he felt
bitterly disappointed that he wouldn't be seeing her again.
Whatever her reasons may have been, he found her behavior
unbelievable, no, insulting.
Then he remembered what Falkor and Atreyu had told him:
that no one could meet the Childlike Empress more than once.
The thought made him so unhappy that he suddenly longed
for Atreyu and Falkor. He needed someone to talk to, to confide
in.
Then he had an idea: If he put on the belt Ghemmal and
made himself invisible, he could enjoy their comforting presence
without mentioning the humiliation he felt.
He opened the ornate casket, took out the belt, and put it on.
Then, after waiting until he had got used to the unpleasant
sensation of not seeing himself, he went out and wandered about
the tent city in search of Atreyu and Falkor. Wherever he went he
heard excited whispers, figures darted from tent to tent, here and
there several creatures were huddled together, talking and
gesticulating. By then the other messengers had returned, and the
news that Moon Child was not in the Ivory Tower had spread
like wildfire.
Atreyu and Falkor were under a flowering rosemary tree at
the very edge of the camp. Atreyu was sitting with his arms
folded, looking fixedly in the direction of the Ivory Tower. The
luckdragon lay beside him with his great head on the ground.
"That was my last hope," said Atreyu. "I thought she might
make an exception for him and let him return the amulet. Now
all is lost."
"She must know what she's doing," said Falkor. At that
moment Bastian located them and sat down invisibly nearby.
"Is it certain?" Atreyu murmured. "He mustn't be allowed to
keep AURYN!"
"What will you do?" Falkor asked. "He won't give it up of his
own free will."
"Then I'll have to take it from him," said Atreyu.
At those words Bastian felt the ground sinking from under
him.
"That won't be easy," he heard Falkor saying. "But if you do
take it, I trust that he won't be able to get it back."
"That's not so sure," said Atreyu. "He'll still have his great
strength and his magic sword."
"But the Gem would protect you," said Falkor. "Even against
him."
"No," said Atreyu. "I don't think so. Not against him."
"And to think," said Falkor with a grim laugh, "that he
himself offered it to you on your first night in Amarganth."
Atreyu nodded. "I didn't realize then what would happen."
"How are you going to take it from him?" Falkor asked.
"I'll have to steal it," said Atreyu.
Falkor's head shot up. With glowing ruby-red eyes he stared
at Atreyu, who hung his head and repeated in an undertone: "I'll
have to. There's no other way."
After a long silence Falkor asked: "When?"
"It will have to be tonight. Tomorrow may be too late."
Bastian had heard enough. Slowly he crept away. His only
feeling was one of cold emptiness. Everything was indifferent to
him now, just as Xayide had said.
He went back to his tent and took off the belt Ghemmal.
Then he bade Ilwan bring him the three knights, Hysbald,
Hykrion, and Hydorn. As he paced the ground waiting, it came
to him that Xayide had foreseen it all. He hadn't wanted to
believe her, but now he was obliged to. Xayide, he now realized,
was sincerely devoted to him. She was his only true friend. But
there was still room for doubt. Perhaps Atreyu wouldn't actually
carry out his plan. Maybe he had already repented. In that case
Bastian wouldn't ever mention it -- though friendship now meant
nothing to him. That was over and done with.
When the three knights appeared, he told them he had reason
to believe that a thief would come to his tent that night. When
they agreed to keep watch and lay hands on the thief whoever he
might be, he went to Xayide's coral litter. She lay sound asleep,
attended by her five giants in their black armor, who stood
motionless on guard. In the darkness they looked like five
boulders.
"I wish you to obey me," Bastian said softly.
Instantly, all five turned their black iron faces toward him.
"Command us, master of our mistress," said one in a metallic
voice.
"Do you think you can handle Falkor the luckdragon?"
Bastian asked.
"That depends on the will that guides us," said the metallic
voice.
"It is my will," said Bastian.
"Then there is no one we cannot handle," was the answer.
"Good. Then go close to where he is." He pointed. "That
way. As soon as Atreyu leaves him, take him prisoner. But keep
him there. I'll have you called when I want you."
"Master of our mistress," the metallic voice replied, "it shall
be done."
The five black giants marched off in step. Xayide smiled in
her sleep.
Bastian went back to his tent. But once in sight of it, he
hesitated. If Atreyu should really attempt to steal the Gem, he
didn't want to be there when they seized him.
He sat down under a tree nearby and waited, wrapped in his
silver mantle. Slowly the time passed, the sky paled in the east, it
would soon be morning. Bastian was beginning to hope that
Atreyu had abandoned his project when suddenly he heard a
tumult in his tent. And a moment later Hykrion led Atreyu out
with his arms chained behind his back. The two other knights
followed. Bastian dragged himself to his feet and stood leaning
against the tree.
"So he's actually done it," he muttered to himself.
Then he went to his tent. He couldn't bear to look at Atreyu,
and Atreyu too kept his eyes to the ground.
"Ilwan," said Bastian to the blue djinn. "Wake the whole
camp! I want everyone here. And tell the black giants to bring
Falkor."
The djinn hurried off with the rasping cry of an eagle.
Wherever he went, the denizens of the tents large and small
began to stir.
"He didn't defend himself at all," said Hykrion, with a
movement of his head toward Atreyu, who was standing there
motionless with eyes downcast. Bastian turned away and sat
down on a stone.
By the time the five armored giants appeared with Falkor, a
large crowd had gathered. At the approach of the stamping
metallic steps, the crowd opened up a passage. Falkor was not
chained, and the armed guards were not holding him, but merely
marching to the left and right of him with drawn swords.
"He offered no resistance, master of our mistress," said one of
the metallic voices.
Falkor lay down on the ground at Atreyu's feet and closed his
eyes.
A long silence followed. Creatures poured in from the camp
and craned their necks to see what was going on. Only Xayide
was absent. Little by little the whispering died down. All eyes
shuttled back and forth between Bastian and Atreyu, who stood
motionless, looking like stone statues in the gray morning light.
At length Bastian spoke.
"Atreyu," he said. "You tried to steal Moon Child's amulet
and take it for yourself. And you, Falkor, were an accomplice to
his plan. Not only have you both been untrue to our old
friendship, you have also been guilty of disobedience to Moon
Child, who gave me the Gem. Do you confess your wrong?"
Atreyu cast a long glance at Bastian; then he nodded.
Bastian's voice failed him. It was some time before he could
go on.
"I have not forgotten, Atreyu, that it was you who brought
me to Moon Child. I have not forgotten Falkor's singing in
Amarganth. So I will spare your lives, the lives of a thief and of a
thief's accomplice. Do what you will. Just so you go away, the
farther the better, and never let me lay eyes on you again. I banish
you forever. I have never known you."
He bade Hykrion remove Atreyu's chains. Then he turned
away.
Atreyu stood motionless for a long while. Then he cast
another glance at Bastian. It looked as if he wanted to say
something, but changed his mind. He bent down to Falkor and
whispered something in his ear. The luckdragon opened his eyes
and sat up. Atreyu jumped on his back and Falkor rose into the
air. He flew straight into the brightening morning sky, and
though his movements were heavy and sluggish, he soon vanished
in the distance.
Bastian went to his tent and threw himself down on his bed.
"At last you have achieved true greatness," said a soft voice.
"Now you've stopped caring for anything; now nothing can
move you."
Bastian sat up. It was Xayide. She was squatting in the darkest
corner of the tent.
"You?" said Bastian. "How did you get in?"
Xayide smiled.
"O my lord and master, no guards can shut me out. Only
your command can do that. Do you wish to send me away?"
Bastian lay back and closed his eyes. After a while he
muttered: "It's all the same to me. Go or stay!"
For a long while she watched him from under her
half-lowered lids. Then she asked: "What are you thinking about,
my lord and master?"
Bastian turned away and did not reply.
It was plain to Xayide that this was no time to leave him to
himself. In such a mood he was capable of slipping away from
her. She must comfort him and cheer him up -- in her own way.
For she was determined to hold him to the course she had
planned for him -- and for herself. And she knew that in the
present juncture no magical belts or tricks would suffice. It would
take stronger medicine, the strongest medicine available to her,
namely, Bastian's secret wishes. She sat down beside him and
whispered in his ear: "When, O lord and master, will you go to
the Ivory Tower?"
"I don't know," said Bastian. "What can I do there if Moon
Child is gone?"
"You could go and wait for her."
Bastian turned to face Xayide.
"Do you think she'll be back?"
He had to repeat his question more insistently before Xayide
replied: "No, I don't believe so. I believe she has had to leave
Fantastica forever, and that you, my lord and master, are her
successor."
Slowly Bastian sat up and looked into Xayide's red-and-greien
eyes. It was some time before he grasped the full meaning of her
words.
"I!?" he gasped. And his cheeks broke out in red spots.
"Do you find the idea so frightening?" Xayide whispered.
"She gave you the emblem of her power. Now she has left you
her empire. Now, my lord and master, you will be the Childlike
Emperor. It is only your right. You not only saved Fantastica by
your coming, you also created it! All of us -- I too! -- are your
creatures. Why should you, the Great Knower, fear to take the
power that is rightfully yours?"
Bastian's eyes glowed with a cold fever. And then Xayide
spoke to him of a new Fantastica, a world molded in every detail
to Bastian's taste, where he could create and destroy just as he
pleased, where every creature, good or bad, beautiful or ugly, wise
or foolish, would be the product of his will alone, and he would
reign supreme and inscrutable, playing an everlasting game with
the destinies of his subjects.
"Then alone," she concluded, "will you be truly free, free
from all obstacles, free to do as you please. Weren't you trying to
find out what you really and truly want? Well, now you know."
That same morning they broke camp, and led by Bastian and
Xayide in the coral litter, the great procession set out for the Ivory
Tower. A well-nigh endless column moved along the twining
paths of the Labyrinth. In the late afternoon, when the head of
the column reached the Ivory Tower, the last stragglers had
barely entered the great flowering maze.
Bastian could not have wished for a more festive reception.
On every roof and battlement stood elves with gleaming
trumpets, blaring away at the top of their lungs. The jugglers
juggled, the astrologers proclaimed Bastian's greatness and good
fortune, the bakers baked cakes as big as mountains, the ministers
and councilors escorted the coral litter through the teeming
crowd on the High Street, which wound in an ever-narrowing
spiral up the conical tower to the great gate leading into the
palace. Followed by Xayide and the dignitaries, Bastian climbed
the snow-white steps of the broad stairway, traversed halls and
corridors, passed through a second gate, through a garden full of
ivory animals, trees, and flowers, mounted higher and higher,
crossed a bridge, and passed through the last gate. He was
heading for the Magnolia Pavilion at the very top of the tower.
But the blossom was closed and the last stretch of the way was so
steep and smooth that no one could climb it.
Bastian remembered that the wounded Atreyu had not been
able to climb that slope, not by his own strength at least, because
no one who has ever reached the Magnolia Pavilion can say how
he got there. For this victory must come as a gift.
But Bastian was not Atreyu. If anyone was now entitled to
bestow the gift of this victory, it was he. And he had no intention
of letting anything stop him.
"Bring workmen," he commanded. "I want them to cut steps
in this smooth surface. I wish to make my residence up there."
"Sire," one of the oldest councilors ventured to object, "that
is where our Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes lives when she
is here."
"Do as you're told!" Bastian roared at him.
The dignitaries turned pale and shrank back from him. But
they obeyed. Workmen arrived with mallets and chisels. But try
as they might, they couldn't so much as chip the smooth surface
of the dome. The chisels leapt from their hands without leaving
the slightest dent.
"Think of something else," said Bastian angrily. "My patience
is wearing thin."
Then he turned away, and while waiting for the Magnolia
Pavilion to be made accessible, he and his retinue, consisting
chiefly of Xayide, the three knights, Hysbald, Hykrion, and
Hydorn, and Ilwan, the blue djinn, took possession of the
remaining rooms of the palace.
That same night he summoned all the ministers and
councilors who had served Moon Child to a meeting in the large,
circular hall where the congress of physicians had once met.
There he informed them that the Golden-eyed Commander of
Wishes had left him, Bastian Balthazar Bux, power over the
endless Fantastican Empire, and that he was now taking her
place. In conclusion he demanded perfect obedience.
"Even, or I might say especially," he added, "when my
decisions are beyond your understanding. For I am not of your
kind."
He then announced that in exactly seventy-seven days he
would crown himself Childlike Emperor of Fantastica and that
the event would be celebrated with such splendor that it would
outshine anything ever done in Fantastica. And he ordered the
councilors to send messengers forthwith to every part of the
realm, for he wished every nation of the Fantastican Empire to be
represented at his coronation.
Thereupon Bastian withdrew, leaving the councilors and
other dignitaries alone with their bewilderment.
They didn't know what to do. What they had heard sounded
so monstrous that for a long while they could only stand there
silently, hanging their heads. Then they began to deliberate. And
after many hours, they came to the conclusion that they would
have to obey Bastian's commands, for he bore the emblem of the
Childlike Empress, and that that entitled him to obedience
regardless of whether Moon Child had really abdicated in his
favor or whether this was just another of her unfathomable
decisions. And so the messengers were sent and all Bastian's
orders were carried out.
He himself took no further interest in the coronation, but left
all the details to Xayide, who kept the whole court so busy that
hardly anyone had time to think.
During the next days and weeks Bastian spent most of his
time in the room he had chosen, staring into space and doing
nothing. He would have liked to wish for something or make up
a story to amuse himself, but nothing occurred to him. He felt
hollow and empty.
At length he hit on the idea of wishing for Moon Child to
come to him. If he was really all-powerful, if all his wishes came
true, she would have to obey him. For whole nights he sat there
whispering: "Moon Child, come! You must come! I command
you to come!" He thought of her glance, which had lain in his
heart like a glittering treasure. But she did not come. And the
more he tried to make her come, the fainter became his memory
of that glitter in his heart, until in the end all was darkness within
him.
He convinced himself that everything would come right again
if only he could be in the Magnolia Pavilion. Time and again, he
went up to the workmen and tried to spur them with promises or
threats, but all to no avail. Ladders broke, nails bent, chisels split.
Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn, with whom Bastian would
gladly have chatted or played games, were as good as useless. In
the deepest cellar of the Ivory Tower they had discovered wine.
