The Neverending Story - Coloured Text, Images

by Michael Ende

  Bastian turned around. Far in the distance he saw something that looked like a ball of fire. Moving with incredible speed, it described a wide arc around the spot where Bastian was sitting, then came straight toward him. In the shimmering desert air, which made the outline of things waver like flames, the creature looked like a dancing fire-demon.

  Bastian was stricken with terror. Before he knew it, he had run down into the cleft between the red dune and the blue dune. But no sooner had he got there than he felt ashamed and overcame his fear.

  He took hold of AURYN and felt all the courage he had wished for streaming into his heart.

  Then again he heard the deep roar that made the ground tremble, but this time it was near him. He looked up.

  A huge lion was standing on the fiery-red dune. The sun was directly behind him, and made his great mane look like a wreath of fire. This lion was not a tawny color like other lions, but as fiery red as the dune on which he was standing.

  The beast did not seem to have noticed the boy, so much smaller than himself, who was standing in the cleft between the two dunes, but seemed to be looking at the red letters on the opposite hill. The great rumbling voice said: “Who did this?”

  “I did,” said Bastian.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s my initials,” said Bastian. “My name is Bastian Balthazar Bux.”

  Then for the first time the lion turned toward Bastian, who for a moment expected to be burned to a crisp by the flames that seemed to surround the lion. But his fear soon passed and he returned the lion’s gaze.

  “I,” said the huge beast, “am Grograman, Lord of the Desert of Colors. I am also known as the Many-Colored Death.”

  Bastian felt the deadly power that flowed from the lion’s eyes. But he did not avert his own.

  When they had measured their strength for some time, the lion looked down. With slow, majestic movements he descended from the dune. When he stepped onto the ultramarine sand, he too changed color, his coat and mane became blue. For a moment the huge beast stood facing Bastian, who had to look up at him as a mouse might look up at a cat. Then suddenly Grograman lay down and touched his head to the ground.

  “Master,” he said. “I am your servant, I await your commands.”

  “I’d like to get out of this desert,” said Bastian. “Can you manage that?”

  Grograman shook his mane.

  “No, master, that I cannot do.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I carry the desert with me.”

  Not knowing what to make of this, Bastian asked: “Isn’t there somebody who can get me out of here?”

  “How could that be, master?” said Grograman. “Where I am no other living creature can exist. My presence alone would suffice to reduce everybody—even the most powerful of creatures—into ashes for thousands of miles around. That’s why I’m called the Many-Colored Death and Lord of the Desert of Colors.”

  “That’s not so,” said Bastian. “Everybody doesn’t get burned up in your desert. Look at me.”

  “Because you are bearing the Gem, master. AURYN protects you—even from me, the deadliest creature in Fantastica.”

  “You mean that if I didn’t have the Gem, I’d be reduced to ashes?”

  “That’s how it is, master. That’s what would happen, though personally I’d regret it. Because you’re the first and only being who has ever spoken to me.”

  Bastian touched the amulet. “Thank you, Moon Child,” he said under his breath.

  Grograman stood up to his full height and looked down at Bastian.

  “I believe, master, that we have things to discuss. Perhaps I can acquaint you with certain secrets. And perhaps you can clear up the riddle of my existence for me.”

  Bastian nodded. “But first,” he said. “Could you possibly get me something to drink? I’m very thirsty.”

  “Your servant hears and obeys,” said Grograman. “Will you deign to sit on my back? I shall carry you to my palace, where you will find everything you need.”

  Bastian climbed up on the lion’s back and clutched the flaming mane in both hands. Grograman looked back at his passenger.

  “Hold on tight, master, I’m a swift runner. And one more thing: as long as you are in my domain and especially when you are with me—promise me that you will never for any reason lay down the amulet that protects you.”

  “I promise,” said Bastian.

