The Neverending Story - Coloured Text, Images

by Michael Ende

  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.

  “Bastian, my boy!” he said over and over again. “My dear little boy, where have you been? What happened to you?”

  A few minutes later they were sitting at the kitchen table and Bastian was drinking hot milk and eating breakfast rolls, which his father had lovingly spread with butter and honey. Then the boy noticed that his father’s face was pale and drawn, his eyes red and his chin unshaven. But otherwise he looked the same as he had long ago, when Bastian went away. And Bastian told him so.

  “Long ago?” his father asked in amazement. “What do you mean?”

  “How long have I been gone?”

  “Since yesterday, Bastian. Since you went to school. But when you didn’t come home, I phoned your teachers and they told me you hadn’t been there. I looked for you all day and all night, my boy. I feared the worst, I put the police on your trail. Oh God, Bastian! What happened? I’ve been half crazy with worry. Where have you been?”

  Then Bastian began to tell his father about his adventures. He told the whole story in great detail. It took many hours.

  His father listened as he had never listened before. He understood Bastian’s story.

  At about midday he interrupted Bastian for a little while. First he called the police to tell them his son had come home and that everything was all right. Then he made lunch for both of them, and Bastian went on with his story. Night was falling by the time Bastian came to the Water of Life and told his father how he had wanted to bring him some but had spilled it.

  It was almost dark in the kitchen. His father sat motionless. Bastian stood up and switched on the light. And then he saw something he had never seen before.

  He saw tears in his father’s eyes.

  And he knew that he had brought him the Water of Life after all.

  Bastian’s father sat him down on his lap and hugged him. When they had sat like that for a long while, his father heaved a deep sigh, looked into Bastian’s face, and smiled. It was the happiest smile Bastian had ever seen on his face.

  “From now on,” said his father, “everything is going to be different between us. Don’t you agree?”

  Bastian nodded. He couldn’t speak. His heart was too full.

  Next morn
ing the winter’s first snow lay soft and clean on Bastian’s windowsill. The street sounds that came to him were muffled.

  “Do you know what, Bastian?” said his father at breakfast. “I think we two have every reason to celebrate. A day like this happens only once in a lifetime—and some people never have one. So I suggest that we do something really sensational. I’ll forget about any work and you needn’t go to school. I’ll write an excuse for you. How does that sound?”

  “School?” said Bastian. “Is it still operating? When I passed through the building yesterday, there wasn’t a soul. Not even the janitor was there.”

  “Yesterday?” said his father. “Yesterday was Sunday.”

  Bastian stirred his cocoa thoughtfully. Then he said in an undertone: “I think it’s going to take me a little while to get used to things again.”

  “Exactly,” said his father. “And that’s why we’re giving ourselves a little holiday. What would you like to do? We could go for a hike in the country or we could go to the zoo. Either way we’ll treat ourselves to the finest lunch the world has ever seen. This afternoon we could go shopping and buy anything you like. And tonight—how about the theater?”

  Bastian’s eyes sparkled. Then he said firmly: “Wonderful! But there’s something I must do first. I have to go and tell Mr. Coreander that I stole his book and lost it.”

  Bastian’s father took his hand

  “If you like,” he said, “I’ll attend to that for you.”

  “No,” said Bastian. “It’s my responsibility. I want to do it myself. And I think I should do it right away.”

  He stood up and put on his coat. His father said nothing, but the look on his face was one of surprise and respect. Such behavior in Bastian was something new.

  “I believe,” he said finally, “that I too will need a little time to get used to things.”

  Bastian was already in the entrance hall. “I’ll be right back,” he called. “I’m sure it won’t take long. Not this time.”

  When he came to Mr. Coreander’s bookshop, his courage failed him after all. He looked through the pane with the ornate lettering on it. Mr. Coreander was busy with a customer, and Bastian decided to wait. He walked up and down outside the shop. It was snowing again.

  At last the customer left.

  “Now!” Bastian commanded himself.

  Remembering how he had gone to meet Grograman in Goab, the Desert of Colors, he pressed the door handle resolutely.

  Behind the wall of books at the far end of the dimly lit room he heard a cough. He went forward, then, slightly pale but with grave composure, he stepped up to Mr. Coreander, who was sitting in his worn leather armchair as he had been at their last meeting.

  For a long time Bastian said nothing. He had expected Mr. Coreander to go red in the face and scream at him: “Thief! Monster!” or something of the kind.

  Instead, the old man deliberately lit his curved pipe, screwed up his eyes, and studied the boy through his ridiculous little spectacles. When the pipe was finally burning, he puffed awhile, then grumbled: “What is it this time?”

  “I . . .” Bastian began haltingly. “I stole a book from you. I meant to return it, but I can’t, because I lost it, or rather—well, I haven’t got it anymore.”

  Mr. Coreander stopped puffing and took his pipe out of his mouth.

  “What sort of book?” he asked.

  “The one you were reading the last time I was here. I walked off with it. You were telephoning in the back room, it was lying on the chair, and I just walked off with it.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Coreander, clearing his throat. “But none of my books is missing. What was the title of this book?”

  “It’s called the Neverending Story,” said Bastian. “It’s bound in copper-colored silk that shimmers when you move it around. There are two snakes on the cover, a light one and a dark one, and they’re biting each other’s tails. Inside it’s printed in two different colors—and there are big beautiful capitals at the beginning of the chapters.”

