by Michael Ende
“What did I tell you?” said the woebegone raven. “Nothing doing! It was all for the birds. Everything in its place, even if the entire world goes to the devil.”
Father New Year didn’t hear Jacob’s unseemly remark; he appeared to be lost in thought. “Yes, yes. Evil, I remember,” he sighed. “What is Evil, anyway, and why does it have to exist? We have occasional debates on the subject up yonder, but it is truly a great mystery, even for the likes of us.”
His eyes took on a vacant look. “You know, my little friends, Evil appears quite different when seen from the point of view of eternity than when seen from within the kingdom of time. Up yonder one sees that it actually always serves Good in the long run. It is, so to speak, a contradiction in itself. It is constantly striving for power over Good, but without Good it could not exist—and if it ever achieved total power, it would have to destroy precisely that over which it desires to wield said power. That’s why it can last only as long as it is incomplete, my dears. If it were complete, it would cancel itself out. That’s why it has no place in eternity. Only Good is eternal, for it contains itself without contradiction—”
“Hey!” shouted Jacob Scribble, tugging vigorously on the golden coat with his beak. “No offense, Reverend Blather—excuse me; Father, I mean—but that doesn’t matter a hill of beans at the moment, if you don’t mind my saying so. By the time you’re done with your fillosophy, it’ll be too late.”
Father New Year was obviously having a difficult time finding his way back to the present. “What?” he asked, smiling dreamily. “What were we talking about?”
“We were saying,” explained Morris, “that we absolutely must do something right away in order to prevent a terrible calamity, Monsignore.”
“Oh yes, oh yes,” said Father New Year, “but what?”
“Well, Monsignore, I guess only a miracle can save us now. But you are a saint. Can’t you just make a miracle—a little, tiny one?”
“Just a miracle!” repeated Father New Year, slightly flabbergasted. “My dear little friend, it’s not as easy making miracles as you think. None of us can make a miracle unless he’s received a commission from up above. First of all, I’d have to put in an application at a higher level, and it could take a long time before it gets approved—if at all.”
“How long?” asked Morris.
“Months, years, possibly decades,” answered Father New Year.
“That’s too long!” croaked Jacob sullenly. “Then we might as well forget it. We need something now, right now.”
Father New Year’s eyes started glazing over again. “Miracles,” he said, his voice filled with awe, “do not change the order of things; they are not magic; they are of a higher order inconceivable to the limited, earthly mind . . .”
“That may be,” rasped Jacob Scribble, “but unfortunately, we are dealing with magic, and we’re dealing with it tonight.”
“Yes, yes,” said Father New Year, who once again was having difficulty descending from his higher spheres of thought. “To tell you the truth, my little friends, I understand your situation, but I’m afraid there isn’t all that much I can do for you. Besides, I’m not at all sure that I’m allowed to act on my own authority in such cases. But since I happen to be here anyway, there just might be one little possibility . . .”
Morris nudged the raven and whispered. “He’s going to help us.”
“Let’s wait and see,” Jacob replied skeptically.
“If I understood you correctly a while ago,” Father New Year said, “then one single chime of the New Year’s bells would be enough to cancel out the reverse effect of the Archaeolinear . . .” He got stuck.
“Satanarchaeolidealcohellish Notion Potion,” Morris interceded helpfully.
“Precisely,” said Father New Year, “to cancel out the reverse effect of same. Wasn’t that it?”
“That’s the way we heard it,” confirmed the cat, and the raven nodded in agreement.
“And you think that alone is going to be enough to stop this terrible thing?”
“Sure,” said Jacob, “but only if those two devils don’t get wind of what we’re doing. They would wish Good in order to do Evil, but only Good would come of it.”
“Well, let’s see.” Father New Year thought it over. “I guess I could spare you a single note from my New Year’s concert. I only hope nobody will notice that it’s missing.”
“I’m sure they won’t,” Morris cried eagerly. “One tone more or less doesn’t matter in a concert; any singer knows that.”
“Couldn’t it be a little more?” suggested Jacob. “I mean, just in case and to be on the safe side.”
“Certainly not,” said Father New Year sternly. “Actually, that’s already too much, considering the order of things—”
“All right!” the raven interrupted hastily. “No harm in asking. But how is it supposed to work anyway, Reverend Father? If you ring the bell now, those two villains will hear it, too, and they’ll be warned.”