There they sat day and night, drinking, playing dice, bellowing
silly songs, or quarreling, and as often as not attacking one
another with their swords. Sometimes they staggered up and
down the High Street, molesting the fairies, elves, and other
female denizens of the Tower.
"What do you expect, sire?" they said when Bastian found
fault with them. "You must give us something to do."
But Bastian couldn't think of anything and bade them wait
until his coronation, though he himself couldn't have said what
difference that would make.
Little by little the weather changed for the worse. Sunsets of
liquid gold became more infrequent. Almost always the sky was
gray and overcast, not a breeze stirred, the air grew sultry and
lifeless.
The day appointed for the coronation was near. The
messengers returned. Some brought delegates from remote
corners of Fantastica. But others arrived empty-handed, for many
of the nations refused out of hand to be represented at the
ceremony. And in some countries there had been veiled or open
rebellion.
Bastian stared into space.
"Once you are emperor," said Xayide, "you will put the house
in order."
"I want them to want what I want," said Bastian.
But already Xayide had hurried off to make new
arrangements.
And then came the day of the coronation that did not take
place. It went down in the history of Fantastica as the day of the
bloody battle for the Ivory Tower.
There was no dawn that morning; the sky was too covered
with thick, leaden-gray clouds. The air was almost too heavy to
breathe.
Working hand in hand with the Ivory Tower's fourteen
masters of ceremony, Xayide had drawn up an elaborate program
for the celebration.
Beginning early in the morning, bands on all the streets and
squares played music such as had never been heard in the Ivory
Tower -- strident yet monotonous. None who heard it could help
jiggling his feet and dancing. The musicians wore black masks.
No one knew who they were or where Xayide had found them.
Every roof and housefront was decorated with bright-colored
flags and pennants, but they hung sadly limp, for there was no
wind. Along the High Street and on the wall around the palace
hundreds of pictures had been set up, ranging in size from small
to enormous, and all showed the same face -- Bastian's.
Since the Magnolia Pavilion was still inaccessible, Xayide had
prepared another site for the coronation. The throne was to be
installed at the foot of the ivory steps near the palace gate where
the winding High Street ended. Thousands of golden censers
were smoldering, and the smoke, with its lulling yet exciting
fragrance, drifted slowly up the steps and down the High Street,
finding its way into every last nook and cranny. The armored
giants were everywhere. Only Xayide knew how she had managed
to multiply the five she had left into such an army. And as if that
were not enough, fifty of them were mounted on gigantic horses,
which were also made of black metal and moved in perfect
unison.
The armored horsemen escorted a throne up the High Street
in a triumphal procession. It was as big as a church door and
consisted entirely of mirrors of every size and shape. Only the
cushion on the seat was covered with copper-colored silk.
Strangely, this enormous glittering object glided up the spiral
street unaided, without being pushed or pulled; it seemed to have
a life of its own.
When it stopped at the great ivory gate, Bastian stepped out
of the palace and sat down on it. In the midst of all that glitter
and splendor he looked like a tiny doll. The crowd of onlookers,
who were held back by a cordon of armored giants, burst into
cheers, but for some inexplicable reason their cheers sounded thin
and shrill.
Then began the most tedious and wearisome part of the ceremony.
The messengers and delegates from all over the
Fantastican Empire had to form a line, which extended from the
mirror throne down the entire spiraling High Street and deep
into the labyrinthine garden. Every single delegate, when his turn
came, had to bow down before the throne, touch the ground
three times with his forehead, kiss Bastian's right foot, and say:
"In the name of my nation and my species I beseech you, to
whom we all owe our existence, to crown yourself Childlike
Emperor of Fantastica."
This had been going on for two or three hours when a sudden
tremor passed through the crowd. A young faun came dashing up
the High Street, reeled with exhaustion, pulled himself together,
ran till he reached Bastian, and threw himself on the ground,
gasping for breath. Bastian bent down to him.
"How dare you interrupt this august ceremony!"
"War, sire!" cried the faun. "Atreyu has gathered a host of
rebels and is on his way here with three armies. They demand
that you give up AURYN. If you will not, they mean to take it by
force."
The rousing music and the shrill cries of jubilation gave way
to a deathly silence. Bastian turned pale.
Then the three knights, Hysbald, Hykrion, and Hydorn,
appeared on the run. They seemed to be in a remarkably good
humor.
"At last there's something for us to do, sire," all three cried at
once. "Leave it to us. Just get on with your celebration. We'll
round up a few good men and get after those rebels. We'll teach
them a lesson they won't forget so soon."
Among the thousands of creatures present quite a few were
utterly useless for military purposes. But most were able to handle
some weapon or to fight with their teeth or claws. All these
gathered around the three knights, who led their army away.
Bastian remained behind with the not-so-martial multitude, to
complete the ceremony. But his heart was no longer in it. Time
and again his eyes veered toward the horizon, which he could see
from his throne. Great clouds of dust showed him that Atreyu's
army was no joke.
"Don't worry," said Xayide, who had stepped up to Bastian.
"My armored giants haven't begun to fight yet. They'll defend
your Ivory Tower. No one can stand up to them, except for you
and your sword."
A few hours later the first battle reports came in. Atreyu had
enlisted almost all the Greenskins, at least two hundred centaurs,
eight hundred and fifty rock chewers, five luckdragons led by
Falkor, who kept attacking from the air, a squadron of giant
eagles, who had flown from the Mountains of Destiny, and
innumerable other creatures, even a sprinkling of unicorns.
Though far inferior in numbers to the troops led by the
knights Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn, Atreyu's army fought so
vigorously that they were soon approaching the Ivory Tower.
Bastian wanted to go out and lead his army in person, but
Xayide advised against it.
"O lord and master," she said, "it is unseemly for the
Emperor of Fantastica to take up arms. Leave that to your faithful
subjects."
All day the battle raged. The entire Labyrinth became a
trampled, blood-soaked battlefield. By late afternoon, despite the
stubborn resistance of Bastian's army, the rebels had reached the
foot of the Ivory Tower.
Then Xayide sent in her armored giants, both mounted and
on foot, and they wrought havoc among Atreyu's followers.
A detailed account of the battle for the Ivory Tower would
take us too far. To this day Fantasticans sing countless songs and
tell innumerable stories about that day and night, for everyone
who took part saw it in his own way. Certain of the stories have it
that Atreyu's army included several white magicians, who had the
power to oppose Xayide's black magic. Of this we have no certain
knowledge, but that would explain how, in spite of the armored
giants, Atreyu and his followers were able to take the Ivory
Tower. But there is another, more likely explanation: Atreyu was
fighting not for himself, but for his friend, whom he was trying
to save by defeating him.
The night of the battle was starless, full of smoke and flames.
Fallen torches, overturned censers, and shattered lamps had set
the Tower on fire in many places. The fighters cast eerie shadows.
Weapons clashed and battle shouts resounded. Everywhere,
through the flames and the darkness, Bastian searched for Atreyu.
"Atreyu!" he shouted. "Atreyu, show yourself! Stand up and
fight! Where are you?"
But the sword Sikanda didn't budge from its sheath.
Bastian ran from room to room of the palace, then out on the
great wall, which at that point was as wide as a street. He was
heading for the outer gate where the mirror throne stood -- now
shattered into a thousand pieces -- when he saw Atreyu, sword in
hand, coming toward him.
They stood face to face, and still Sikanda did not budge.
Atreyu put the tip of his sword on Bastian's chest.
"Give me the amulet," he said. "For your own sake."
"Traitor!" cried Bastian. "You are my creature! I created the
whole lot of you! Including you! So how can you rebel against
me? Kneel down and beg forgiveness."
"You're mad!" cried Atreyu. "You didn't create anything! You
owe everything to Moon Child! Give me AURYN!"
"Take it if you can."
Atreyu hesitated.
"Bastian," he said. "Why do you force me to defeat you in
order to save you?"
Bastian tugged at the hilt of his sword. He tugged with all his
might and finally managed to draw Sikanda from its sheath. But
it did not leap into his hand of its own accord, and at the same
moment a sound was heard, a sound so terrible that even the
warriors on the High Street outside the gate stood as though
frozen to the spot, looking up at the two adversaries. Bastian
recognized that sound. It was the hideous cracking and grinding
he had heard when Grograman turned to stone. Sikanda's light
went out. And then Bastian remembered how the lion had
predicted what would happen if someone were to draw the sword
of his own will. But by then it was too late to turn back.
Atreyu tried to defend himself with his own sword. But
wielded by Bastian, Sikanda cut it in two and struck Atreyu in
the chest. Blood spurted from a gaping wound. Atreyu staggered
back and toppled from the wall. But at that moment a white
flame shot through the swirling smoke, caught Atreyu in his fall,
and carried him away. The white flame was Falkor, the
luckdragon.
Bastian wiped the sweat from his brow with his mantle and
saw that its silver had turned black, as black as the night. Still
with the sword Sikanda in hand, he left the wall and went down
to the palace courtyard.
With Bastian's victory over Atreyu, the fortunes of war
shifted. The rebel army, which had seemed sure of victory a
moment before, took flight. Bastian felt as if he were caught in a
terrible dream and could not wake up. His victory left him with a
bitter taste in his mouth, but at the same time he felt wildly
triumphant.
Wrapped in his black mantle, clutching the bloody sword, he
passed slowly down the High Street. The Ivory Tower was
blazing like an enormous torch. Hardly aware of the roaring
flames, Bastian went on till he reached the foot of the Tower.
There he found the remnants of his army waiting for him in the
devastated Labyrinth -- now a far-flung battefield strewn with the
corpses of Fantasticans. Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn were
there too, the last two seriously wounded. Ilwan, the blue djinn,
was dead. Xayide, holding the belt Ghemmal, was standing
beside his corpse.
"He saved this for you, O lord and master," she said.
Bastian took the belt, folded it up, and put it in his pocket.
Slowly he passed his eyes over his companions. Only a few
hundred were left. More dead than alive, they looked like a
conclave of ghosts in the flickering light of the fires.
All had their faces turned toward the Ivory Tower, which was
collapsing piece by piece. The Magnolia Pavilion at the top
flared, its petals opened wide, and one could see that it was
empty. Then it too was engulfed by the flames.
Bastian pointed his sword at the heap of flaming ruins and his
voice cracked as he declared: "This is Atreyu's doing! For this I
will pursue him to the ends of the world!"
Hoisting himself up on one of the gigantic metal horses, he
cried: "Follow me!"
The horse reared, but he bent it to his will and galloped off
into the night.
XXIII
The City of the Old Emperors

hile Bastian was racing through the pitch-black night miles
ahead, his companions were still making preparations for
departure. Most were exhausted and none had anything
approaching Bastian's strength and endurance. Even the armored
giants on their metallic horses had a hard time getting started,
and the foot sloggers couldn't manage to fall into their
mechanical tramp-tramp-tramp. Xayide's will, which moved
them, seemed to have reached the limits of its power. Her coral
litter had been devoured by flames. A new conveyance had been
built out of shattered weapons and charred planks from the Ivory
Tower, but it looked more like a gypsy wagon than a litter. The
rest of the army hobbled and shuffled along as best they could.
Even Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn, who had lost their horses,
had to hold one another up. No one spoke, but they all knew
they would never be able to overtake Bastian.
On he galloped through the darkness, his black mantle
flapping wildly in the wind, the metallic limbs of his gigantic
horse creaking and grinding at every movement as the great
hooves pounded the earth.
"Gee up!" cried Bastian. "Gee up! Gee up!"
The horse wasn't running fast enough for him. He was
determined to overtake Atreyu and Falkor at all costs, even if it
meant riding this metallic monster to its death.
He wanted vengeance! He would have attained the goal of all
his wishes if Atreyu hadn't interfered. Bastian had not become
Emperor of Fantastica. And for that he would make Atreyu
repent.
The joints of Bastian's metallic steed ground and creaked
louder and louder, but still it obeyed its rider's will.
Bastian rode for hours and hours through the endless night.
In his mind's eye he saw the flaming Ivory Tower. Over and over
he lived the moment when Atreyu had set the point of his sword
to his chest. And then for the first time he asked himself why
Atreyu had hesitated. Why, after all that had happened, couldn't
he bring himself to strike Bastian and take AURYN by force?
And suddenly Bastian thought of the wound he had inflicted on
Atreyu and the look in Atreyu's eyes as he staggered and fell.
Bastian put Sikanda, which up until then he had been
clutching in his fist, back into its rusty sheath.
In the first light of dawn he saw he was on a heath. Dark
clumps of juniper suggested motionless groups of gigantic
hooded monks or magicians with pointed hats.
And then suddenly, in the midst of a frantic gallop, Bastian's
metal steed burst into pieces.
Bastian lay stunned by the violence of his fall. When he
finally picked himself up and rubbed his bruised limbs, he found
himself in the middle of a juniper bush. He crawled out into the
open. The fragments of the horse lay scattered all about, as
though an equestrian monument had exploded.
Bastian stood up, threw his black mantle over his shoulders,
and with no idea where he was going, started walking in the
direction of the rising sun.
But a glittering object was left behind in the juniper bush: the
belt Ghemmal. Bastian was unaware of his loss and never thought
of the belt again. Ilwan had saved it from the flames for nothing.
A few days later Ghemmal was found by a blackbird, who
had no suspicion of what this glittering object might be. She
carried it to her nest, but that's the beginning of another story
that shall be told another time.
At midday Bastian came to a high earthen wall that cut across
the heath. He climbed to the top of it. Behind it, in a craterlike
hollow, lay a city. At least the quantity of buildings made Bastian
think of a city, but it was certainly the weirdest one he had ever
seen.
The buildings seemed to be jumbled every which way
without rhyme or reason, as though they had been emptied at
random out of a giant sack. There were neither streets nor squares
nor was there any recognizable order.
And the buildings themselves were crazy; they had "front
doors" in their roofs, stairways which were quite inaccessible and
ended in the middle of nowhere; towers slanted, balconies
dangled vertically, there were doors where one would have
expected windows, and floors in the place of walls. Bridges
stopped halfway, as though the builders had suddenly forgotten
what they were doing. There were towers bent like bananas and
pyramids standing on their tips. In short, the whole city seemed
to have gone mad.
