Михаэль Энде - The Neverending Story

The act that the winged creatures were putting on was so light-hearted and comical that Bastian gave up trying to hold back his laughter.

“But you can’t do that,” he called to them. “The Acharis made it and it’s beautiful.”

The first butterfly-clown turned back to the others. “The whatchamaycallim says we can’t do it.”

“We can do anything that’s not forbidden!” cried another, turning somersaults in the air. “And who’s going to forbid us? We’re the Shlamoofs!”

“Who’s going to forbid us anything?” all cried in chorus. “We’re the Shlamoofs!”

“I am!” cried Bastian.

“The whatchamaycallim,” the first clown explained to the others, “says ‘I’.”

“You?” said the others. “How can you forbid us anything?”

“No,” said the first. “Not I. The whatchamaycallim says ‘he’.”

“Why does the whatchamaycallim say ‘he’?” the others wanted to know. “And who is he saying ‘he’ to in the first place?”

“Who are you saying ‘he’ to?” the first butterfly-clown called down to Bastian.

“I didn’t say ‘he’,” Bastian screamed, half fuming, half laughing. “I said I forbid you to wreck this tower.”

“He forbids us,” said the first clown to the others, “to wreck this tower.”

“Who does?” inquired one who had just turned up from the far end of the glen.

“The whatchamaycallim,” the others replied.

“I don’t know any whatchamaycallim,” said the newcomer. “Who is he anyway?”

The first sang out: “Hey, whatchamaycallim, who are you anyway?”

“I’m not a whatchamaycallim,” said Bastian, who by then was moderately angry. “I’m Bastian Balthazar Bux, and I turned you into Shlamoofs so you wouldn’t have to cry and moan the whole time. Last night you were still miserable Acharis. It wouldn’t hurt to show your benefactor some respect.”

The Shlamoofs all stopped hopping and dancing at once and stood gaping at Bastian. A breathless silence fell.

“What did the whatchamaycallim say?” whispered a butterfly-clown at the edge of the crowd, but his next-door neighbor cracked him on the head so hard that his hat slid down over his eyes and ears, and all the others went: “Psst!”

“Would you be so kind as to repeat all that very slowly and distinctly,” the first butterfly-clown requested.

“I am your benefactor!” cried Bastian.

This threw the Shlamoofs into an incredible state of agitation. One passed the word on to the next and in the end the innumerable creatures, who up until then had been scattered all over the glen, gathered into a knot around Bastian, shouting in one another’s ears.

“Did you hear that? He’s our bemmafixer! His name is Nastiban Baltebux! No, it’s Buxian Banninector. Rubbish, it’s Saratit Buxibem! No, it’s Baldrian Hix! Shlux! Babeltran Billy-scooter! Nix! Flax! Trix!”

Beside themselves with enthusiasm, they shook hands all around, tipped their hats to one another, and raised great clouds of dust by slapping one another on the back or belly.

“We’re so lucky!” they cried. “Three cheers for Buxifactor Zanzibar Bastelben!”

Screaming and laughing, the whole great swarm shot upward and whirled away. The hubbub died down in the distance.

Bastian stood there hardly knowing what his right name was. By that time he wasn’t so sure he had really done a good deed.

unbeams were fighting their way through the cloud cover as the travelers started out that morning. At last the rain and wind had let up. In the course of the morning the travelers ran into two or three sudden showers, but then there was a marked improvement in the weather, and it seemed to grow warmer by the minute.

The three knights were in a merry mood; they laughed and joked and played all sorts of tricks on one another. But Bastian seemed quiet and out of sorts as he rode ahead on his mule. And the knights had far too much respect for him to break in on his thoughts.

The rocky high plateau over which they were riding seemed endless. But little by little the trees became larger and more frequent.

Atreyu had noticed Bastian’s bad humor. When he and Falkor started on their usual reconnaissance flight, he asked the luckdragon what he could do to cheer his friend up. Falkor rolled his ruby-red eyeballs and answered: “That’s easy—didn’t he want to ride on me?

When some time later the little band rounded a jutting cliff, they found Atreyu and the luckdragon lying comfortably in the sun.

Bastian looked at them in amazement.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“Not at all,” said Atreyu. “I just wanted to ask if you’d let me ride Yikka for a while. I’ve never ridden a mule. It must be wonderful, because you never seem to get sick of it. I’ll lend you my old Falkor in return.”

Bastian flushed with pleasure.

“Is that true, Falkor?” he asked. “You wouldn’t mind carrying me?”

“Of course not, all-powerful sultan,” said the dragon with a wink. “Hop on and hold tight.”

Without touching the ground, Bastian vaulted directly from mule to dragon back and clutched the silvery-white mane as Falkor took off.

Bastian hadn’t forgotten how Grograman had carried him through the Desert of Colors. But riding a white luckdragon was something else again. If sweeping over the ground on the back of the fiery lion had been like a cry of ecstasy, this gentle rising and falling as the dragon adjusted his movements to the air currents was like a song, now soft and sweet, now triumphant with power. Especially when Falkor was looping the loop, when his mane, his fangs, and the long fringes on his limbs flashed through the air like white flames, it seemed to Bastian that the winds were singing in chorus.

Toward noon they sighted the others and landed. The ground party had pitched camp beside a brook in a sunlit meadow. There was a flatbread to eat and a kettle of soup was cooking over a wood fire. The horses and the mule were grazing nearby.

When the meal was over, the three knights decided to go hunting, for supplies, especially of meat, were running low. They had heard the cry of pheasants in the thicket, and there seemed to be hares as well. Knowing the Greenskins to be great hunters, they asked Atreyu to join them, but he declined. Thereupon the knights took their long bows, buckled on their quivers full of arrows, and went off to the woods.

Atreyu, Falkor, and Bastian stayed behind.

After a short silence, Atreyu suggested: “How about telling us a little more about your world, Bastian?”

“What would interest you?” Bastian asked.

Atreyu turned to the luckdragon: “What do you say, Falkor?”

“I’d like to hear something about the children in your school,” said the dragon.

Bastian seemed bewildered. “What children?” he asked.

“The ones who made fun of you,” said Falkor.

“Children who made fun of me?” Bastian repeated. “I don’t know of any children—and I’m sure no child would have dared to make fun of me.”

Atreyu broke in: “But you must remember that you went to school.”

“Yes,” said Bastian thoughtfully. “I remember school. Yes, that’s right.”

Atreyu and Falkor exchanged glances.

“I was afraid of that,” Atreyu muttered.

“Afraid of what?”

“You’ve lost some more of your memory,” said Atreyu gravely. “This time it came of changing the Acharis into Shlamoofs. You shouldn’t have done that.”