Михаэль Энде - The Neverending Story

Bastian clenched his fists.

“Moon Child owes me a lot,” he said angrily. “I’m sure she won’t keep me away.”

“You’ll see,” Falkor replied, “that her decisions are sometimes hard to understand.”

Bastian felt the color rising to his cheeks. “You and Atreyu,” he said, “are always giving me advice. You can see where your advice has got us. From now on I’ll do the deciding. I’ve made up my mind, and that’s that.”

He took a deep breath and went on a little more calmly: “Besides, you always speak from your point of view. You two are Fantasticans and I’m a human. How can you be sure that the same rules apply to me as to you? It was different when Atreyu had AURYN. And who else but me is going to give the Gem back to Moon Child? No one can meet her twice, you say. But I’ve already met her twice. The first time we saw each other for only a moment, when Atreyu went into her chamber, and the second time when the big egg exploded. With me everything is different. I will see her a third time.”

All were silent. The knights because they didn’t know what it was all about, Atreyu and Falkor because they were beginning to have doubts.

“Well,” said Atreyu finally, “maybe you’re right. We have no way of knowing how the Childlike Empress will deal with you.”

After that they started out, and before noon they reached the edge of the forest.

Before them lay sloping meadows as far as the eye could see. Soon they came to a winding river and followed its course.

Again Atreyu and Falkor explored the country, describing wide circles around their slow-moving companions. But both were troubled and their flight was not as light and carefree as usual. Looking ahead, they saw that the country changed abruptly at a certain point in the distance. A steep slope led from the plateau to a low-lying, densely wooded plain and the river descended the slope in a mighty waterfall. Knowing that the riders couldn’t hope to get that far before the next day, the two scouts turned back.

“Falkor,” Atreyu asked, “do you suppose the Childlike Empress cares what becomes of Bastian?”

“Maybe not,” said Falkor. “She draws no distinctions.”

“Then,” said Atreyu, “she is really a . . .”

“Don’t say it,” Falkor broke in. “I know what you mean, but don’t say it.”

For a while Atreyu was silent. Then he said: “But he’s my friend, Falkor. We’ve got to help him. Even against the Childlike Empress’s will, if we have to. But how?”

“With luck,” the dragon replied, and for the first time the bronze bell of his voice seemed to have sprung a crack.

That evening the company chose a deserted log cabin on the riverbank as their night lodging. For Falkor, of course, it was too small, and he preferred to sleep on the air. The horses and Yikka also had to stay outside.

During the evening meal Atreyu told the others about the waterfall and the abrupt change in the country. Then he added casually: “By the way, we’re being followed.”

The three knights exchanged glances.

“Oho!” cried Hykrion, giving his black moustache a martial twirl. “How many are they?”

“I counted seven behind us,” said Atreyu. “But even if they ride all night they can’t be here before morning.”

“Are they armed?” asked Hysbald.

“I couldn’t tell,” said Atreyu, “but there are more coming from other directions. I saw six in the west, nine in the east, and twelve or thirteen are coming from up ahead.”

“We’ll wait and see what they want,” said Hydorn. “Thirty-five or thirty-six men would hardly frighten the three of us—much less Sir Bastian and Atreyu.”

Ordinarily Bastian ungirt the sword Sikanda before lying down to sleep. But that night he kept it on and slept with his hand on the hilt. In his dreams he saw Moon Child smiling at him and her smile seemed full of promise. If there was any more to the dream, he forgot it by the time he woke up, but his vision encouraged him in his hope of seeing her again.

Glancing out of the door of the cabin, he saw seven blurred shapes through the mist that had risen from the river. Two were on foot, the others mounted on different sorts of steeds. Bastian quietly awakened his companions.

The knights unsheathed their swords, and together they stepped out of the cabin. When the figures waiting outside caught sight of Bastian, the riders dismounted and all seven went down on their left knees, bowed their heads and cried out: “Hail and welcome to Bastian Balthazar Bux, the Savior of Fantastica!”

The newcomers were a weird-looking lot. One of the two who had come on foot had an uncommonly long neck and a head with four faces, one pointed in each of the four directions. The first was merry, the second angry, the third sad, and the fourth sleepy. All were rigid and unchanging, but he was able at any time to face forward with the one expressing his momentary mood. This individual was a four-quarter troll, sometimes known as a moody-woody.

The second pedestrian was what is known in Fantastica as a head-footer. His head was connected directly with his long, thin legs, there being neither neck nor trunk. Headfooters are always on the go and have no fixed residence. As a rule, they roam about in swarms of many hundreds, but from time to time one runs across a loner. They feed on herbs and grasses. The one that was kneeling to Bastian looked young and red-cheeked.

The three creatures riding on horses no larger than goats were a gnome, a shadowscamp, and a blondycat. The gnome had a golden circlet around his head and was obviously a prince. The shadow-scamp was hard to recognize, because to all intents and purposes he consisted only of a shadow cast by no one. The blondycat had a catlike face and long golden-blond curls that clothed her like a coat. Her whole body was covered with equally blond shaggy fur. She was no bigger than a five-year-old child.

Another, who was riding on an ox, came from the land of the Sassafranians, who are born old and die when they have grown (that is, dwindled) to infancy. This one had a long white beard, a bald head, and a heavily wrinkled face. By Sassafranian standards, he was a youngster, about Bastian’s age.

A blue djinn had come on a camel. He was tall and thin and was wearing an enormous turban. His shape was human, but his bare torso with its bulging muscles seemed to be made of some glossy blue metal. Instead of a nose and mouth, he had a huge, hooked eagle’s beak.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Hykrion asked rather brusquely. Despite the ceremonious greeting, he wasn’t quite convinced of the visitors’ friendly intentions. He still had his hand on his sword hilt.

The four-quarter troll, who up until then had been keeping his sleepy face foremost, now switched to the merry one. Ignoring Hykrion, he addressed himself to Bastian:

“Your Lordship,” he declared, “we are princes from many different parts of Fantastica, and we have all come to welcome you and ask for your help. The news of your presence has flown from country to country, the wind and the clouds speak your name, the waves of the sea proclaim your glory, and every last brooklet is celebrating your power.”

Bastian cast a glance at Atreyu, but Atreyu looked at the troll unsmilingly and almost severely.

“We know,” the blue djinn broke in, and his voice sounded like the rasping cry of an eagle, “we know that you created Perilin, the Night Forest, and Goab, the Desert of Colors. We know you have eaten and drunk the fire of the Many-Colored Death and bathed in it, something that no one else in Fantastica could have done and still lived. We know that you passed through the Temple of a Thousand Doors, and we know what happened in the Silver City of Amarganth. We know, my lord, that there is nothing you cannot do. When you make a wish, your wishes come to pass. And so we invite you to come and stay with us and favor us with a story of our own. For none of our nations has a story.”