Then Bastian saw the inhabitants -- men, women, and
children. They were built like ordinary human beings, but
dressed as if they had lost the power to distinguish between
clothing and objects intended for other purposes. On their heads
they wore lampshades, sand pails, soup bowls, wastepaper
baskets, or shoe boxes. Their bodies were swathed in towels,
carpets, big sheets of wrapping paper, or barrels.
Many were pushing or pulling handcarts with all sorts of junk
piled up on them, broken lamps, mattresses, dishes, rags, and
knick-knacks. Others were carrying enormous bales slung over
their shoulders.
The farther Bastian went into the city, the thicker became the
crowd. But none of the people seemed to know where they were
going. Several times Bastian saw someone dragging a heavily
laden cart in one direction, then after a short time doubling back,
and a few minutes later changing direction again. Everybody was
feverishly Active.
Bastian decided to speak to one of these people.
"What's the name of this place?"
The person let go his cart, straightened up, and scratched his
head for a while as though thinking it over. Then he went away,
abandoning his cart, which he seemed to have forgotten. But a
few minutes later, a woman took hold of the cart and started off
with it. Bastian asked her if the junk was hers. The woman stood
for a while, deep in thought. Then she too went away.
Bastian tried a few more times but received no answer.
Suddenly he heard someone giggling. "No point in asking
them," said the giggler. "They can't tell you anything. One
might, in a manner of speaking, call them the Know-Nothings."
Bastian turned toward the voice and saw a little gray monkey
sitting on a window ledge, or rather on what would have been a
window ledge if the window hadn't been upside down. The
animal was wearing a mortarboard with a dangling tassel and
seemed to be busy counting something on his fingers and toes.
When he had finished, he grinned and said: "Sorry to keep you
waiting, sir, but there was something I had to figure out."
"Who are you?" Bastian asked.
"My name is Argax," said the little monkey, lifting his
mortarboard. "Pleased to meet you. And with whom have I the
pleasure?"
"My name is Bastian Balthazar Bux."
"Just as I thought," said the monkey, visibly pleased.
"And what is the name of this city?" Bastian inquired.
"It hasn't actually got a name," said Argax. "But one might,
in a manner of speaking, call it the City of the Old Emperors."
"Old Emperors?" Bastian repeated with consternation. "Why,
I don't see anybody who looks like an Old Emperor."
"You don't?" said the monkey with a giggle. "Well, believe it
or not, all the people you've seen were Emperors of Fantastica in
their time -- or wanted to be."
Bastian was aghast.
"How do you know that, Argax?"
The monkey lifted his mortarboard and grinned.
"I, in a manner of speaking, am the superintendent here."
Bastian looked around. Not far away an old man had dug a
pit. He put a lighted candle into it, then shoveled earth over the
candle.
The monkey giggled. "What would you say to a little tour of
the town, sir? To get acquainted, in a manner of speaking, with
your future residence."
"No," said Bastian. "What are you talking about?"
The monkey jumped up on his shoulder. "Let's go," he
whispered. "It's free of charge. You've already paid the admission
fee."
Bastian obeyed the monkey's orders, though he would rather
have run away. He grew more miserable with every step. He
watched the people and was struck by the fact that they didn't
talk. They were all so busy with their own concerns that they
didn't even seem to see one another.
"What's wrong with them?" Bastian asked. "Why are they so
odd?"
"Nothing odd about them!" said Argax. "They're just like
you, in a manner of speaking, or rather, they were in their time."
Bastian stopped in his tracks. "What do you mean by that?
Do you mean that they're humans?"
Argax jumped up and down on Bastian's shoulder. "Exactly!"
he said gleefully.
Bastian saw a woman in the middle of the street trying to
spear peas with a darning needle.
"How did they get here? What are they doing here?"
"Oh, there have always been humans who couldn't find their
way back to their world," Argax explained. "First they didn't
want to, and now, in a manner of speaking, they can't."
Bastian looked at a little girl who was struggling to push a
doll's carriage with square wheels.
"Why can't they?" he asked.
"They'd have to wish it. And they've stopped wishing. They
used up their last wish for something else."
"Their last wish?" said Bastian, going deathly pale. "Can't a
person go on wishing as long as he pleases?"
Argax giggled again. Then he tried to take off Bastian's
turban and pick lice out of his hair.
"Stop that!" Bastian cried. He tried to shake the little monkey
off, but Argax held on tight and squealed with pleasure.
"No! No!" he chattered. "You can only wish as long as you
remember your world. These people here used up all their
memories. Without a past you can't have a future. That's why
they don't get older. Just look at them. Would you believe that
some of them have been here a thousand years and more? But
they stay just as they are. Nothing can change for them, because
they themselves can't change anymore."
Bastian watched a man who had lathered a mirror and was
starting to shave it. Once that might have struck him as funny;
now it made him break out in gooseflesh.
He hurried on and soon realized that he was going deeper
into the city. He wanted to turn back, but something drew him
onward like a magnet. He began to run and tried to get rid of the
bothersome gray monkey, but Argax clung fast and even spurred
him on: "Faster! Faster!"
Bastian stopped running. He realized that he couldn't escape.
"You mean," he asked, gasping for breath, "that all these people
here were once Emperors of Fantastica, or wanted to be?"
"That's it," said Argax. "All the ones who can't find their way
back try sooner or later to become Emperor. They didn't all make
it, but they all tried. That's why there are two kinds of fools here.
Though the result, in a manner of speaking, is the same."
"What two kinds? Tell me, Argax! I have to know!"
"Easy does it," said the monkey, giggling as he tightened his
grip on Bastian's neck. "The one kind gradually used up their
memories. And when they had lost the last one, AURYN
couldn't fulfill their wishes anymore. After that, they came here,
in a manner of speaking, automatically. The others, the ones who
crowned themselves emperor, lost all their memories at one
stroke. So the same thing happened: AURYN couldn't fulfill
their wishes anymore, because they had none left. As you see, it
comes to the same thing. Here they are, and they can't get away."
"Do you mean that they all had AURYN at one time?"
"Naturally!" said Argax. "But they forgot it long ago. And it
wouldn't help them anymore, the poor fools!"
"Was it. . ." Bastian hesitated. "Was it taken away from
them?"
"No," said Argax. "When someone crowns himself emperor,
it simply vanishes. Obviously, because how, in a manner of
speaking, can you use Moon Child's power to take her power
away from her?"
Bastian felt wretched. He would have liked to sit down
somewhere, but the little gray monkey wouldn't let him.
"No, no, our tour isn't done yet. The best is yet to come!
Keep moving!"
Bastian saw a boy with a heavy hammer trying to drive nails
into a pair of socks. A fat man was trying to paste postage stamps
on soap bubbles. They kept bursting, but he went on blowing
new ones.
"Look!" Bastian heard the giggling voice of Argax and felt his
head being twisted by the monkey's little hands. "Look over
there! It's so amusing!"
Bastian saw a large group of people, men and women, young
and old, all in the strangest clothes. They didn't speak, each one
was alone with himself. On the ground lay a large number of
cubes, and there were letters on all six sides of the cubes. The
people kept jumbling the cubes and then staring at them.
"What are they doing?" Bastian whispered. "What sort of
game is that?"
"It's called the jumble game," answered Argax. He motioned
to the players and cried out: "Good work, children! Keep at it!
Don't give up!"
Then, turning back to Bastian, he whispered in his ear: "They
can't talk anymore. They've lost the power of speech. So I
thought up this game for them. As you see, it keeps them busy.
It's very simple. If you stop to think about it, you'll have to admit
that all the stories in the world consist essentially of twenty-six
letters. The letters are always the same, only the arrangement
varies. From letters words are formed, from words sentences,
from sentences chapters, and from chapters stories. Now take a
look. What do you see there?"
Bastian read:
H G I K L O P F M W E Y V X Q
Y X C V B N M A S D F G H J K L O A
Q W E R T Z U I O P U
A S D F G H J K L O A
M N B V C X Y L K J H G F D S A
U P O I U Z T R E W Q A S
Q S E R T Z U I O P U A S D A F
A S D F G H J K L O A Y X C
U P O I U Z T R E W Q
A O L K J H G F D S A M N B V
G K H D S R Z I P
Q E T U O U S F H K O
Y C B M W R Z I P
A R C G U N I K Y O
Q W E R T Z I O P L U A S D
M N B V C X Y A S D
L K J U O N G R E F G H I
"Yes, of course," said Argax with a giggle, "it usually makes
no more sense than that. But if you keep at it for a long time,
words turn up now and then. Not very brilliant words, but still
words. "Spinachcramp," for instance, or 'sugarbrush," or
"nosepolish." And if you play for a hundred years, or a thousand
or a hundred thousand, the law of chances tells us that a poem
will probably come out. And if you play it forever, every possible
poem and every possible story will have to come out, in fact every
story about a story, and even this story about the two of us
chatting here. It's only logical, don't you think?"
"It's horrible," said Bastian.
"I wouldn't say that," said Argax. "It depends on your point
of view. It keeps these people, in a manner of speaking, busy.
And anyway, what else can we do with them in Fantastica?"
For a long time Bastian watched the players in silence. Then
he asked under his breath: "Argax, you know who I am, don't
you?"
"Of course I do. Is there anyone in Fantastica who doesn't?"
"Tell me one thing, Argax. If I had become emperor
yesterday, would I already be here now?"
"Today or tomorrow," said the monkey. "Or next week. One
way or another, you'd have ended up here."
"Then Atreyu saved me?"
"You've got me there," the monkey admitted.
"But if he had succeeded in taking the Gem away from me,
what would have happened then?"
The monkey giggled again.
"You'd have ended up here, in a manner of speaking, all the
same."
"Why?"
"Because you need AURYN to find the way back. But
frankly, I don't believe you'll make it."
The monkey clapped his little hands, lifted his mortarboard,
and grinned.
"Tell me, Argax, what must I do?"
"Find a wish that will take you back to your world."
After a long silence Bastian asked: "Argax, can you tell me
how many wishes I have left?"
"Not very many. In my opinion three or four at the most.
And that will hardly be enough. You're beginning rather late, and
the way back isn't easy. You'll have to cross the Sea of Mist. That
alone will cost you a wish. What comes next I don't know. No
one in Fantastica knows what road you people must take to get
back to your world. Maybe you'll find Yor's Minroud, that's the
last hope for people like you. But I'm afraid that for you it's, in a
manner of speaking, too far. Be that as it may, you will, just this
once, find your way out of the City of the Old Emperors."
"Thanks, Argax," said Bastian.
The little gray monkey grinned.
"Goodbye, Bastian Balthazar Bux."
With one leap Argax vanished into one of the crazy houses.
He had taken Bastian's turban with him.
For a while Bastian stood motionless. He was so stunned by
what he had just heard that he couldn't decide what to do. All his
plans had collapsed at one stroke. His thoughts seemed to have
been stood on end -- like the pyramid he had seen. What he had
hoped was his ruin and what he had feared his salvation.
At the moment only one thing was clear to him: he must get
out of this insane city. And never come back!
He started through the jumble of crazy buildings. He soon
discovered that it was much harder to get out than to get in.
Time and time again he lost his way and found himself back in
the center of the city. It took him all afternoon to reach the
earthworks. Then he ran out into the heath and kept going until
black night -- as black as the night before -- forced him to stop.
Exhausted, he collapsed under a juniper tree and fell into a deep
sleep. And while he slept, the memory that he could once make
up stories left him.
All night he had the same unchanging vision before his eyes:
Atreyu, with the gaping wound in his chest, stood there looking
at him in silence.
Awakened by a thunderclap, Bastian started up. Deep
darkness lay all around him, but the massive clouds that had been
gathering for days had been thrown into wild disorder. Lightning
flashed, thunder shook the earth, the storm wind howled over the
heath and the juniper trees were bowed to the ground. Rain fell
in dense sheets.
Bastian arose and stood there wrapped in his black mantle;
the water ran down his face.
Lightning struck a tree directly in front of him and split the
gnarled trunk. The branches went up in flames, the wind blew a
shower of sparks over the heath. In a moment they were doused
by the rain.
The crash had thrown Bastian to his knees. He dug into the
earth with both hands. When the hole was big enough, he
unslung the sword Sikanda and put it in.
"Sikanda," he said. "I am taking leave of you forever. Never
again shall anyone draw you against a friend. No one shall find
you here, until what you and I have done is forgotten."
He filled in the hole and covered it over with moss and
branches, lest anyone should discover it.
And there Sikanda lies to this day. For not until far in the
future will one come who can wield it without danger -- but that
is another story and shall be told another time.
Bastian went his way through the darkness.
Toward morning the storm abated, the wind died down, and
there was no other sound than the rain dripping from the trees.
That night was the beginning of a long, lonely journey for
Bastian. He no longer wished to return to his traveling
companions or Xayide. Now he wanted to find the way back to
the human world -- but he didn't know how or where to look for
it. Was there somewhere a gate, a bridge, a mountain pass that
would take him back?
He had to wish for it, that he knew. But he had no power
over his wishes. He felt like a diver who is searching the bottom
of the sea for a sunken ship, but keeps being driven to the surface
before he can find anything.
He also knew that he had few wishes left, so he was careful
not to use AURYN. He was determined to sacrifice his last few
remaining memories only if he felt sure that this would help him
get back to his world.
But wishes cannot be summoned up or kept away at will.
They come from deeper within us than good or bad intentions.
And they spring up unannounced.
And so, before he knew it, a new wish arose within him and
little by little took form.
For days and nights he had been wandering all alone. And
because of being alone, he yearned to belong to some sort of
community, to be taken into a group, not as a master or victor or
as any special sort of person, but merely as one among many,
perhaps as the smallest or least important, provided his
membership in the community was unquestioned.
And then one day he came to a seacoast. Or so he thought at
first. He was standing on the edge of a sheer cliff, and before him
lay a sea of congealed white waves. It was some time before he
realized that these waves were not really motionless, but were
moving very slowly, that there were currents and eddies that
moved as imperceptibly as the hands of a clock.
He had come to the Sea of Mist!
Bastian walked along the cliff. The air was warm and slightly
damp. There was not the slightest breeze. It was early morning
and the sun shone on the snow-white surface of the fog, which
extended to the horizon.
He walked for several hours. Toward noon he espied a small
town some distance from the shore. Supported by piles, it formed
a sort of island in the Sea of Mist. The long, arching bridge
connecting the town with the rocky coast swayed gently as
Bastian crossed it.
