Михаэль Энде - The Neverending Story

“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, practicing 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: