Михаэль Энде - The Neverending Story

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.

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.