The houses were relatively small. The doors, windows, and
stairways all seemed to have been made for children. And indeed,
the people moving about the streets were no bigger than children,
though they all seemed to be grown men with beards or women
with pinned-up hair. As Bastian soon noticed, these people
looked so much alike that he could hardly tell them apart. Their
faces were dark brown like moist earth and they looked calm and
gentle. When they saw Bastian, they nodded to him, but none
spoke. Altogether they seemed a silent lot; the place was
humming with activity, yet he seldom heard a cry or a spoken
word. And never did he see any of these people alone; they always
went about in groups if not in crowds, locking arms or holding
one another by the hand.
When Bastian examined the houses more closely, he saw that
they were all made of a sort of wicker, some crude and some of a
finer weave, and that the streets were paved with the same kind of
material. Even the people's clothing, he noticed, their trousers,
skirts, jackets, and hats were of wickerwork, though these were
artfully woven. Everything in the town seemed to be made of the
same material.
Here and there Bastian was able to cast a glance into the
artisans' workshops. They were all busy weaving, making shoes,
pitchers, lamps, cups, and umbrellas of wickerwork. But never
did he see anyone working alone, for these things could be made
only by several persons working together. It was a pleasure to see
how cleverly they coordinated their movements. And as they
worked, they usually sang some simple melody without words.
The town was not very large, and Bastian had soon come to
the edge of it. There he saw hundreds of ships of every size and
shape. The town was a seaport, but of a most unusual kind, for
all these ships were hanging from gigantic fishing poles and
hovered, swaying gently, over a chasm full of swirling white mist.
These ships, made of wickerwork like everything else, had neither
sails nor masts nor oars nor rudders.
Bastian leaned over the railing and looked down into the Sea
of Mist. He was able to gauge the length of the stakes supporting
the town by the shadows they cast on the white surface below.
"At night," he heard a voice beside him say, "the mists rise to
the level of the town. Then we can put out to sea. In the daytime
the sun reduces the mist and the level falls. That's what you
wanted to know, isn't it, stranger?"
Three men were leaning against the railing beside Bastian.
They seemed gentle and friendly. They got to talking and in the
course of his conversation with them Bastian learned that the
town was called Yskal or Basketville. Its inhabitants were known
as Yskalnari. The word meant roughly "the partners." The three
were mist sailors. Not wishing to give his name for fear of being
recognized, Bastian introduced himself as "Someone." The three
sailors told him the Yskalnari had no names for individuals and
didn't find it necessary. They were all Yskalnari and that was
enough for them.
Since it was lunchtime, they invited Bastian to join them, and
he gratefully accepted. They went to a nearby inn, and during the
meal Bastian learned all about Basketville and its inhabitants.
The Sea of Mist, which they called the Skaidan, was an
enormous ocean of white vapor, which divided the two parts of
Fantastica from each other. No one had ever found out how deep
the Skaidan was or where all this mist came from. It was quite
possible to breathe below the surface of the mist, and to walk
some distance on the bottom of the sea near the coast, where the
mist was relatively shallow, but only if one was tied to a rope and
could be pulled back. For the mist had one strange property: it
fuddled one's sense of direction. Any number of fools and
daredevils had died in the attempt to cross the Skaidan alone and
on foot. Only a few had been rescued. The only way to reach the
other side was in the ships of the Yskalnari.
The wickerwork, from which the houses, implements,
clothing, and ships of Yskal were made, was woven from a variety
of rushes that grew under the surface of the sea not far from the
shore. These rushes -- as can easily be gathered from the
foregoing -- could be cut only at the risk of one's life. Though
unusually pliable and even limp in ordinary air, they stood
upright in the sea, because they were lighter than the mist. That
was what made the wickerwork ships mistworthy. And if any of
the Yskalnari chanced to fall into the mist, his regular clothing
served the purpose of a life jacket.
But the strangest thing about the Yskalnari, so it struck
Bastian, was that the word "I" seemed unknown to them. In any
case, they never used it, but in speaking of what they thought or
did always said "we."
When he gathered from the conversation that the three sailors
would be putting out to sea that night, he asked if he could ship
with them as a cabin boy. They informed him that a voyage on
the Skaidan was very different from any other ocean voyage,
because no one knew how long it would take or exactly where it
would end up. When Bastian said that didn't worry him, they
agreed to take him on.
At nightfall the mists began to rise and by midnight they had
reached the level of Basketville. The ships that had been dangling
in midair were now floating on the white surface. The moorings
of the one on which Bastian found himself -- a flat barge about a
hundred feet long -- were cast off, and it drifted slowly out into
the Sea of Mist.
The moment he laid his eyes on it, Bastian wondered what
propelled this sort of ship, since it had neither sails nor oars nor
propeller. He soon found out that sails would have been useless,
for there was seldom any wind on the Skaidan, and that oars and
propellers do not function in mist. These ships were moved by an
entirely different sort of power.
In the middle of the deck there was a round, slightly raised
platform. Bastian had noticed it from the start and taken it for a
sort of captain's bridge. Indeed, it was occupied throughout the
voyage by two or more sailors. (The entire crew numbered
fourteen.) The men on the platform held one another clasped by
the shoulders and looked fixedly forward. At first sight, they
seemed to be standing motionless. Actually they were swaying
very slowly, in perfect unison -- in a sort of dance, which they
accompanied by chanting over and over again a simple and
strangely beautiful tune.
At first Bastian regarded this song and dance as some sort of
ceremony, the meaning of which escaped him. Then, on the
third day of voyage, he asked one of his three friends about it.
Evidently surprised at Bastian's ignorance, the sailor explained
that those men were propelling the ship by thought-power.
More puzzled than ever, Bastian asked if some sort of
hiddenwheels were set in motion.
"No," one of the sailors replied. "When you want to move
your legs, you have only to think about it. You don't need
wheels, do you?"
The only difference between a person's body and a ship was
that to move a ship at least two Yskalnari had to merge their
thought-powers into one. It was this fusion of thought-powers
that propelled the ship. If greater speed was desired, more men
had to join in. Normally, thinkers worked in shifts of three; the
others rested, for easy and pleasant as it looked,
thought-propulsion was hard work, demanding intense and
unbroken concentration. But there was no other way of sailing
the Skaidan.
Bastian became the student of the mist navigators and learned
the secret of their cooperation: dance and song without words.
Little by little, in the course of the long voyage, he became
one of them. During the dance he felt his thought-power
merging with those of his companions to form a whole, and this
gave him a strange and indescribable sense of harmony and
self-forgetfulness. He felt accepted by a community, at one with
his companions -- and at the same time he totally forgot that the
inhabitants of the world from which he came, and to which he
was seeking the way back, were human beings, each with his own
thoughts and opinions. Dimly he remembered his home and
parents, but nothing more.
His wish to be no longer alone had come true. But now, deep
in his heart, a new wish arose and began to make itself felt.
One day it struck him that the Yskalnari lived together so
harmoniously, not because they blended different ways of
thinking, but because they were so much alike that it cost them
no effort to form a community. Indeed, they were incapable of
quarreling or even disagreeing, because they did not regard
themselves as individuals. Thus there were no conflicts or
differences to overcome, and it was just this sameness, this
absence of stress that gradually came to pall on Bastian. Their
gentleness bored him and the unchanging melody of their songs
got on his nerves. He felt that something was lacking, something
he hungered for, but he could not yet have said what it was.
This became clear to him sometime later when a giant mist
crow was sighted. Stricken with terror, the sailors vanished below
deck as fast as they could. But one was not quick enough; the
monstrous bird swooped down with a cry, seized the poor fellow,
and carried him away in its beak.
When the danger was past, the sailors emerged and resumed
their song and dance, as though nothing had happened. Their
harmony was undisturbed, and far from grieving, they didn't
waste so much as a word on the incident.
"Why should we grieve?" said one of them when Bastian
inquired. "None of us is missing."
With them the individual counted for nothing. No one was
irreplaceable, because they drew no distinction between one man
and another.
Bastian, however, wanted to be an individual, a someone, not
just one among others. He wanted to be loved for being just what
he was. In this community of Yskalnari there was harmony, but
no love.
He no longer wanted to be the greatest, strongest, or
cleverest. He had left all that far behind. He longed to be loved
just as he was, good or bad, handsome or ugly, clever or stupid,
with all his faults -- or possibly because of them.
But what was he actually like?
He no longer knew. So much had been given to him in
Fantastica, and now, among all these gifts and powers, he could
no longer find himself.
He stopped dancing with the mist sailors. All day long and
sometimes all night as well, he sat in the prow, looking out over
the Skaidan.
At last the crossing was completed and the mist ship docked.
Bastian thanked the Yskalnari and went ashore.
This was a land full of roses, there were whole forests of roses
of every imaginable color. A winding path led through the
endless rose garden, and Bastian followed it.

XXIV
Dame Eyola

ayide's end is soon told, but hard to understand and full of contradictions
like many things in Fantastica. To this day many
scholars and historians are racking their brains for an explanation
of what happened, while some deny the whole incident or try to
interpret it out of existence. Here we shall simply state the facts,
leaving others to explain them as best they can.
Just as Bastian was arriving at the town of Yskal, Xayide and
her black giants reached the spot were his metallic horse had
collapsed under him. In that moment she suspected that she
would never find him, and her suspicions became a certainty
when she came to the earthen wall and saw Bastian's footprints
on it. If he had reached the City of the Old Emperors, he was lost
to her plans, regardless of whether he stayed there or whether he
managed to escape. In the first case, he would become powerless
like everyone there, no longer able to wish for anything -- and in
the second, all wishes for power and greatness would die within
him. For her, Xayide, the game was over in either case.
She commanded her armored giants to halt. Strangely, they
did not obey but marched on. She flew into a rage, jumped out of
her litter, and ran after them with outstretched arms. The
armored giants, foot soldiers and riders alike, ignored her
commands, turned about, and trampled her with their feet and
hooves. At length, when Xayide had breathed her last, the whole
column stopped like rundown clockwork.
When Hysbald, Hydorn, and Hykrion arrived with what was
left of the army, they saw what had happened. They were
puzzled, because they knew it was Xayide's will alone that had
moved the hollow giants. So, they thought, it must have been her
will that they should trample her to death. But knotty problems
were not the knights' forte, so in the end they shrugged their
shoulders and let well enough alone. But what were they to do
next? They talked it over and, deciding that the campaign was at
an end, discharged the army and advised everyone to go home.
They themselves, however, felt bound by the oath of fealty they
had sworn to Bastian and resolved to search all Fantastica for
him. That was all well and good, but which way were they to go?
They couldn't agree, so deciding that each would search
separately, they parted and hobbled off each in a different
direction. All three had countless adventures, and Fantastica
knows numerous accounts of their futile quest. But these are
other stories and shall be told another time.
For years the hollow, black-metal giants stood motionless on
the heath not far from the City of the Old Emperors. Rain and
snow fell on them, they rusted and little by little sank into the
ground, some vertically, some at a slant. But to this day a few of
them can be seen. The place is thought to be cursed, and travelers
make a wide circle around it. But let's get back to Bastian.
While following the winding path through the rose garden,
he saw something that amazed him, because in all his wanderings
in Fantastica he had never seen anything like it. It was a pointing
hand, carved from wood. Beside it was written: "To the House of
Change."
Without haste Bastian took the direction indicated. He
breathed the fragrance of the innumerable roses and felt more
and more cheerful, as though looking forward to a pleasant
surprise.
At length he came to a straight avenue, bordered by round
trees laden with red-cheeked apples. At the end of the avenue a
house appeared. As he approached it, Bastian decided it was the
funniest house he had ever seen. Under a tall, pointed roof that
looked rather like a stocking cap, the house itself suggested a
giant pumpkin. The walls were covered with large protuberances,
one might almost have said bellies, that gave the house a
comfortably inviting look. There were a few windows and a front
door, but they seemed crooked, as though a clumsy child had cut
them out.
On his way to the house, Bastian saw that it was slowly but
steadily changing. A small bump appeared on the right side and
gradually took the shape of a dormer window. At the same time a
window on the left side closed and little by little disappeared. A
chimney grew out of the roof and a small balcony with a
balustrade appeared over the front door.
Bastian stopped still and watched the changes with surprise
and amusement. Now he understood why the place was called
the House of Change.
As he stood there, he heard a warm, pleasant voice -- a
woman's -- singing inside.
"A hundred summers to a day
We have waited here for you.
Seeing that you've found the way,
It must certainly be you.
Your hunger and your thirst to still,
All is here in readiness.
You shall eat and drink your fill,
Sheltered in our tenderness.
Regardless whether good or bad,
You've suffered much and traveled far.
Take comfort for the trials you've had.
We'll have you just the way you are."
Ah! thought Bastian. What a lovely voice! If only that song
were meant for me!
The voice began again to sing:
"Great lord, I pray, be small again,
Be a child and come right in.
Don't keep standing at the door,
You are welcome here, and more.
Everything for many a year
Has been ready for you here."
Bastian felt irresistibly drawn by that voice. He felt sure the
singer must be a very friendly person. He knocked at the door
and the voice called out:
"Come in, come in, dear boy!"
He opened the door and saw a small but comfortable room.
The sun was streaming in through the windows. In the middle of
the room there was a round table covered with bowls and baskets
full of all sorts of fruits unknown to Bastian. At the table sat a
woman as round and red-cheeked and healthy-looking as an
apple.
Bastian was almost overpowered by a desire to run to her with
outstretched arms and cry: "Mama, Mama!" But he controlled
himself. His mama was dead and was certainly not here in
Fantastica. This woman, it was true, had the same sweet smile
and the same trustworthy look, but between her and his mother
there was little resemblance. His mother had been small and this
woman was large and imposing. She was wearing a broad hat
covered with fruits and flowers, and her dress was of some sort of
bright, flowered material. It was some time before Bastian
realized that it consisted of leaves, flowers, and fruits.
As he stood looking at her, he was overcome by a feeling that
he had not known for a long time. He could not remember when
and where; he knew only that he had sometimes felt that way
when he was little.
"Sit down, dear boy," said the woman, motioning him to a
chair. "You must be hungry. Do have a bite to eat."
"I beg your pardon," said Bastian. "You're expecting a guest.