  The lion started off, at first at a slow, dignified gait, then faster and faster. To Bastian’s amazement, the lion’s coat and mane changed color with every new sand hill. But soon Grograman was making great leaps from hilltop to hilltop, and his coat changed color faster and faster. Bastian’s eyes swam, and he saw all the colors at once as in a rainbow. The hot wind whistled around Bastian’s ears and tugged at his mantle, which fluttered behind him. He felt the movements of the lion’s muscles and breathed the wild, heady smell of the shaggy mane. The triumphant shout that escaped him resembled the cry of a bird of prey, and Grograman answered with a roar that made the desert tremble. For the moment these two different creatures were one. Bastian’s heart and mind were in the clouds. He didn’t come to himself until he heard Grograman saying: “We have arrived, master! Will you deign to alight?”

  Bastian jumped down from the lion’s back and landed on the sandy ground. Before him he saw a cleft mountain of black rock. Or was it a ruined building? He didn’t know, for the stones which made up the doorframes, walls, columns, and terraces of the building, as well as those that were lying about half buried in colored sand, were deeply creviced and smooth, as though the sandstorms of time had smoothed away all sharp edges and roughness.

  “This, master, is my palace—and my tomb,” Bastian heard the lion’s voice saying. “You are Grograman’s first and only guest. Enter and make yourself at home.”

  The sun hung low over the horizon, a great pale-yellow disk, shorn of its searing heat. Apparently the ride had taken much longer than it had seemed to Bastian. The truncated columns or spurs of rock, whichever they might be, cast long shadows. It would soon be night.

  As Bastian followed the lion through a dark doorway leading into the palace, he had the impression that Grograman’s steps sounded tired and heavy.

  After passing a dark corridor and up and down a number of stairways, they came at last to a large double door which seemed to be made of black rock. As Grograman approached, it opened of its own accord, and when they had both gone through, it closed behind them.

  Now they were in a large hall, or rather a cave, lit by hundreds of lamps whose flames resembled the play of colors on Grograman’s coat. The floor was of colored tiles. At the center was a circular platform surrounded by steps, and on the platform lay an enormous black rock. Grograman seemed spent as he turned to Bastian.

  “My time is close at hand, master,” he said, hardly above a whisper. “There won’t be time for our talk. But don’t worry, and wait for the day. What has always happened will happen once again. And perhaps you will be able to tell me why.”

  Then he pointed his head in the direction of a little gate at the other end of the cave.

  “Go in there, master. You will find everything in readiness. That room has been waiting for you since the beginning of time.”

  Bastian went to the gate, but before opening it, he glanced back. Grograman had sat down on the black rock. He was as black as the stone. In a faint, far-off voice, he said: “Quite possibly, master, you will hear sounds that will frighten you. Don’t be afraid. As long as you carry the emblem, nothing can happen to you.”

  Bastian nodded and passed through the gate.

  The room he entered was magnificent. The floor was laid with soft, richly colored carpets. The graceful columns supporting the vaulted ceiling were covered with gold mosaic, which fragmented the varicolored light of the lamps. In one corner Bastian saw a broad divan covered with soft rugs and cushions of all kinds, surmounted by a canopy of azure-blue silk. In the opposite corner the s
tone floor had been hollowed to form a pool

  filled with golden liquid. On a low table stood bowls and dishes of food, a carafe full of some ruby-red drink, and a golden cup.

  Bastian squatted down at the table and fell to. The drink had a tart, wild taste and was wonderfully thirst-quenching. The dishes were unknown to Bastian. Some looked like cakes or nuts, others like squash or melons, but the taste was entirely different. Sharp and spicy. Everything was delicious, and Bastian ate his fill.

  Then he took his clothes off—but not the amulet—and stepped into the pool. For a while he splashed about, washed himself, dived under, and came up puffing like a walrus. Then he discovered some strange-looking bottles at the edge of the pool. Thinking they must be bath oils, he poured a little of each into the water. Green, red, and yellow flames darted hissing over the surface, and a little smoke went up. It smelled of resin and bitter herbs. And then the flames died.

