Михаэль Энде - The Neverending Story

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.”