I've only come here by accident."
"Really?" said the woman with a smile. "Oh well, it doesn't
matter. You can have a bite to eat all the same. Meanwhile I'll tell
you a little story. Go on, don't stand on ceremony."
Bastian took off his black mantle, laid it on a chair, and
hesitantly reached for a fruit. Before biting into it, he asked:
"What about you? Aren't you eating? Or don't you care for
fruit?"
The woman laughed heartily, Bastian didn't know why.
"Very well," she said after composing herself. "If you insist,
I'll have something to keep you company, but in my own way.
Don't be frightened."
With that she picked up a watering can that was on the floor
beside her, held it over her head, and sprinkled herself. "Oh!" she
said. "That is refreshing!"
Now it was Bastian's turn to laugh. Then he bit into the fruit
and instantly realized that he had never eaten anything so good.
He took a second fruit and that was even better.
"You like it?" asked the woman, watching him closely.
Bastian couldn't answer because his mouth was full. He chewed
and nodded.
"I'm glad," the woman said. "I've taken a lot of pains with
that fruit. Eat as much as you please."
Bastian took a third fruit, and that was a sheer delight. He
sighed with well-being.
"And now I'll tell you the story," said the woman. "But don't
let it stop you from eating."
Bastian found it hard to listen, for each new fruit gave him a
more rapturous sensation than the last.
"A long, long time ago," the flowery woman began, "our
Childlike Empress was deathly ill, for she needed a new name,
and only a human could give her one. But humans had stopped
coming to Fantastica, no one knew why. And if she had died,
that would have been the end of Fantastica. Then one day -- or
rather one night -- a human came after all. It was a little boy, and
he gave the Childlike Empress the name of Moon Child. She
recovered, and in token of her gratitude she promised the boy
that all his wishes in her empire would come true -- until he
found out what he really and truly wanted. Then the little boy
made a long journey from one wish to the next, and each one
came true. And each fulfillment led to a new wish. There were
not only good wishes but bad ones as well, but the Childlike
Empress drew no distinction; in her eyes all things in her empire
are equally good and important. In the end the Ivory Tower was
destroyed, and she did nothing to prevent it. But with every wish
fulfillment the little boy lost a part of his memory of the world he
had come from. He didn't really mind, for he had given up
wanting to go back. So he kept on wishing, but by then he had
spent all his memories, and without memories it's not possible to
wish. So he had almost ceased to be a human and had almost
become a Fantastican. He still didn't know what he really and
truly wanted. It seemed possible that his very last memories
would be used up before he found out. And if that happened, he
would never be able to return to his own world. Then at last he
came to the House of Change, and there he would stay until he
found out what he really and truly wanted. You see, it's called the
House of Change not only because it changes itself but also
because it changes anyone who lives in it. And that was very
important to the little boy, because up until then he had always
wanted to be someone other than he was, but he didn't want to
change."
At this point she broke off, because her visitor had stopped
chewing and was staring openmouthed.
"If that one doesn't taste good," she said with concern, "just
put it down and take another."
"W-what?" Bastian stammered. "Oh no, it's delicious."
"Then everything's fine," said the woman. "But I forgot to
tell you the name of the little boy, who had been expected so long
at the House of Change. Many in Fantastica called him simply
'the Savior,' others 'the Knight of the Seven-armed
Candelabrum,' or 'the Great Knower,' or 'Lord and Master.' But
his real name was Bastian Balthazar Bux."
The woman turned to Bastian with a smile. He swallowed
once or twice and said very softly: "That's my name."
"Well then!" said the woman, who didn't seem the least
surprised.
Suddenly the buds on her hat and dress burst into bloom.
"But," said Bastian hesitantly. "I haven't been in Fantastica a
hundred years."
"Oh, we've been waiting for you much longer than that," said
the woman. "My grandmother and my grandmother's
grandmother waited for you. You see, now someone is telling you
a story that is new, even though it's about the remotest past."
Bastian remembered Grograman's words. That had been at
the beginning of his journey. And now suddenly it seemed to him
that a hundred years had indeed elapsed since then.
"But by the way, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Dame
Eyola."
Bastian repeated the name, several times before he was able to
pronounce it properly. Then he took another fruit. He bit into it,
and as usual thought the one he was eating was the most delicious
of all. But then he noticed with some alarm that there was only
one left.
"Do you want more?" asked Dame Eyola, who had caught his
glance. When Bastian nodded, she plucked fruit from her hat and
dress until the bowl was full again.
"Does the fruit grow on your hat?" Bastian asked in
amazement.
"Hat? What are you talking about?" cried Dame Eyola. But
then she understood and broke into a loud, hearty laugh. "So you
think it's a hat I've got on my head? Not at all, dear boy. It all
grows out of me. Just as your hair grows out of you. That should
show you how glad I am that you've finally come. That's why I'm
flowering and bearing fruit. If I were sad, I'd wither. But come
now, don't forget to eat."
Bastian was embarrassed. "I don't know," he said. "Is it all
right to eat something that comes out of somebody?"
"Why not?" asked Dame Eyola. "Babies drink milk that
comes out of their mothers. There's nothing better."
"That's true," said Bastian with a slight blush. "But only
when they're very little."
"In that case," said Dame Eyola, beaming, "you'll just have to
get to be very little again, my dear boy."
Bastian took another fruit and bit into it. Dame Eyola was
delighted and bloomed more than ever.
After a short silence she said: "I think it would like us to
move into the next room. I believe it may have arranged
something for you."
"Who?" Bastian asked, looking around.
"The House of Change," said Dame Eyola, as if that were the
most natural thing in the world.
And indeed a strange thing had happened. The living room
had changed without Bastian noticing that anything was going
on. The ceiling had moved upward, while three of the walls had
come close to the table. There was still room on the fourth side,
where there was a door, which now stood open.
Dame Eyola rose, and then he saw how big she was.
"We'd better go," she suggested. "It's very stubborn.
Opposition is useless if it has thought up a surprise. We may as
well let it have its way. It usually means well."
Bastian followed her through the door, but took the fruit
bowl with him as a precaution.
He found himself in a large dining room that looked
somehow familiar. Only the furniture seemed strange -- the table
and especially the chairs were so large that he couldn't possibly
have sat in them.
"Fancy that!" said Dame Eyola with a chuckle. "The House
of Change is always thinking up something new. Now for your
benefit it has provided a room as it must look to a small child."
"You mean," said Bastian, "that this room wasn't here
before?"
"Of course not. The House of Change is very wide-awake,
you see. This is its way of taking part in our conversation. I think
it's trying to tell you something."
Then she sat down in one of the chairs at the table, while
Bastian tried in vain to climb up on the other. Dame Eyola had
to pick him up and put him on it, but even then his nose was
barely level with the tabletop. He was glad he had taken the bowl
of fruit, and kept it on his lap. If it had been on the table, it
would have been beyond his reach.
"Do you often have to change rooms this way?" he asked.
"Not often," said Dame Eyola. "Never more than three or
four times a day. Sometimes the House of Change will have its
little jokes, and then the rooms are suddenly reversed, the floor
on top and the ceiling at the bottom, that sort of thing. But it's
only being bumptious and it stops when I give it a piece of my
mind. All in all, it's a well-behaved house and I feel very
comfortable in it. We have good laughs together."
"But isn't it dangerous?" Bastian asked. "For instance, if
you're asleep at night and the room gets smaller and smaller?"
"What nonsense, dear boy!" cried Dame Eyola, pretending to
be angry. "It's very fond of me, and it's fond of you too. It's glad
to have you here."
"What if it takes a dislike to somebody?"
"No idea," she replied. "What questions you ask! There's
never been anyone here but you and me."
"Oh!" said Bastion. "Then I'm your first guest?"
"Of course!"
Bastian looked around the enormous room.
"This room doesn't seem to go with the house. It didn't look
so big from outside."
"The House of Change," said Dame Eyola, "is bigger inside
than out."
Meanwhile night was falling, and it was growing darker and
darker in the room. Bastian leaned back in his big chair and
propped his head on his hands. He felt deliriously sleepy.
"Why," he asked, "did you wait so long for me, Dame
Eyola?"
"I always wanted a child," she said, "a child I could spoil, who
needed my tenderness, a child I could care for -- someone like
you, my darling boy."
Bastian yawned. He felt irresistibly lulled by her sweet voice.
"But," he objected, "you said your mother and grandmother
waited for me."
Dame Eyola's face was now in the darkness.
"Yes," he heard her say. "My mother and my grandmother
also wanted a child. They never had one but I have one now."
Bastian's eyes closed. He barely managed to ask: "How can
that be? Your mother had you when you were little. And your
grandmother had your mother."
"No, my darling boy," said the voice hardly above a whisper.
"With us it's different. We don't die and we're not born. We're
always the same Dame Eyola, and then again we're not. When
my mother grew old, she withered. All her leaves fell, as the leaves
fall from a tree in the winter. She withdrew into herself. And so
she remained for a long time. But then one day she put forth
young leaves, buds, blossoms, and finally fruit. And that's how I
came into being, for I was the new Dame Eyola. And it was just
the same with my grandmother when she brought my mother
into the world. We Dames Eyola can only have a child if we
wither first. And then we're our own child and we can't be a
mother anymore. That's why I'm so glad you're here, my darling
boy. . ."
Bastian spoke no more. He had slipped into a sweet half-sleep
in which he heard her words as a kind of chant. He heard her
stand up and cross the room and bend over him. She stroked his
hair and kissed him on the forehead. Then he felt her pick him
up and carry him out in her arms. He buried his head in her
bosom like a baby. Deeper and deeper he sank into the warm
sleepy darkness. He felt that he was being undressed and put into
a soft, sweet-smelling bed. And then he heard her lovely voice
singing far in the distance:
"Sleep, my darling, good night.
Your sufferings are past.
Great lord, be a little child at last.
Sleep, my darling, sleep tight."
When he woke up the next morning, he felt better and
happier than ever before. He looked around and saw that he was
in a cozy little room -- lying in a crib. Actually, it was a very large
crib, or rather it was as large as a crib must look to a baby. For a
moment this struck him as ridiculous, because he certainly wasn't
a baby anymore, and he was still in possession of all the powers
and gifts that Fantastica had given him. The Childlike Empress's
amulet was still hanging from his neck. But in the very next
moment he stopped caring whether it was ridiculous or not. No
one but him and Dame Eyola would ever find out, and they both
knew that everything was just as it should be.
He got up, washed, dressed, and left the room, A flight of
wooden steps took him to the big dining room, which had turned
into a kitchen overnight. Dame Eyola had breakfast all ready for
him. She too was in high spirits, her flowers were in full bloom.
She sang and laughed and even danced around the kitchen table
with him. After breakfast she sent him outside to get some fresh
air.
In the great rose garden around the House of Change it was
summer, a summer that seemed eternal. Bastian sauntered about,
watched the bees feasting on the flowers, listened to the birds that
were singing in every rosebush; played with the lizards, which
were so tame that they crawled up on his hand, and with the
hares, which let him stroke them. From time to time he crept
under a bush, smelled the sweet scent of the roses, blinked up at
the sun, and thinking of nothing in particular, let the time glide
by like a brook.
Days became weeks. He paid no attention. Dame Eyola was
merry, and Bastian surrendered himself to her motherly care and
tenderness. It seemed to him that without knowing it he had long
hungered for something which was now being given him in
abundance. And he just couldn't get enough of it.
He spent whole days rummaging through the House of
Change from attic to cellar. He never got bored, because the
rooms were always changing and there was always something new
to discover. Clearly the house was at pains to entertain its guest.
It produced playrooms, railway trains, puppet theaters, jungle
gyms. There was even a big merry-go-round.
Or else he would explore the surrounding country. But he
never went too far from the House of Change, for suddenly he
would be overcome by a craving for Dame Eyola's fruit, and
when that happened, he could hardly wait to get back to her and
eat his fill.
In the evening they had long talks. He told her about all his
adventures in Fantastica, about Perilin and Grograman, about
Xayide and Atreyu, whom he had wounded so cruelly and
perhaps even killed.
"I did everything wrong," he said. "I misunderstood
everything. Moon Child gave me so much, and all I did with it
was harm, harm to myself and harm to Fantastica."
Dame Eyola gave him a long look.
"No," she said. "I don't believe so. You went the way of
wishes, and that is never straight. You went the long way around,
but that was your way. And do you know why? Because you are
one of those who can't go back until they have found the
fountain from which springs the Water of Life. And that's the
most secret place in Fantastica. There's no simple way of getting
there."
After a short silence she added: "But every way that leads
there is the right one."
Suddenly Bastian began to cry. He didn't know why. He felt
as if a knot in his heart had come open and dissolved into tears.
He sobbed and he sobbed and couldn't stop. Dame Eyola took
him on her lap and stroked him. He buried his face in the flowers
on her bosom and wept until he was too tired to weep anymore.
That evening they talked no more.
But next day Bastian brought up the subject again.
"Do you know where I can find the Water of Life?"
"On the borders of Fantastica."
"I thought Fantastica had no borders."
"It has, though. Only they're not outside but inside. In the
place where the Childlike Empress gets all her power from, but
where she herself cannot go."
"How am I to find the way there?" asked Bastian. "Isn't it too
late?"
"There's only one wish that can take you there: your last."
Bastian was terrified. "Dame Eyola -- all the wishes that have
come true thanks to AURYN have made me forget something.
Will it be the same with this one?"
She nodded slowly.
"But if I don't notice it!"
"Did you notice it other times? Once you've forgotten
something you don't know you ever had it."
"What am I forgetting now?"
"I'll tell you at the proper time. If I told you now, you'd hold
on to it."
"Must I lose everything?"
"Nothing is lost," she said. "Everything is transformed."
"But then," said Bastian in alarm, "I ought to hurry. I
shouldn't be staying here."
She stroked his hair.
"Don't worry. It will take time, but when your last wish is
awakened, you'll know it -- and so will I."
From that day on something began indeed to change, though
Bastian himself noticed nothing at first. The transforming power
of the House of Change was taking effect. But like all true transformations,
it was as slow and gentle as the growth of a plant.
The days in the House of Change passed, and it was still
summer. Bastian still enjoyed letting Dame Eyola spoil him like a
child. Her fruit still tasted as delicious to him as at the start, but
little by little his craving had been stilled. He ate less than before.
