Михаэль Энде - The Neverending Story

“Yes,” said Atreyu, and nodded. “And now I recognize you. Now you look the way you did when I saw you in the Magic Mirror Gate.”

Bastian looked up at the foaming, sparkling water.

“I’d like to bring my father some,” he shouted. “But how?”

“I don’t think you can do that,” said Atreyu. “It’s not possible to carry anything from Fantastica across the threshold.”

“For Bastian it is!” said Falkor, whose voice had resumed its full bronze resonance. “He can do it.”

“You really are a luckdragon,” said Bastian.

Falkor motioned him to be still while he listened to the roaring voice of the Water.

Then he said: “The Water says you must be on your way now and so must we.”

“Which is my way?” Bastian asked.

“Out through the other gate,” Falkor answered. “Where the white snake’s head is lying.”

“All right,” said Bastian. “But how will I get out? The white head isn’t moving.”

Indeed, the white snake’s head lay motionless. It held the black snake’s tail in its jaws and stared at Bastian out of its great eyes.

“The Water asks you,” Falkor translated, “whether you completed all the stories you began in Fantastica.”

“No,” said Bastian. “None of them really.”

Falkor listened awhile. His face took on a worried look.

“In that case, it says, the white snake won’t let you through. You must go back to Fantastica and finish them all.”

“All the stories?” Bastian stammered. “Then I’ll never be able to go back. Then it’s all been for nothing.”

Falkor listened eagerly.

“What does it say?” Bastian wanted to know.

“Hush!” said Falkor.

After a while he sighed arid said: “It says there’s no help for it unless someone promises to do it in your place. But no one can do that.”

“I can! I will!” said Atreyu.

Bastian looked at him in silence. Then he fell on his neck and stammered: “Atreyu! Atreyu! I’ll never forget this!”

Atreyu smiled.

“That’s good, Bastian. Then you won’t forget Fantastica either.”

He gave him a brotherly pat on the back, then quickly turned around and headed for the black snake’s gate, which was still upraised and open as when they had entered.

“Falkor,” said Bastian. “How will you and Atreyu finish the stories I have left behind?”

The white dragon winked one of his ruby-red eyes and replied: “With luck, my boy! With luck!”

Then he followed his friend and master.

Bastian watched as they passed through the gate on their way back to Fantastica.

They turned again and waved to him. Then as the black snake’s head sank to the ground, Atreyu and Falkor vanished from Bastian’s sight.

Now he was alone.

He turned towards the white snake’s head. It had risen and the snake’s body now formed a gate just as the black snake’s body had done.

Quickly Bastian cupped his hands, gathered as much of the Water of Life as he could hold, ran to the gate, and flung himself into the empty darkness beyond.

“Father!” he screamed. “Father! I—am—Bastian—Balthazar—Bux!”

“Father! Father! I—am—Bastian—Balthazar—Bux!”

Still screaming, he found himself in the schoolhouse attic, which long, long ago he had left for Fantastica. At first he didn’t recognize the place, and because of the strange objects around him, the stuffed animals, the skeleton, and the paintings, he thought for a brief moment that this might be a different part of Fantastica. But then, catching sight of his school satchel and the rusty seven-armed candelabrum with the spent candles, he knew where he was.

How long could it have been since he started on his long journey through the Neverending Story? Weeks? Months? Years? He had once read about a man who had spent just an hour in a magic cave. When he returned home, a hundred years had passed, and of all the people he had known as a child he remembered only one, and he was an old old man.

Bastian was aware of the gray daylight, but he could not make out whether it was morning or afternoon. It was bitter cold in the attic, just as on the night of Bastian’s departure.

He disentangled himself from the dusty army blankets, put on his shoes and coat, and saw to his surprise that they were wet as they had been the day when it had rained so hard.

He looked for the book he had stolen that day, the book that had started him on his adventure. He was determined to bring it back to that grumpy Mr. Coreander. What did he care if Mr. Coreander punished him for stealing it, or reported him to the police? A person who had ridden on the back of the Many-Colored Death didn’t scare so easily. But the book wasn’t there.

Bastian looked and looked. He rummaged through the blankets and looked in every corner. Without success. The Neverending Story had disappeared.

“Oh well,” Bastian finally said to himself. I’ll have to tell him it’s gone. Of course he won’t believe me. There’s nothing I can do about that. I’ll just have to take the consequences. But maybe he won’t even remember the book after all this time. Maybe the bookshop isn’t even there anymore.”

He would soon find out how much time had elapsed. If when he passed through the schoolhouse the teachers and pupils he ran into were unknown to him, he would know what to expect.

But when he opened the attic door and went down the stairs, there wasn’t a sound to be heard. The building seemed deserted. And then the school clock struck nine. That meant it was morning, so classes must have begun.

Bastian looked into several classrooms. All were empty. When he went to a window and looked down into the street, he saw a few pedestrians and cars. So the world hadn’t come to an end.

He ran down the steps and tried to open the big front door, but it was locked. He went to the janitor’s office, rang the bell and knocked, but no one stirred.

What was he to do? He couldn’t just wait for someone to turn up. Even if he had spilled the Water of Life, he wanted to go home to his father.

Should he open a window and shout until somebody heard him and had the door opened? No, that would make him feel foolish. It occurred to him that he could climb out of a window, since the windows could be opened from the inside. But the ground-floor windows were all barred. Then he remembered that in looking out of the second-floor window he had seen some scaffolding. Evidently the façade was being refurbished.

Bastian went back up to the second floor and opened the window. The scaffolding consisted only of uprights with boards placed horizontally between them at intervals. He stepped out on the top board, which swayed under his weight. For a moment his head reeled and he felt afraid, but he fought his dizziness and fear. To someone who had been lord of Perilin, this was no problem, even if he had lost his fabulous strength and even though the weight of his little fat body was making things rather hard for him. Calmly and deliberately he found holds for his hands and feet and climbed down. Once he got a splinter in his hand, but such trifles meant nothing to him now. Though slightly overheated and out of breath, he reached the street in good shape. No one had seen him.

Bastian ran home. He ran so hard that the books and pens in his satchel jiggled and rattled to the rhythm of his steps. He had a stitch in his side, but in his hurry to see his father he kept on running.

When at last he came to the house where he lived, he stopped for a moment and looked up at the window of his father’s laboratory. Then suddenly he was seized with fear. For the fast time it occurred to him that his father might not be there anymore.

But his father was there and must have seen him coming, for when Bastian rushed up the stairs, his father came running to meet him. He spread out his arms and Bastian threw himself into them. His father lifted him up and carried him inside.