  “This is extremely odd,” said Mr. Coreander. “I’ve never had such a book. You can’t have stolen it from me. Maybe you swiped it somewhere else.”

  “Oh no!” Bastian assured him. “You must remember. It’s—” He hesitated, but then he blurted it out. “It’s a magic book. While I was reading it, I got into the Neverending Story, and when I came out again, the book was gone.”

  Mr. Coreander watched Bastian over his spectacles.

  “Would you be pulling my leg, by any chance?”

  “No,” said Bastian in dismay. “Of course not. I’m telling you the truth. You must know that.”

  Mr. Coreander thought for a while, then shook his head.

  “Better tell me all about it. Sit down, boy. Make yourself at home.”

  He pointed his pipe stem at a second armchair, facing his own, and Bastian sat down.

  “And now,” said Mr. Coreander, “tell me the whole story. But slowly, if you please, and one thing at a time.”

  And Bastian told his story.

  He told it a little more briefly than he had to his father, but since Mr. Coreander listened with keen interest and kept asking for details, it was more than two hours before Bastian had done.

  Heaven knows why, but in all that long time they were not disturbed by a single customer.

  When Bastian had finished, Mr. Coreander puffed for a long while, as though deep in thought. At length he cleared his throat, straightened his little spectacles, looked Bastian over, and said: “One thing is sure: You didn’t steal this book from me, because it belongs neither to me nor to you nor to anyone else. If I’m not mistaken, the book itself comes from Fantastica. Maybe at this very moment—who knows?—someone else is reading it.”

  “Then you believe me?” Bastian asked.

  “Of course I believe you,” said Mr. Coreander. “Any sensible person would.”

  “Frankly,” said Bastian, “I didn’t expect you to.”

  “There are people who can never go to Fantastica,” said Mr. Coreander, “and others who can, but who stay there forever. And there are just a few who go to Fantastica and come back. Like you. And they make both worlds well again.”

  “Oh,” said Bastian, blushing slightly. “I don’t deserve any credit. I almost didn’t make it back. If it hadn’t been for Atreyu I’d have been stuck in the City of Old Emperors for good.”

  Mr. Coreander nodded and puffed at his pipe.

  “Hmm,” he grumbled. “You’re lucky having a friend in Fantastica. God knows, it’s not everybody who can say that.”

  “Mr. Coreander,” Bastian asked, “how do you know all that? I mean—have you ever been in Fantastica?”

  “Of course I have,” said Mr. Coreander.

  “But then,” said Bastian, “you must know Moon Child.”

  “Yes, I know the Childlike Empress,” said Mr. Coreander, “though not by that name. I called her something different. But that doesn’t matter.”

  “Then you must know the book!” Bastian cried. “Then you have read the Neverending Story!”

  Mr. Coreander shook his head.

  “Every real story is a Neverending Story.” He passed his eye over the many books that covered the walls of his shop from floor to ceiling, pointed the stem of his pipe at them, and went on:

  “There are many doors to Fantastica, my boy. There are other such magic books. A lot of people read them without noticing. It all depends on who gets his hands on such books.”

  “Then the Neverending Story is different for different people? “

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Coreander. “And besides, it’s not just books. There are other ways of getting to Fantastica and back. You’ll find out.”

  “Do you think so?” Bastian asked hopefully. “But then I’d have to meet Moon Child again, and no one can meet her more than once.”

  Mr. Coreander leaned forward and lowered his voice.

  “Let an old Fantastica hand tell you something, my
boy. This is a secret that no one in Fantastica can know. When you think it over, you’ll see why. You can’t visit Moon Child a second time, that’s true. But if you can give her a new name, you’ll see her again. And however often you manage to do that, it will be the first and only time.”

  For a moment Mr. Coreander’s bulldog-face took on a soft glow, which made it look young and almost handsome.

  “Thank you, Mr. Coreander,” said Bastian.

  “I have to thank you, my boy,” said Mr. Coreander. “I’d appreciate it if you dropped in to see me now and then. We could exchange experiences. There aren’t many people one can discuss these things with.”

  He held out his hand to Bastian. “Will you?”

  “Gladly,” said Bastian, taking the proffered hand. “I have to go now. My father’s waiting. But I’ll come and see you soon.”

  Mr. Coreander took him to the door. Through the reversed writing on the glass pane, Bastian saw that his father was waiting for him across the street. His face was one great beam.

  Bastian opened the door so vigorously that the little glass bells tinkled wildly, and ran across to his father.

  Mr. Coreander closed the door gently and looked after father and son.

  “Bastian Balthazar Bux,” he grumbled. “If I’m not mistaken, you will show many others the way to Fantastica, and they will bring us the Water of Life.”

  Mr. Coreander was not mistaken.

  But that’s another story and shall be told another time.

  Michael Ende

  worked as an actor, director, playwright, and film critic as well as a children's book author. He published many acclaimed children's books in his native Germany. The Neverending Story topped the best-seller lists there for three years and went on to be translated into more than thirty languages and made into a major motion picture.

  Mr. Ende died in 1995.

  RALPH MANHEIM

  translated many notable works from the German, including The Threepenny Opera, by Bertolt Brecht. His translation of Tales for Young and Old by Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm, is considered by many to be the premier English edition of the Brothers Grimm.