Михаэль Энде - The Neverending Story

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.