  After a while Bastian got out of the water, dried himself with the soft towels that lay ready, and put his clothes on. Suddenly he noticed that the lamps were not burning as brightly as before. And then he heard a sound that sent the cold shivers down his spine: a cracking and grinding, as though a rock were bursting under the pressure of expanding ice.

  Bastian’s heart pounded. He remembered that Grograman had told him not to be afraid.

  The sound softened to a moan and soon stopped. It was not repeated, but the stillness was almost more terrible.

  Determined to find out what had happened, Bastian opened the door of the bedchamber. At first he saw no change in the great hall, except that the lamplight now seemed somber and was pulsating like a faltering heartbeat. The lion was still sitting in the same attitude on the black rock. He seemed to be looking at Bastian.

  “Grograman!” Bastian cried. “What’s going on? What was that sound? Was it you?”

  The lion made no answer and didn’t move, but when Bastian approached him, the lion followed him with his eyes.

  Hesitantly Bastian stretched out his hand to stroke the lion’s mane, but the moment he touched it he recoiled in horror. It was hard and ice-cold like the black rock. And Grograman’s face and paws felt the same way.

  Bastian didn’t know what to do. He saw that the black stone doors were slowly opening. He left the hall, but it wasn’t until he had passed through the long dark corridor and was on his way up the stairs that he started wondering what he would do when he was outside. In this desert there couldn’t be anyone capable of saving Grograman.

  But it wasn’t a desert anymore!

  Whichever way Bastian looked, he saw glittering dots. Millions of tiny plants were sprouting from the grains of sand which had become seeds again. Perilin the Night Forest was growing once more.

  Bastian sensed that Grograman’s rigidity was somehow connected with this transformation.

  He went back to the cave. The light in the lamps was barely flickering. He went over to the lion, threw his arms around the huge neck, and pressed his face to the beast’s face.

  The lion’s eyes were black and as dead as the rock. Grograman had turned to stone. The lights flared for an instant and went out, leaving the cave in total darkness.

  Bastian wept bitterly. The stone lion was wet with his tears. In the end, the boy curled up between the great paws and fell asleep!

  master,” said the rumbling lion’s voice. “Have you spent the whole night like this?”

  Bastian sat up and rubbed his eyes. He had been lying between the lion’s paws, and Grograman was watching him with a look of amazement. His fur was still as black as the rock he was sitting on, but his eyes sparkled. The lamps in the cave were burning again.

  “Oh!” Bastian cried. “I thought you had turned to stone.”

  “So I had,” the lion replied. “I die with every nightfall, and every morning I wake up again.”

  “I thought it was forever,” said Bastian.

  “It always is forever,” said Grograman mysteriously.

  He stood up, stretched, and trotted about the cave. His fur shone more and more brightly in the colors of the mosaic floor. Suddenly he stopped still and looked at the boy.

  “Did you shed tears over me?” he asked.

  Bastian nodded.

  “Then,” said the lion, “you are not only the only being who has ever slept between the paws of the Many-Colored Death, but also the only being who has ever mourned his death.”

  Bastian looked at the lion, who was trotting about again, and finally asked him in a whisper: “Are you always alone?”

  Again the lion stood still, but this time he did not turn toward Bastian. He kept his face averted and repeated in his rumbling voice: “Alone!”

  The word echoed through the cave.

  “My realm is the desert, and it is also my work. Wherever I go, everything around me turns to desert. I carry it with me. Since I am made of deadly fire, must I not be doomed to everlasting solitude?”

  Bastian fell into a dismayed silence.

  “Master,” said the lion, looking at the boy with glowing eyes. “You who bear the emblem of the Childlike Empress, can you tell me this: Why must I always die at nightfall?”

  “So that Perilin, the Night Forest, can grow in the Desert of Colors,” said Bastian.

  “Perilin?” said the lion. “What’s that?”

  Then Bastian told him about the miraculous jungle that consisted of living light. While Grograman listened in fascinated amazement, Bastian described the diversity and beauty of the glimmering phosphorescent plants, their silent, irresistible growth, their dreamlike beauty and incredible size. His enthusiasm grew as he spoke and Grograman’s eyes glowed more and more brightly.

