The Neverending Story

  The others managed to open their eyes and a smile crossed their lips.

  “We knew you wouldn’t leave us in the lurch!” cried Hydorn.

  “How can I get you down?” Bastian asked. “The winch is locked.”

  “Just take your sword and cut the chains,” said Hysbald.

  “And drop us into the pit?” said Hykrion. “That’s not such a good idea.”

  “Anyway,” said Bastian, “I can’t draw my sword. I can’t use Sikanda unless it jumps into my hand.”

  “That’s the trouble with magic swords,” said Hydorn. “When you need them, they go on strike.”

  “Hey!” Hysbald whispered. “The guards had the key to that winch. Where could they have put it?”

  “I remember a loose stone,” said Hykrion. “But I couldn’t see very well while they were hoisting me up here.”

  Bastian looked and looked. The light was dim and flickering, but after a while he discovered a stone flag that was not quite even with the rest. He lifted it cautiously, and there indeed was the key.

  He opened the big padlock and removed it from the winch. Then slowly he began to turn. It creaked and groaned so loud that the armored giants must have heard it by then if they weren’t totally deaf. Even so, there was nothing to be gained by stopping. Bastian went on turning until the three knights were level with the floor, though still over the pit. Then, after swinging them to and fro until their feet touched the ground, he let them down. They stretched out exhausted and showed no inclination to move. Besides, they still had the heavy chains on their wrists.

  Bastian had little time to think, for metallic steps came clanking down the stone stairs. The guards! Their armor glittered in the torchlight like the carapaces of giant insects. All with the same movement, they drew their swords and rushed at Bastian.

  Then at last Sikanda leapt from the rusty sheath and into his hand. With the speed of lightning the blade attacked the first of the armored giants and hacked him to pieces before Bastian himself knew what was happening. It was then that he saw what the giants were made of. They were hollow shells of armor. There was nothing inside! He had no time to wonder what made them move.

  Bastian was in a good position, for only one giant at a time could squeeze through the narrow doorway of the dungeon, and one at a time Sikanda chopped them to bits. Soon their remains lay piled up on the floor like enormous black eggshells. After some twenty of them had been disposed of, the rest withdrew, evidently in the hope of waylaying Bastian in a position more favorable to themselves.

  Taking advantage of the breathing spell, Bastian let Sikanda cut the shackles from the knights’ wrists. Hykrion and Hydorn dragged themselves to their feet and tried to draw their swords, which strangely enough had not been taken away from them, but their hands were numb from the long hanging and refused to obey them. Hysbald, the most delicate of the three, wasn’t even able to stand by himself. His two friends had to hold him up.

  “Never mind,” said Bastian. “Sikanda needs no help. Just stay behind me and don’t get in my way.”

  They left the dungeon, slowly climbed the stairs, and came to a large hall. Suddenly all the torches went out. But Sikanda shone bright.

  Again they heard the heavy metallic tread of many armored giants.

  “Quick!” cried Bastian. “Back to the stairs! This is where I’m going to fight!”

  He couldn’t see whether the three knights obeyed his order and there was no time to find out, because Sikanda was already dancing in his hand. The entire hall was ablaze with its sharp white light. The assailants managed to push Bastian back from the top of the stairs and to attack him from all sides, yet not one of their mighty blows touched him. Sikanda whirled around him so fast that it looked like hundreds of swords. And a few moments later he was surrounded by a heap of shattered black armor in which nothing stirred.

  “Come on up!” Bastian cried to his companions.

  The three knights stood gaping on the stairs. Hykrion’s moustache was trembling. “I’ve never seen anything like it!” he cried.

  “Something to tell my grandchildren!” Hysbald stammered.

  “The only trouble,” said Hydorn mournfully, “is that they won’t believe you.”

  Bastian stood there with sword in hand, wondering what to do next. Suddenly it sprang back into its sheath.

  “The danger seems to be over,” he said.

  “At least the part that calls for a sword,” said Hydorn. “What do we do now?”

  “Now,” said Bastian, “I want to make this Xayide’s acquaintance. I’ve got a bone to pick with her.”

  After climbing several more flights of stairs, Bastian and the knights reached the ground floor, where Atreyu and Falkor were waiting for them in a kind of lobby.

  “Well done, you two!” cried Bastian, slapping Atreyu on the back.

  “What’s become of the armored giants?” asked Atreyu.

  “Hollow shells!” said Bastian contemptuously. “Where’s Xayide?”

  “Up in her magic throne room,” answered Atreyu.

  “Come along,” said Bastian, taking the silver mantle which Atreyu held out to him. And all together, including Falkor, they climbed the broad stairway leading to the upper floors.

