Михаэль Энде - The Neverending Story

Atreyu was going to say something, but Bastian screamed at him: “Shut up and leave me be! If the two of you aren’t satisfied with what I do and the way I am, go away. I’m not keeping you. Go where you please! I’m sick of you!”

Bastian folded his arms over his chest and turned his back on Atreyu. The Fantasticans who had gathered around were dumbfounded. For a time Atreyu stood silent. Up until then Bastian had never reprimanded him in the presence of others. He was so stunned he could hardly breathe. He waited a while, then, when Bastian did not turn back to him, he slowly walked away. Falkor followed him.

Xayide smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile.

In that moment, Bastian’s memory of having been a child in his world was effaced.

ninterruptedly, new emissaries from all parts of Fantastica poured in to swell the army of those accompanying Bastian on his march to the Ivory Tower. It proved impossible to take a count, because new ones kept arriving while the counting was in progress. Each morning an army several thousand strong got under way. And each night it set up the strangest tent city imaginable. Since Bastian’s traveling companions varied enormously in shape and size, some of their night lodgings might have been mistaken for circus tents, while others, at the opposite end of the scale, were no bigger than a thimble. Their vehicles also showed astonishing variety, ranging from common covered wagons and diligences to the most extraordinary rolling barrels, bouncing balls, and crawling containers with automotive legs.

Of all the tents the most magnificent was the one that had been procured for Bastian. The shape and size of a small house, it was made of lustrous, many-colored silk, embroidered with gold and silver. A flag affixed to the roof was decorated with Bastian’s coat of arms, a seven-armed candelabrum. The inside was furnished with soft blankets and cushions. Bastian’s tent was always set up at the center of the camp. And the blue djinn, who had become his factotum, stood guard at the entrance.

Atreyu and Falkor were still among the host of Bastian’s companions, but since the public reprimand he hadn’t exchanged a word with them. Secretly, he was waiting for Atreyu to give in and apologize. But Atreyu did nothing of the kind. Nor did Falkor show any inclination to humble himself before Bastian. And that, said Bastian to himself, was just what they must learn to do. If they expected him to back down they had another thing coming; his will was of steel. But if they gave in, he’d welcome them with open arms. If Atreyu knelt down to him, he would lift him up and say: Don’t kneel to me, Atreyu, you are and remain my friend . . .

But for the time being Atreyu and Falkor brought up the rear of the procession. Falkor seemed to have forgotten how to fly; he trudged along on foot and Atreyu walked beside him, most of the time with bowed head. A sad comedown for the proud reconnaissance flyers. Bastian wasn’t happy about it, but there was nothing he could do.

He began to be bored riding the mule Yikka in the lead of the caravan, and took to visiting Xayide in her litter instead. She received him with a great show of respect, gave him the most comfortable seat, and squatted down at his feet. She could always think of something interesting to talk about, and when she noticed that he disliked speaking of his past in the human world, she stopped questioning him about it. Most of the time she smoked her Oriental water pipe. The stem looked like an emerald-green viper, and the mouthpiece, which she held between her marble-white fingers, suggested a snake’s head. She seemed to be kissing it as she smoked. The clouds of smoke which poured indolently from her mouth and nose changed color with every puff, from blue to yellow, to pink, to green, and so on.

“Xayide,” said Bastian on one of his visits, looking thoughtfully at the armored giants who were carrying the litter. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

“Your slave is listening,” said Xayide.

“When I fought your guards,” said Bastian, “I discovered that there was nothing inside their shell of armor. So what makes them move?”

“My will,” said Xayide with a smile. “It’s because they’re empty that they do my will. My will can control anything that’s empty.”

She turned her red and green gaze on Bastian. For a moment it gave him a strangely eerie feeling, but quickly she lowered her lashes.

“Could I control them with my will?” he asked.

“Of course you could, my lord and master,” she replied. “You could do it a hundred times better than I. I am as nothing beside you. Would you care to try?”

“Not now,” said Bastian, who was rather frightened at the idea. “Maybe some other time.”

“Tell me,” said Xayide. “Do you really enjoy riding an old mule? Wouldn’t you rather be carried by beings you can move with your will?”

“But Yikka likes to carry me,” said Bastian almost peevishly. “It gives her pleasure.”

“Then you do it to please her?”

“Why not?” said Bastian. “What’s wrong with that?”

Xayide let some green smoke rise from her mouth.

“Oh, nothing at all, my lord. How can anything you do be wrong?”

“What are you driving at, Xayide?”

She bowed her head of flaming red hair.

“You think of others too much, my lord and master,” she whispered. “No one is worthy to divert your attention from your own all-important development. If you promise not to be angry, I will venture a piece of advice: Think more of your own perfection.”

“What has that got to do with Yikka?”

“Not much, my lord. Hardly anything. Just this: she’s not a worthy mount for someone as important as you. It grieves me to see you riding such an undistinguished animal. All your traveling companions are surprised. You alone, my lord and master, seem unaware of what you owe to yourself.”

Bastian said nothing, but Xayide’s words had made an impression.

Next day, as the procession with Bastian and Yikka in the lead was passing through lush rolling meadows, interspersed here and there by small copses of fragrant lilac, he decided to take Xayide’s advice.

At noon, when the caravan stopped to rest, he patted the old mule on the neck and said: “Yikka, the time has come for us to part.”

Yikka let out a cry of dismay. “Why, master?” she asked. “Have I done my job so badly?” And tears flowed from the corners of her dark eyes.

“Not at all,” Bastian hastened to reassure her. “You’ve been carrying me so gently all this time, you’ve been so patient and willing that I’ve decided to reward you.”

“I don’t want any other reward,” said Yikka. “I just want to go on carrying you. How could I wish for anything better?”

“Didn’t you once tell me it made you sad that mules can’t have children?”

“Yes,” said Yikka, “because when I’m very old I’d like to tell my children about these happy days.”

“Very well,” said Bastian. “Then I’ll tell you a story that will come true. And I’ll tell it only to you, to you and no one else, because it’s your story.”

Then he took hold of one of Yikka’s long ears and whispered into it: “Not far from here, in a little lilac copse, the father of your son is waiting for you. He’s a white stallion with the white wings of a swan. His mane and his tail are so long they touch the ground. He has been following you secretly for days, because he’s immortally in love with you.”