Михаэль Энде - The Neverending Story

“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.

erquobad, 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.”