Dame Eyola noticed, though she never mentioned it. He also felt
that he had had his fill of her care and tenderness. And as his
need for them dwindled, a longing of a very different kind made
itself felt, a desire that he had never felt before and that was
different in every way from all his previous wishes: the longing to
be capable of loving. With surprise and dismay he recognized that
he could not love. And the wish became stronger and stronger.
One evening as they were sitting together, he spoke of it to
Dame Eyola.
After listening to him, she said nothing for a long while. She
looked at Bastian with an expression that puzzled him.
"Now you have found your last wish," she said finally. "What
you really and truly want is to love."
"But why can't I, Dame Eyola?"
"You won't be able to until you have drunk of the Water of
Life," she said. "And you can't go back to your own world unless
you take some of it back for others."
Bastian was bewildered. "But what about you?" he asked.
"Haven't you drunk of it?"
"No," said Dame Eyola. "It's different for me. I only needed
someone to whom I could give my excess."
"But isn't that love?"
Dame Eyola pondered a while, then she said: "It was the
effect of your wish."
"Can't Fantasticans love? Are they like me?" he asked
anxiously.
She answered: "There are some few creatures in Fantastica, so
I'm told, who get to drink of the Water of Life. But no one
knows who they are. And there is a prophecy, which we seldom
speak of, that sometime in the distant future humans will bring
love to Fantastica. Then the two worlds will be one. But what
that means I don't know."
"Dame Eyola," Bastian asked, "you promised that when the
right moment came you'd tell me what I had to forget to find my
last wish. Has the time come?"
She nodded.
"You had to forget your father and mother. Now you have
nothing left but your name."
Bastian pondered.
"Father and mother?" he said slowly. But the words had lost
all meaning for him. He had forgotten.
"What must I do now?" he asked.
"You must leave me. Your time in the House of Change is
over."
"Where must I go?"
"Your last wish will guide you. Don't lose it."
"Should I go now?"
"No, it's late. Tomorrow at daybreak. You have one more
night in the House of Change. Now we must go to bed."
Bastian stood up and went over to her. Only then, only when
he was close to her, did he notice that all her flowers had faded.
"Don't let it worry you," she said. "And don't worry about
tomorrow morning. Go your way. Everything is just as it should
be. Good night, my darling boy."
"Good night, Dame Eyola," Bastian murmured.
Then he went up to his room.
When he came down the next day, he saw that Dame Eyola
was still in the same place. All her leaves, flowers, and fruits had
fallen from her. Her eyes were closed and she looked like a black,
dead tree. For a long time he stood there gazing at her. Then
suddenly a door opened.
Before going out, he turned around once again and said,
without knowing whether he was speaking to Dame Eyola or to
the house or both: "Thank you. Thank you for everything."
Then he went out through the door. Winter had come
overnight. The snow lay knee-deep and nothing remained of the
flowering rose garden but bare, black thornbushes. Not a breeze
stirred. It was bitter cold and very still.
Bastian wanted to go back into the house for his mantle, but
the doors and windows had vanished. It had closed itself up all
around. Shivering, he started on his way.
XXV
The Picture Mine

or, the blind miner, was standing beside his hut, listening for
sounds on the snow-covered plain around him. The silence was
so complete that his sensitive hearing picked up the crunching of
footsteps in the snow far in the distance. And he knew that the
steps were coming his way.
Yor was an old man, but his face was beardless and without a
wrinkle. Everything about him, his dress, his face, his hair, was
stone gray. As he stood there motionless, he seemed carved from
congealed lava. Only his blind eyes were dark, and deep within
them there was a glow, as of a small, bright flame.
The steps were Bastian's. When he reached the hut, he said:
"Good day. I've lost my way. I'm looking for the fountain the
Water of Life springs from. Can you help me?"
The miner replied in a whisper: "You haven't lost your way.
But speak softly, or my pictures will crumble."
He motioned to Bastian, who followed him into the hut.
It consisted of a single small, bare room. A wooden table, two
chairs, a cot, and two or three wooden shelves piled with food
and dishes were the only furnishings. A fire was burning on an
open hearth, and over it hung a kettle of soup.
Yor ladled out soup for himself and Bastian, put the bowls on
the table, and with a motion of his hand invited his guest to eat.
They ate in silence.
Then the miner leaned back. His eyes looked through Bastian
and far into the distance as he asked in a whisper: "Who are
you?"
"My name is Bastian Balthazar Bux."
"Ah, so you still know your name."
"Yes. And who are you?"
"I am Yor; people call me the blind miner. But I am blind
only in the daylight. In the darkness of my mine, I can see."
"What sort of mine is it?"
"The Minroud Mine, they call it. It's a picture mine."
"A picture mine?" said Bastian in amazement. "I never heard
of such a thing."
Yor seemed to be listening for something.
"And yet," he said. "It's here for just such as you. For humans
who can't find the way to the Water of Life."
"What kind of pictures are they?" Bastian asked.
Yor shut his eyes and was silent for a while. Bastian didn't
know whether to repeat his question. Then he heard the miner
whisper: "Nothing gets lost in the world. Have you ever dreamed
something and when you woke up not known what it was?"
"Yes," said Bastian. "Often."
Yor nodded. Then he stood up and beckoned Bastian to
follow him. Before they left the hut, he dug his fingers into
Bastian's shoulders and whispered: "But not a word, not a sound,
understand? What you are going to see is my work of many years.
The least sound can destroy it. So tread softly and don't talk."
Bastian nodded and they left the hut. Behind it there was a
wooden headframe, below which a shaft descended vertically into
the earth. Passing these by, the miner led Bastian out into the
snow-covered plain. And there in the snow lay the pictures, like
jewels bedded in white silk.
They were paper-thin sheets of colored, transparent isinglass,
of every size and shape, some round, some square, some
damaged, some intact, some as large as church windows, others as
small as snuffbox miniatures. They lay, arranged more or less
according to size and shape, in rows extending to the snowy
horizon.
What these pictures represented it was hard to say. There
were figures in weird disguise that seemed to be flying through
the air in an enormous bird's nest, donkeys in judge's robes,
clocks as limp as soft butter, dressmaker's dummies standing in
deserted, glaringly lighted squares. There were faces and heads
pieced together from animals and others that made up a
landscape. But there were also perfectly normal pictures, men
mowing a wheat field, women sitting on a balcony, mountain
villages and seascapes, battle scenes and circus scenes, streets and
rooms and many, many faces, old and young, wise and simple,
fools and kings, cheerful and gloomy. There were gruesome
pictures, executions and death dances, and there were comical
ones, such as a group of young ladies riding a walrus or a nose
walking about and being greeted by passersby.
The longer Bastian looked at the pictures, the less he could
make of them. He and Yor spent the whole day walking past row
after row of them, and then dusk descended on the great
snowfield. Bastian followed the miner back to the hut. After
closing the door behind them Yor asked in a soft voice: "Did you
recognize any of them?"
"No," said Bastian.
The miner shook his head thoughtfully.
"Why?" Bastian asked. "What are they?"
"They are forgotten dreams from the human world," Yor explained.
"Once someone dreams a dream, it can't just drop out of
existence. But if the dreamer can't remember it, what becomes of
it? It lives on in Fantastica, deep under our earth. There the
forgotten dreams are stored in many layers. The deeper one digs,
the closer together they are. All Fantastica rests on a foundation
of forgotten dreams."
Bastian was wide-eyed with wonderment. "Are mine there
too?" he asked.
Yor nodded.
"And you think I have to find them?"
"At least one," said Yor. "One will be enough."
"But what for?" Bastian wanted to know.
Now the miner's face was lit only by the faint glow of the
hearth fire. Again his blind eyes looked through Bastian and far
into the distance.
"Listen to me, Bastian Balthazar Bux," he said. "I'm no great
talker. I prefer silence. But I will answer this one question. You
are looking for the Water of Life. You want to be able to love,
that's your only hope of getting back to your world. To love --
that's easily said. But the Water of Life will ask you: Love whom?
Because you can't just love in general. You've forgotten
everything but your name. And if you can't answer, it won't let
you drink. So you'll just have to find a forgotten dream, a picture
that will guide you to the fountain. And to find that picture you
will have to forget the one thing you have left: yourself. And that
takes hard, patient work. Remember what I've said, for I shall
never say it again."
After that he lay down on his wooden cot and fell asleep.
Bastian had to content himself with the hard, cold floor. But he
didn't mind.
When he woke up the next morning feeling stiff in all his
joints, Yor was gone -- to the mine, no doubt, Bastian decided.
He took a dish of the hot soup, which warmed him but didn't
taste very good. Too salty. It made him think of sweat and tears.
Then he went out into the snow-covered plain and walked
past the pictures. He examined one after another attentively, for
now he knew how important it was, but he found none that
meant anything in particular to him.
Toward evening Yor came up from the mine. Bastian saw
him step out of the pit cage. In a frame on his back he was
carrying different-sized sheets of paper-thin isinglass. Bastian
followed him in silence as he went far out into the plain and
carefully bedded his new finds in the soft snow at the end of a
row. One of the pictures represented a man whose chest was a
birdcage with two pigeons in it, another a woman of stone riding
on a large turtle. One very small picture showed a butterfly with
letters on its wings. And many more, but none meant anything to
Bastian.
Back in the hut with the miner, he asked:."What will become
of the pictures when the snow melts?"
"It's always winter here," said Yor.
They had no other conversation that evening.
In the following days Bastian kept searching among the
pictures for one with some special meaning for him -- but in vain.
In the evening he sat in the hut with the miner. Since the miner
kept silent, Bastian got into the habit of saying nothing, and little
by little he adopted Yor's careful way of moving for fear of
making the pictures crumble.
"Now I've seen all the pictures," Bastian said one night.
"None of them is for me."
"That's bad," said Yor.
"What should I do?" Bastian asked. "Should I wait for you to
bring up new ones?"
Yor thought it over, then he shook his head.
"If I were you," he whispered, "I'd go down into the mine
and dig for myself."
"But I haven't got your eyes," said Bastian. "I can't see in the
dark."
"Weren't you given a light for your long journey?" Yor asked,
looking through Bastian. "A sparkling stone or something that
might help you now?"
"Yes," said Bastian sadly. "But I used Al Tsahir for something
else."
"That's bad," Yor said again.
"Then what do you advise?" Bastian asked.
After a long silence the miner replied: "Then you'll just have
to work in the dark."
Bastian shuddered. He still had all the strength and
fearlessness AURYN had given him, but the thought of crawling
on his belly in the black underground darkness sent the shivers
down his spine. He said nothing more and they both lay down to
sleep.
The next morning the miner shook him by the shoulders.
Bastian sat up.
"Eat your soup and come with me," said Yor.
Bastian obeyed.
He followed the miner to the shaft and got into the pit cage
with him. Together they rode down into the mine. At first a faint
beam of light followed them down the shaft, but it vanished as
the cage went deeper. Then a jolt signaled that they had reached
the bottom.
Here below it was much warmer than on the wintry plain.
The miner walked very fast, and trying to keep up for fear of
losing him in the darkness, Bastian was soon covered with sweat.
They twined their way over endless passages and galleries, which
sometimes opened out into spacious vaults, as Bastian could tell
by the echo of their footfalls. Several times Bastian bruised
himself against jutting stones or wooden props, but Yor took no
notice.
On this first day and for several that followed, the miner, by
wordlessly guiding Bastian's hand, instructed him in the art of
separating the paper-thin leaves of isinglass from one another and
picking them up. There were tools for the purpose, they felt like
wooden or horn spatulas, but Bastian never saw them, for when
the day's work was done they stayed down in the mine.
Little by little he learned to find his way in the darkness. A
new sense that he could not have accounted for taught him to
distinguish one gallery from another. One day Yor told him
silently, with the mere touch of his hands, to work alone in a low
gallery, which he could enter only by crawling. Bastian obeyed. It
was very close and cramped, and above him lay a mountain of
stone.
Curled up like an unborn child in its mother's womb, he lay
in the dark depths of Fantastica's foundations, patiently digging
for a forgotten dream, a picture that might lead him to the Water
of Life.
Since he could see nothing in the eternal night of the mine,
he could not choose or come to any decision. He could only hope
that chance or a merciful fate would eventually lead him to a
lucky find. Evening after evening he brought what he had
managed to gather from the Minroud Mine into the failing
daylight. And evening after evening his work had been in vain.
But Bastian did not complain or rebel. He had lost all self-pity.
Though his strength was inexhaustible, he often felt tired.
How long this painful work went on it is hard to say, for such
labor cannot be measured in days and months. Be that as it may,
one evening he brought to the surface a picture. It moved him so
deeply the moment he looked at it that he needed all his
self-control to keep from letting out a cry of surprise that would
have crumbled the picture to dust.
On the fragile sheet of isinglass -- it was not very large, about
the size of a usual book page -- he saw a man wearing a white
smock and holding a plaster cast in one hand. His posture and
the troubled look on his face touched Bastian to the heart. But
what stirred him the most was that the man was shut up in a
transparent but impenetrable block of ice.
While Bastian looked at the picture that lay before him in the
snow, a longing grew in him for this man whom he did not
know, a surge of feeling that seemed to come from far away. Like
a tidal wave, almost imperceptible at first, it gradually built up
strength till it submerged everything in its path. Bastian struggled
for air. His heart pounded, it was not big enough for so great a
longing. That surge of feeling submerged everything that he still
remembered of himself. And he forgot the last thing he still
possessed: his own name.
Later on, when he joined Yor in the hut, he was silent. The
miner was silent too, but for a long while he faced Bastian, his
eyes once again seeming to look through him and far into the
distance. And for the first time since Bastian had come, a smile
passed briefly over the miner's stone-gray features.
That night, tired as he was, the boy who no longer had a
name could not sleep. He kept seeing the picture before his eyes.
It was as though this man wanted to say something to him but
could not, because of the block of ice he was imprisoned in. The
boy without a name wanted to help him, wanted to make the ice
melt. As in a waking dream he saw himself hugging the block of
ice, trying in vain to melt it with the heat of his body.
But then all at once he heard what the man was trying to say
to him; he heard it not with his ears but deep in his heart.
"Please help me! Don't leave me! I can't get out of this ice
alone. Help me! Only you can help me!"