  “All that,” Bastian concluded, “can happen only when you are turned to stone. But Perilin would swallow up everything else and stifle itself if it didn’t have to die and crumble into dust when you wake up. You and Perilin need each other.”

  For a long while Grograman was silent.

  “Master,” he said then. “Now I see that my dying gives life and my living death, and both are good. Now I understand the meaning of my existence. I thank you.”

  He strode slowly and solemnly into the darkest corner of the cave. Bastian couldn’t see what he did there, but he heard a jangling of metal. When Grograman came back, he was carrying something in his mouth. With a deep bow he laid this something at Bastian’s feet.

  It was a sword.

  It didn’t look very impressive. The iron sheath was rusty, and the hilt might have belonged to a child’s wooden sword.

  “Can you give it a name?” Grograman asked.

  Bastian examined it carefully.

  “Sikanda,” he said.

  In that same moment the sword darted from its sheath and flew into his hand. The blade consisted of pure light and glittered so brightly that he could hardly bear to look at it. It was double-edged and weighed no more than a feather.

  “This sword has been destined for you since the beginning of time,” said Grograman. “For only one who has ridden on my back, who has eaten and drunk of my fire and bathed in it like you, can touch it without danger. But only because you have given it its right name does it belong to you.”

  “Sikanda!” said Bastian under his breath as, fascinated by the gleaming light, he swung the sword slowly through the air. “It’s a magic sword, isn’t it?”

  “Nothing in all Fantastica can resist it,” said Grograman, “neither rock nor steel. But you must not use force. Whatever may threaten you, you may wield it only if it leaps into your hand of its own accord as it did now. It will guide your hand and by its own power will do what needs to be done. But if your will makes you draw it from its sheath, you will bring great misfortune on yourself and on Fantastica. Never forget that.”

  “I will never forget it,” Bastian promised.

  The sword flew back into its sheath and again it looked old and worthless. Bastian grasped the leather belt on which the sheath hung and slung it around his waist.
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  “And now, master,” Grograman suggested, “let us, if you wish, go racing through the desert together. Climb on my back, for I must go out now.”

  Bastian mounted, and the lion trotted out into the open. The Night Forest had long since crumbled into colored sand, and the morning sun rose above the desert horizon. Together they swept over the dunes—like a dancing flame, like a blazing tempest. Bastian felt as though he were riding a flaming comet through light and colors.

  Toward midday Grograman stopped.

  “This, master, is the place where we met.”

  Bastian’s head was still reeling from the wild ride. He looked around but could see neither the ultramarine-blue nor the fiery-red hill. Nor was there any sign of the letters he had made. Now the dunes were olive-green and pink.

  “It’s all entirely different,” he said.

  “Yes, master,” said the lion. “That’s the way it is—different every day. Up until now I didn’t know why. But since you told me that Perilin grows out of the sand, I understand.”

  “But how do you know it’s the same place as yesterday?”

  “I feel it as I feel my own body. The desert is a part of me.”

  Bastian climbed down from Grograman’s back and seated himself on the olive-green hill. The lion lay beside him and now he too was olive-green. Bastian propped his chin on his hand and looked out toward the horizon.

  “Grograman,” he said after a long silence. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Your servant is listening.”

  “Is it true that you’ve always been here?”

  “Always!”

  “And the desert of Goab has always existed?”

  “Yes, the desert too. Why do you ask?”

  Bastian pondered.

  “I don’t get it,” he finally confessed. “I’d have bet it wasn’t here before yesterday morning.”

  “What makes you think that, master?”

  Then Bastian told him everything that had happened since he met Moon Child.

  “It’s all so strange,” he concluded. “A wish comes into my head, and then something always happens that makes the wish come true. I haven’t made this up, you know. I wouldn’t be able to. I could never have invented all the different night plants in Perilin. Or the colors of Goab—or you! It’s all much more wonderful and real than anything I could have made up. But all the same, nothing is there until I’ve wished it.”