  When Bastian, followed by his companions, entered the magic throne room, Xayide arose from her red-coral throne. She was wearing a long gown of violet silk, and her flaming red hair was coiled and braided into a fantastic edifice. Her face and her long, thin hands were as pale as marble. There was something strangely disturbing about her eyes. It took Bastian a few moments to figure out what it was—they were of different colors, one green, one red. She was trembling, evidently in fear of Bastian. He looked her straight in the face and she lowered her long lashes.

  The room was full of weird objects whose purpose it was hard to determine. There were large globes covered with designs, sidereal clocks, and pendulums hanging from the ceiling. There were costly censers from which rose heavy clouds of different-colored smoke, which crept over the floor like fog.

  Thus far Bastian hadn’t said a word. That seemed to shatter Xayide’s composure, for suddenly she threw herself on the floor in front of him, took one of his feet and set it on her neck.

  “My lord and master!” she said in a deep voice that sounded somehow mysterious. “No one in Fantastica can withstand you. You are mightier than the mighty and more dangerous than all the demons together. If you wish to take revenge on me for being too stupid to recognize your greatness, trample me underfoot. I have earned your anger. But if you wish once again to demonstrate your far-famed magnanimity, suffer me to become your obedient slave, who swears to obey you body and soul. Teach me to do what you deem desirable and I will be your humble pupil, obedient to your every hint. I repent of the harm I tried to do you and beg your mercy!”

  “Arise, Xayide!” said Bastian. He had been very angry, but her speech pleased him. If she had really acted out of ignorance and really regretted it so bitterly, then it was beneath his dignity to punish her. And since she even wished to learn what he deemed desirable, he could see no reason to reject her plea.

  Xayide arose and stood before him with bowed head. “Will you obey me unconditionally,” he asked, “however hard you may find it to do my bidding? Will you obey me without argument and without grumbling?”

  “I will, my lord and master,” said Xayide. “You will see there is nothing we cannot accomplish if we combine my artifices and your power.”

  “Very well,” said Bastian. “Then I will take you into my service. You will leave this castle and go with me to the Ivory Tower, where I am expecting to meet Moon Child.”

  For a fraction of a second Xayide’s eyes glowed red and green, but then, veiling them with her long lashes, she said: “I am yours to command, my lord and master.”

  Thereupon all descended the stairs. Once outside the castle, Bastian observed: “The first thing to do is find our traveling companions. Goodness knows where they are.”

>   “Not very far from here,” said Xayide. “I’ve led them slightly astray.”

  “For the last time,” said Bastian.

  “For the last time,” she agreed. “But how will we get there? Do you expect me to walk? Through the woods and at night?”

  “Falkor will carry us,” said Bastian. “He’s strong enough to carry us all.”

  Falkor raised his head and looked at Bastian. His ruby-red eyes glittered.

  “I’m strong enough, Bastian Balthazar Bux,” boomed the bronze bell-like voice. “But I will not carry that woman.”

  “Oh yes, you will,” said Bastian. “Because I command it.”

  The luckdragon looked at Atreyu, who nodded almost imperceptibly. But Bastian had seen that nod.

  All took their places on Falkor’s back, and he rose into the air.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  “Straight ahead,” said Xayide.

  “Which way?” Falkor asked again, as if he hadn’t heard.

  “Straight ahead!” Bastian shouted. “You heard her.”

  “Do as she says,” said Atreyu under his breath. And Falkor complied.

  Half an hour later—already the dawn was graying—they saw innumerable campfires down below and the luckdragon landed. In the meantime many more Fantasticans had turned up and a lot of them had brought tents. The camp, spread out on a wide, flower-strewn meadow at the edge of the orchid forest, looked like a tent city.

  “How many are you now?” Bastian asked.

  Ilwan, the blue djinn, who had taken charge of the caravan in Bastian’s absence, replied that he had not yet been able to make an exact count, but that he guessed there were close to a thousand. “And there’s something else to report,” he added. “Something rather strange. Soon after we pitched camp, shortly before midnight, five of those armored giants appeared. But they were peaceful and they’ve kept to themselves. Of course, no one dared to go near them. They brought a big litter made of red coral. But it was empty.”

  “Those are my carriers,” said Xayide in a pleading tone to Bastian. “I sent them ahead last night. That’s the pleasantest way to travel. If it does not displease you, my lord.”

  “I don’t like the look of this,” Atreyu interrupted.

  “Why not?” said Bastian. “What’s your objection?”

  “She can travel any way she likes,” said Atreyu drily. “But she wouldn’t have sent her litter here last night if she hadn’t known in advance that she’d be coming here. She had planned the whole thing. Your victory was really a defeat. She purposely let you win. That was her way of winning you over.”

  “Enough of this!” cried Bastian, purple with anger. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. You make me sick with your lecturing. And now you question my victory and ridicule my magnanimity.”

  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 oth
ers 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.”