When they awoke next morning at daybreak, the boy without
a name said to Yor: "I won't be going down into the mine with
you anymore."
"Are you going to leave me?"
The boy nodded. "I'm going to look for the Water of Life."
"Have you found the picture that will guide you?"
"Yes."
"Will you show it to me?"
Again the boy nodded. They went out into the snow where
the picture lay. The boy looked at it, but Yor directed his blind
eyes at the boy's face, as though looking through it into the
distance. For a long while he seemed to be listening for some
sound. At length he nodded.
"Take it with you," he whispered, "and don't lose it. If you
lose it, or if it is destroyed, you will have nothing left in
Fantastica. You know what that means."
The boy who no longer had a name stood with bowed head
and was silent for a while. Then he said just as softly: "Thank
you, Yor, for what you have taught me."
They pressed each other's hands.
"You've been a good miner," Yor whispered. "You've worked
well."
Then he turned away and went to the mine shaft. Without
turning around he got into the pit cage and descended into the
depths.
The boy without a name picked the picture out of the snow
and plodded out into the snow-covered plain.
He had been walking for many hours. Yor's hut had long
since disappeared below the horizon. On all sides there was
nothing to be seen but the endless snow-covered plain. But he felt
that the picture, which he was holding carefully in both hands,
was pulling him in a certain direction.
Regardless of how far it might be, he was determined to
follow this pull, for he was convinced that it would take him to
the right place. Nothing must hold him back. He felt sure of
finding the Water of Life.
Suddenly he heard a clamor in the air, as though innumerable
creatures were screaming and twittering. Looking up into the sky,
he saw a dark cloud like a great flock of birds. But when the flock
came closer, he saw what it really was and terror stopped him in
his tracks.
It was the butterfly-clowns, the Shlamoofs.
Merciful heavens! thought the boy without a name. If only
they haven't seen me! They'll shatter the picture with their
screams!
But they had seen him.
Laughing and rollicking, they shot down and landed all
around him in the snow.
"Hurrah!" they croaked, opening wide their motley-colored
mouths. "At last we've found him! Our great benefactor!"
They tumbled in the snow, threw snowballs at one another,
turned somersaults, and stood on their heads.
"Be still! Please be still!" the boy without a name whispered in
desperation.
The whole chorus screamed with enthusiasm: "What did he
say?" -- "He said we were too still!" -- "Nobody ever told us that
before!"
"What do you want of me?" asked the boy. "Why won't you
leave me alone?"
All whirled around him, cackling: "Great benefactor! Great
benefactor! Do you remember how you saved us, when we were
the Acharis? Then we were the unhappiest creatures in all
Fantastica, but now we're fed up with ourselves. At first what you
did to us was a lot of fun, but now we're bored to death. We flit
and we flutter and we don't know where we're at. We can't even
plan any decent games, because we haven't any rules. You've
turned us into preposterous clowns, that's what you've done.
You've cheated us!"
"I meant well," said the horrified boy.
"Sure, you meant well by yourself," the Shlamoofs shouted in
chorus. "Your kindness made you feel great, didn't it? But we
paid the bill for your kindness, you great benefactor!"
"What should I do?" the boy asked. "What do you want of
me?"
"We've been looking for you," screamed the Shlamoofs with
grimacing clown faces. "We wanted to catch you before you
could make yourself scarce. Now we've caught you, and we won't
leave you in peace until you become our chief. We want you to
be our Head Shlamoof, our Master Shlamoof, our General
Shlamoof! You name it."
"But why?" the boy asked imploringly.
The chorus of clowns screamed back: "We want you to give
us orders. We want you to order us around, to make us do
something, to forbid us to do something. We want you to give us
an aim in life!"
"I can't do that. Why don't you elect one of your number?"
"No, we want you. You made us what we are."
"No," the boy panted. "I have to go! I have to go back!"
"Not so fast, great benefactor!" cried the butterfly-clowns.
"You can't get away from us. You think you can sneak away from
Fantastica, don't you? You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"But I'm at the end of my rope," the boy protested.
"What about us?" the chorus replied.
"Go away!" cried the boy. "I can't bother with you anymore."
"Then you must turn us back!" cried the shrill voices. "Then
we'd rather be Acharis. The Lake of Tears has dried up,
Amarganth is on dry land now. And no one spins fine silver
filigree anymore. We want to be Acharis again."
"I can't!" the boy replied. "I no longer have any power in
Fantastica."
"In that case," the whole swarm bellowed, whirling and
swirling about, "we'll kidnap you!"
Hundreds of little hands seized him and tried to lift him off
the ground. The boy struggled with might and main and the
butterflies were tossed in all directions. But like angry wasps they
kept coming back.
Suddenly in the midst of this hubbub a low yet powerful
sound was heard -- something like the booming of a bronze bell.
In a twinkling the Shlamoofs took flight and their cloud soon
vanished in the sky.
The boy who had no name knelt in the snow. Before him,
crumbled into dust, lay the picture. Now all was lost. Now
nothing could lead him to the Water of Life.
When he looked up, he saw, blurred by his tears, two forms
in the snow. One was large, the other small. He wiped his eyes
and took another look.
The two forms were Falkor, the white luckdragon, and
Atreyu.
XXVI
The Water of Life

ig-zagging unsteadily, scarcely able to control his feet, the boy
who had no name took a few steps toward Atreyu. Then he
stopped. Atreyu did nothing, but watched him closely. The
wound in his chest was no longer bleeding.
For a long while they faced each other. Neither said a word. It
was so still they could hear each other's breathing.
Slowly the boy without a name reached for the gold chain
around his neck and divested himself of AURYN. He bent down
and carefully laid the Gem in the snow before Atreyu. As he did
so, he took another look at the two snakes, the one light, the
other dark, which were biting each other's tail and formed an
oval. Then he let the amulet go.
In that moment AURYN, the golden Gem, became so bright,
so radiant that he had to close his eyes as though dazzled by the
sun. When he opened them again, he saw that he was in a vaulted
building, as large as the vault of the sky. It was built from blocks
of golden light. And in the middle of this immeasurable space lay,
as big as the ramparts of a town, the two snakes.
Atreyu, Falkor, and the boy without a name stood side by
side, near the head of the black snake, which held the white
snake's tail in its jaws. The rigid eye with its vertical pupil was
directed at the three of them. Compared to that eye, they were
tiny; even the luckdragon seemed no larger than a white
caterpillar.
The motionless bodies of the snakes glistened like some
unknown metal, the one black as night, the other silvery white.
The havoc they could wreak was checked only because they held
each other prisoner. If they let each other go, the world would
end. That was certain.
But while holding each other fast, they guarded the Water of
Life. For in the center of the edifice they encircled there was a
great fountain. Its beam danced up and down and in falling
created and dispersed thousands of forms far more quickly than
the eye could follow. The foaming water burst into a fine mist, in
which the golden light was refracted with all the colors of the
rainbow. The fountain roared and laughed and rejoiced with a
thousand voices.
As though parched with thirst, the boy without a name
looked at the water -- but how was he to reach it? The snake's
head did not move.
Then Falkor raised his head. His ruby-red eyeballs glittered.
"Do you understand what the Water is saying?" he asked.
"No," said Atreyu. "I don't."
"I don't know why," said Falkor. "But I understand perfectly.
Maybe because I'm a luckdragon. All the languages of joy are
related."
"What does the Water say?" Atreyu asked.
Falkor listened closely, and slowly repeated what he heard:
"I am the Water of Life,
Out of myself I grow.
The more you drink of me,
The fuller I will flow."
Again he listened awhile. Then he said: "It keeps saying:
'Drink! Drink! Do what you wish!' "
"How can we get to it?" Atreyu asked.
"It's asking us our names," Falkor reported.
"I'm Atreyu!" Atreyu cried.
"I'm Falkor!" cried Falkor.
The boy without a name was silent.
Atreyu looked at him, then took him by the hand and cried:
"He's Bastian Balthazar Bux!"
"It asks," Falkor translated, "why he doesn't speak for
himself."
"He can't," said Atreyu. "He has forgotten everything."
Falkor listened again to the roaring of the fountain.
"Without memory, it says, he cannot come in. The snakes
won't let him through."
Atreyu replied: "I have stored up everything he told us about
himself and his world. I vouch for him."
Falkor listened.
"It wants to know by what right?"
"I am his friend," said Atreyu.
Again Falkor listened attentively.
"That may not be acceptable," he whispered to Atreyu. "Now
it's speaking of your wound. It wants to know how that came
about."
"We were both right," said Atreyu, "and we were both wrong.
But now Bastian has given up AURYN of his own free will."
Falkor listened and nodded.
"Yes," he said. "It accepts that. This place is AURYN. We are
welcome, it says."
Atreyu looked up at the enormous golden dome. "Each of
us," he whispered, "has worn it around his neck -- you too,
Falkor, for a while."
The luckdragon motioned him to be still and listened again
to the sound of the Water. Then he translated:
"AURYN is the door that Bastian has been looking for. He
carried it with him from the start. But -- it says -- the snakes
won't let anything belonging to Fantastica cross the threshold.
Bastian must therefore give up everything the Childlike Empress
gave him. Otherwise he cannot drink of the Water of Life."
"But we are in her sign!" cried Atreyu. "Isn't she herself here?"
"It says that Moon Child's power ends here. She is the only
one who can never set foot in this place. She cannot penetrate to
the center of AURYN, because she cannot cast off her own self."
Atreyu was too bewildered to speak.
"Now," said Falkor, "it's asking whether Bastian is ready."
At that moment the enormous black snake's head began to
move very slowly, though without releasing the white snake's tail.
The gigantic bodies arched until they formed a gate, one half of
which was black and the other white.
Atreyu took Bastian by the hand and led him through the
terrible gate toward the fountain, which now lay before them in
all its grandeur. Falkor followed. As they advanced, one after
another of Bastian's Fantastican gifts fell away from him. The
strong, handsome, fearless hero became again the small, fat, timid
boy. Even his clothing, which had been reduced almost to rags in
the Minroud Mine, vanished and dissolved into nothingness. In
the end he stood naked before the great golden bowl, at the
center of which the Water of Life leapt high into the air like a
crystal tree.
In this last moment, when he no longer possessed any of the
Fantastican gifts but had not yet recovered his memory of his
own world and himself, he was in a state of utter uncertainty, not
knowing which world he belonged to or whether he really
existed.
But then he jumped into the crystal-clear water. He splashed
and spluttered and let the sparkling rain fall into his mouth. He
drank till his thirst was quenched. And joy filled him from head
to foot, the joy of living and the joy of being himself. He was
newborn. And the best part of it was that he was now the very
person he wanted to be. If he had been free to choose, he would
have chosen to be no one else. Because now he knew that there
were thousands and thousands of forms of joy in the world, but
that all were essentially one and the same, namely, the joy of
being able to love.
And much later, long after Bastian had returned to his world,
in his maturity and even in his old age, this joy never left him
entirely. Even in the hardest moments of his life he preserved a
lightheartedness that made him smile and that comforted others.
"Atreyu!" he cried out to his friend, who was standing with
Falkor at the edge of the great golden bowl. "Come on in! Come
and drink! It's wonderful!"
Atreyu laughed and shook his head.
"No," he called back. "This time we're only here to keep you
company."
"This time?" Bastian asked. "What do you mean by that?"
Atreyu exchanged a glance with Falkor. Then he said: "Falkor
and I have already been here. We didn't recognize the place at
first, because we were asleep when we were brought here and
when we were taken away. But now we remember."
Bastian came out of the water.
"Now I know who I am," he said, beaming.
"Yes," said Atreyu, and nodded. "And now I recognize you.
Now you look the way you did when I saw you in the Magic
Mirror Gate."
Bastian looked up at the foaming, sparkling water.
"I'd like to bring my father some," he shouted. "But how?"
"I don't think you can do that," said Atreyu. "It's not possible
to carry anything from Fantastica across the threshold."
"For Bastian it is!" said Falkor, whose voice had resumed its
full bronze resonance. "He can do it."
"You really are a luckdragon," said Bastian.
Falkor motioned him to be still while he listened to the
roaring voice of the Water.
Then he said: "The Water says you must be on your way now
and so must we."
"Which is my way?" Bastian asked.
"Out through the other gate," Falkor answered. "Where the
white snake's head is lying."
"All right," said Bastian. "But how will I get out? The white
head isn't moving."
Indeed, the white snake's head lay motionless. It held the
black snake's tail in its jaws and stared at Bastian out of its great
eyes.
"The Water asks you," Falkor translated, "whether you
completed all the stories you began in Fantastica."
"No," said Bastian. "None of them really."
Falkor listened awhile. His face took on a worried look.
"In that case, it says, the white snake won't let you through.
You must go back to Fantastica and finish them all."
"All the stories?" Bastian stammered. "Then I'll never be able
to go back. Then it's all been for nothing."
Falkor listened eagerly.
"What does it say?" Bastian wanted to know.
"Hush!" said Falkor.
After a while he sighed arid said: "It says there's no help for it
unless someone promises to do it in your place. But no one can
do that."
"I can! I will!" said Atreyu.
Bastian looked at him in silence. Then he fell on his neck and
stammered: "Atreyu! Atreyu! I'll never forget this!"
Atreyu smiled.
"That's good, Bastian. Then you won't forget Fantastica
either."
He gave him a brotherly pat on the back, then quickly turned
around and headed for the black snake's gate, which was still upraised
and open as when they had entered.
"Falkor," said Bastian. "How will you and Atreyu finish the
stories I have left behind?"
The white dragon winked one of his ruby-red eyes and
replied: "With luck, my boy! With luck!"
Then he followed his friend and master.
Bastian watched as they passed through the gate on their way
back to Fantastica. They turned again and waved to him. Then as
the black snake's head sank to the ground, Atreyu and Falkor
vanished from Bastian's sight.
Now he was alone.
He turned towards the white snake's head. It had risen and
the snake's body now formed a gate just as the black snake's body
had done.
Quickly Bastian cupped his hands, gathered as much of the
Water of Life as he could hold, ran to the gate, and flung himself
into the empty darkness beyond.
"Father!" he screamed. "Father! I -- am -- Bastian -- Balthazar
-- Bux!"
"Father! Father! I -- am -- Bastian -- Balthazar -- Bux!"
Still screaming, he found himself in the schoolhouse attic, which
long, long ago he had left for Fantastica. At fast he didn't recognize
the place, and because of the strange objects around him, the stuffed
animals, the skeleton, and the paintings, he thought for a brief
moment that this might be a different part of Fantastica. But then,
catching sight of his school satchel and the rusty seven-armed
candelabrum with the spent candles, he knew where he was.
How long could it have been since he started on his long journey
through the Neverending Story? Weeks? Months? Years? He had once
read about a man who had spent just an hour in a magic cave.
When he returned home, a hundred years had passed, and of all the
people he had known as a child he remembered only one, and he was
an old old man.
Bastian was aware of the gray daylight, but he could not make
out whether it was morning or afternoon. It was bitter cold in the
attic, just as on the night of Bastian's departure.
He disentangled himself from the dusty army blankets, put on his
shoes and coat, and saw to his surprise that they were wet as they had
been the day when it had rained so hard.
He looked for the book he had stolen that day, the book that had
started him on his adventure. He was determined to bring it back to
that grumpy Mr. Coreander. What did he care if Mr. Coreander
punished him for stealing it, or reported him to the police? A person
who had ridden on the back of the Many-Colored Death didn't scare
so easily. But the book wasn't there.
Bastian looked and looked. He rummaged through the blankets
and looked in every corner. Without success. The Neverending Story
had disappeared.
"Oh well," Bastian finally said to himself. I'll have to tell him
it's gone. Of course he won't believe me. There's nothing I can do
about that. I'll just have to take the consequences. But maybe he
won't even remember the book after all this time. Maybe the
bookshop isn't even there anymore."
He would soon find out how much time had elapsed. If when he
passed through the schoolhouse the teachers and pupils he ran into
were unknown to him, he would know what to expect.
But when he opened the attic door and went down the stairs,
there wasn't a sound to be heard. The building seemed deserted. And
then the school clock struck nine. That meant it was morning, so
classes must have begun.
Bastian looked into several classrooms. All were empty. When he
went to a window and looked down into the street, he saw a few
pedestrians and cars. So the world hadn't come to an end.
He ran down the steps and tried to open the big front door, but
it was locked. He went to the janitor's office, rang the bell and
knocked, but no one stirred.
What was he to do? He couldn't just wait for someone to turn
up. Even if he had spilled the Water of Life, he wanted to go home to
his father.
Should he open a window and shout until somebody heard him
and had the door opened? No, that would make him feel foolish. It
occurred to him that he could climb out of a window, since the
windows could be opened from the inside. But the ground-floor
windows were all barred. Then he remembered that in looking out of
the second-floor window he had seen some scaffolding. Evidently the
faqade was being refurbished.
Bastian went back up to the second floor and opened the
window. The scaffolding consisted only of uprights with boards
placed horizontally between them at intervals. He stepped out on the
top board, which swayed under his weight. For a moment his head
reeled and he felt afraid, but he fought his dizziness and fear. To
someone who had been lord of Perilin, this was no problem, even if
he had lost his fabulous strength and even though the weight of his
little fat body was making things rather hard for him. Calmly and
deliberately he found holds for his hands and feet and climbed down.
Once he got a splinter in his hand, but such trifles meant nothing to
him now. Though slightly overheated and out of breath, he reached
the street in good shape. No one had seen him.
Bastian ran home. He ran so hard that the books and pens in his
satchel jiggled and rattled to the rhythm of his steps. He had a stitch
in his side, but in his hurry to see his father he kept on running.
When at last he came to the house where he lived, he stopped for
a moment and looked up at the window of his father's laboratory.
Then suddenly he was seized with fear. For the fast time it occurred
to him that his father might not be there anymore.
But his father was there and must have seen him coming, for
when Bastian rushed up the stairs, his father came running to meet
him. He spread out his arms and Bastian threw himself into them.
His father lifted him up and carried him inside.
"Bastian, my boy!" he said over and over again. "My dear little
boy, where have you been? What happened to you?"
A few minutes later they were sitting at the kitchen table and
Bastian was drinking hot milk and eating breakfast rolls, which his
father had lovingly spread with butter and honey. Then the boy
noticed that his father's face was pale and drawn, his eyes red and his
chin unshaven. But otherwise he looked the same as he had long ago,
when Bastian went away. And Bastian told him so.
"Long ago?" his father asked in amazement. "What do you
mean?"
"How long have I been gone?"
"Since yesterday, Bastian. Since you went to school. But when
you didn't come home, I phoned your teachers and they told me you
hadn't been there. I looked for you all day and all night, my boy. I
feared the worst, I put the police on your trail. Oh God, Bastian!
What happened? I've been half crazy with worry. Where have you
been?"
Then Bastian began to tell his father about his adventures. He
told the whole story in great detail. It took many hours.
His father listened as he had never listened before. He understood
Bastian's story.
At about midday he interrupted Bastian for a little while. First
he called the police to tell them his son had come home and that
everything was all right. Then he made lunch for both of them, and
Bastian went on with his story. Night was falling by the time Bastian
came to the Water of Life and told his father how he had wanted to
bring him some but had spilled it.
It was almost dark in the kitchen. His father sat motionless.
Bastian stood up and switched on the light. And then he saw
something he had never seen before.
He saw tears in his father's eyes.
And he knew that he had brought him the Water of Life after
all.
Bastian's father sat him down on his lap and hugged him. When
they had sat like that for a long while, his father heaved a deep sigh,
looked into Bastian's face, and smiled. It was the happiest smile
Bastian had ever seen on his face.
"From now on," said his father, "everything is going to be
different between us. Don't you agree?"
Bastian nodded. He couldn't speak. His heart was too full.
Next morning the winter's first snow lay soft and clean on
Bastian's windowsill. The street sounds that came to him were
muffled.
"Do you know what, Bastian?" said his father at breakfast. "I
think we two have every reason to celebrate. A day like this happens
only once in a lifetime -- and some people never have one. So I
suggest that we do something really sensational. I'll forget about any
work and you needn't go to school. I'll write an excuse for you. How
does that sound?"
"School?" said Bastian. "Is it still operating? When I passed
through the building yesterday, there wasn't a soul. Not even the
janitor was there."
"Yesterday?" said his father. "Yesterday was Sunday."
Bastian stirred his cocoa thoughtfully. Then he said in an
undertone: "I think it's going to take me a little while to get used to
things again."
"Exactly," said his father. "And that's why we're giving ourselves
a little holiday. What would you like to do? We could go for a hike
in the country or we could go to the zoo. Either way we'll treat
ourselves to the finest lunch the world has ever seen. This afternoon
we could go shopping and buy anything you like. And tonight -- how
about the theater?"
Bastian's eyes sparkled. Then he said firmly: "Wonderful! But
there's something I must do first. I have to go and tell Mr. Coreander
that I stole his book and lost it."
Bastian's father took his hand
"If you like," he said, "I'll attend to that for you."
"No," said Bastian. "It's my responsibility. I want to do it myself.
And I think I should do it right away."
He stood up and put on his coat. His father said nothing, but the
look on his face was one of surprise and respect. Such behavior in
Bastian was something new.
"I believe," he said finally, "that I too will need a little time to
get used to things."
Bastian was already in the entrance hall. "I'll be right back," he
called. "I'm sure it won't take long. Not this time."
When he came to Mr. Coreander's bookshop, his courage failed
him after all. He looked through the pane with the ornate lettering
on it. Mr. Coreander was busy with a customer, and Bastian decided
to wait. He walked up and down outside the shop. It was snowing
again.
At last the customer left.
"Now!" Bastian commanded himself.
Remembering how he had gone to meet Grograman in Goab, the
Desert of Colors, he pressed the door handle resolutely.
Behind the wall of books at the far end of the dimly lit room he
heard a cough. He went forward, then, slightly pale but with grave
composure, he stepped up to Mr. Coreander, who was sitting in his
worn leather armchair as he had been at their last meeting.
For a long time Bastian said nothing. He had expected Mr.
Coreander to go red in the face and scream at him: "Thief! Monster!"
or something of the kind.
Instead, the old man deliberately lit his curved pipe, screwed up
his eyes, and studied the boy through his ridiculous little spectacles.
When the pipe was finally burning, he puffed awhile, then
grumbled: "What is it this time?"
"I. . ." Bastian began haltingly. "I stole a book from you. I
meant to return it, but I can't, because I lost it, or rather -- well, I
haven't got it anymore."
Mr. Coreander stopped puffing and took his pipe out of his
mouth.
"What sort of book?" he asked.
"The one you were reading the last time I was here. I walked off
with it. You were telephoning in the back room, it was lying on the
chair, and I just walked off with it."
"I see," said Mr. Coreander, clearing his throat. "But none of my
books is missing. What was the title of this book?"
"It's called the Neverending Story," said Bastian. "It's bound in
copper-colored silk that shimmers when you move it around. There
are two snakes on the cover, a light one and a dark one, and they're
biting each other's tails. Inside it's printed in two different colors --
and there are big beautiful capitals at the beginning of the chapters."
"This is extremely odd," said Mr. Coreander. "I've never had
such a book. You can't have stolen it from me. Maybe you swiped it
somewhere else."
"Oh no!" Bastian assured him. "You must remember. It's --" He
hesitated, but then he blurted it out. "It's a magic book. While I was
reading it, I got into the Neverending Story, and when I came out
again, the book was gone."
Mr. Coreander watched Bastian over his spectacles.
"Would you be pulling my leg, by any chance?"
"No," said Bastian in dismay. "Of course not. I'm telling you the
truth. You must know that."
Mr. Coreander thought for a while, then shook his head.
"Better tell me all about it. Sit down, boy. Make yourself at
home."
He pointed his pipe stem at a second armchair, facing his own,
and Bastian sat down.
"And now," said Mr. Coreander, "tell me the whole story. But
slowly, if you please, and one thing at a time."
And Bastian told his story.
He told it a little more briefly than he had to his father, but since
MrCoreander listened with keen interest and kept asking for details,
it was more than two hours before Bastian had done.
Heaven knows why, but in all that long time they were not
disturbed by a single customer.
When Bastian had finished, Mr. Coreander puffed for a long
while, as though deep in thought. At length he cleared his throat,
straightened his little spectacles, looked Bastian over, and said: "One
thing is sure: You didn't steal this book from me, because it belongs
neither to me nor to you nor to anyone else. If I'm not mistaken, the
book itself comes from Fantastica. Maybe at this very moment -- who
knows? -- someone else is reading it."
"Then you believe me?" Bastian asked.
"Of course I believe you," said Mr. Coreander. "Any sensible
person would."
"Frankly," said Bastian, "I didn't expect you to."
"There are people who can never go to Fantastica," said Mr.
Coreander, "and others who can, but who stay there forever. And
there are just a few who go to Fantastica and come back. Like you.
And they make both worlds well again."
"Oh," said Bastian, blushing slightly. "I don't deserve any credit.
I almost didn't make it back. If it hadn't been for Atreyu I'd have
been stuck in the City of Old Emperors for good."
Mr. Coreander nodded and puffed at his pipe.
"Hmm," he grumbled. "You're lucky having a friend in
Fantastica. God knows, it's not everybody who can say that."
"Mr. Coreander," Bastian asked, "how do you know all that? I
mean -- have you ever been in Fantastica?"
"Of course I have," said Mr. Coreander.
"But then," said Bastian, "you must know Moon Child."
"Yes, I know the Childlike Empress," said Mr. Coreander,
"though not by that name. I called her something different. But that
doesn't matter."
"Then you must know the book!" Bastian cried. "Then you have
read the Neverending Story!"
Mr. Coreander shook his head.
"Every real story is a Neverending Story." He passed his eye over
the many books that covered the walls of his shop from floor to
ceiling, pointed the stem of his pipe at them, and went on:
"There are many doors to Fantastica, my boy. There are other
such magic books. A lot of people read them without noticing. It all
depends on who gets his hands on such books."
"Then the Neverending Story is different for different people?"
"That's right," said Mr. Coreander. "And besides, it's not just
books. There are other ways of getting to Fantastica and back. You'll
find out."
"Do you think so?" Bastian asked hopefully. "But then I'd have
to meet Moon Child again, and no one can meet her more than
once."
Mr. Coreander leaned forward and lowered his voice.
"Let an old Fantastica hand tell you something, my boy. This is
a secret that no one in Fantastica can know. When you think it over,
you'll see why. You can't visit Moon Child a second time, that's true.
But if you can give her a new name, you'll see her again. And
however often you manage to do that, it will be the first and only
time."
For a moment Mr. Coreander's bulldog-face took on a soft glow,
which made it look young and almost handsome.
"Thank you, Mr. Coreander," said Bastian.
"I have to thank you, my boy," said Mr. Coreander. "I'd
appreciate it if you dropped in to see me now and then. We could
exchange experiences. There aren't many people one can discuss these
things with."
He held out his hand to Bastian. "Will you?"
"Gladly," said Bastian, taking the proffered hand. "I have to go
now. My father's waiting. But I'll come and see you soon."
Mr. Coreander took him to the door. Through the reversed
writing on the glass pane, Bastian saw that his father was waiting for
him across the street. His face was one great beam.
Bastian opened the door so vigorously that the little glass bells
tinkled wildly, and ran across to his father.
Mr. Coreander closed the door gently and looked after father and
son.
"Bastian Balthazar Bux," he grumbled. "If I'm not mistaken,
you will show many others the way to Fantastica, and they will bring
us the Water of Life."
Mr. Coreander was not mistaken.
But that's another story and shall be told another time.
About the Author:
Michael Ende was born in Garmisch-Partenkirchen,
Germany, in 1929. After attending drama school from 1948 to
1950, he worked variously as an actor, a writer of sketches and
plays, a director of the Volkstheater in Munich, and a film critic
for the Bavarian broadcasting company. His first novel for
children, Jim Knopf and Lukas the Engine Driver, was published
in Germany in 1960 to great popular and critical acclaim, and
both radio and television series based on the Jim Knopf books
were soon produced. In 1973 he published another
award-winning children's novel, Mono. When The Neverending
Story was first published in Germany, in 1979, it immediately
became the number-one bestseller and remained in that position
for three years. It has since been published in many different
languages all over the world, including Japanese, and has
enchanted readers in each country in which it has appeared.