“Ring the bells now?” asked Father New Year, his eyes once more taking on a distant expression. “Ring the bells now? There would be no point, for they wouldn’t be the New Year’s bells. That can only happen at midnight, and so it must remain, because the beginning and the end . . .”
“Exactly!” rasped the raven grimly. “Because of the order of things. But then it’ll be too late, it will.”
Morris signaled him to be quiet.
Father New Year’s gaze seemed to wander into the distance. He suddenly looked much bigger and most awesome.
“In eternity,” he said, “we live beyond space and time. There is no before and no after, and cause and effect do not follow one another either, but form a permanent unity. That’s why I can give you the note now, even though it won’t sound until midnight. Its effect will precede its cause, as is the case with so many of eternity’s gifts.”
The animals looked at each other. Neither of them understood what Father New Year had just said. But he stroked the great curve of the largest bell slowly with gentle fingers, and suddenly he had a crystal-clear ice cube in his hand. He held it out to the animals between thumb and index finger, and they eyed it from all sides. A beautiful, heavenly light in the form of a single note glistened and sparkled within the crystal of ice.
“Here,” he said kindly. “Take this, carry it back quickly, and drop it into the Hellishandsoonandsoforth Potion without their noticing it. But mind your aim and don’t lose it, for this is the only one you have and I can’t give you another.”
Jacob Scribble took the ice cube carefully in his beak and, since he could no longer speak, mumbled, “Hmm! Hmm! Hmm!” accompanying each sound with a bow.
Morris executed an elegant bow and scrape as well, and meowed, “Most humble thanks, Monsignore. We shall prove worthy of your trust. But could you possibly give us one more bit of advice? How are we going to get back there on time?”
Father New Year gazed at him and retrieved his thoughts once more from the distant, distant eternity. “What did you say, my little friend?” he asked, smiling as only saints can smile. “What were we talking about?”
“I beg your pardon,” stuttered the little cat. “It’s only, I don’t think I’ll be able to climb all the way back down the cathedral. And poor Jacob is also at the end of his feathers.”
“Oh yes, of course,” said Father New Year. “Well, I don’t think that should be a problem. You will fly with the bell tone, so it will only take a few seconds to get there. Just be sure to hold one another tight. And now I really must bid you farewell. It was a great pleasure meeting two such brave and upright creatures of God. I shall tell of you up yonder.”
He raised his hand in a gesture of benediction.
The cat and the raven clung to one another, and off they flew through the night at the speed of sound. To their great surprise, they found themselves back in the cat’s chamber only seconds later. The window was open and it was as if they had never left the little room.
/> But the ice cube with the beautiful light within it that Jacob Scribble held in his beak proved that it had not been a dream.
The lives of black magicians are so very strenuous and unpleasant because they must have all creatures, indeed even the simplest objects, within their sphere of influence constantly and completely under their control. They can never allow themselves a moment’s negligence or weakness, for all their power relies on force. No creature, not even an object, would ever serve them willingly. That is why they must constantly enslave all and sundry around them by means of their magic aura. If they let up for even as much as a minute, they can expect a spontaneous rebellion.
It may be difficult for a normal person to comprehend that there are people in this world who enjoy exercising this kind of force. And yet there always were, and today there still exist quite a few who would stop at nothing to acquire and maintain such power—and not only among sorcerers and witches.
The more willpower Preposteror used to counter Tyrannia’s debilitating hypnotic spell with his own, the less energy he had left to keep the countless elemental spirits in his so-called natural history museum under permanent control.
It began when that particularly repulsive little creature, the book grump, began to stir, stretched and twisted, looked around as if upon waking, and, once it realized where it was, commenced romping about so wildly in its glass jar that the whole kit and caboodle tipped off the shelf. The book grump didn’t fall far enough to sustain serious injuries, yet far enough for its glass prison to shatter.
As soon as the others, who were already thumping and gesticulating wildly, noticed this, they followed suit. One jar after another came crashing down, the liberated victims joining in to liberate the remaining prisoners, and so there were more and ever more of them. Soon the dark corridor was swarming with hundreds and hundreds of tiny figures—all manner and shape of gnomes and hobgoblins, water sprites, elves, salamanders, and trolls. They all milled and stumbled about, for they didn’t know their way around the gloomy Villa Nightmare.
The book grump paid little attention to the others, since it was much too educated to believe in the existence of such beings. It flared its nostrils and sniffed the air. It hadn’t had the chance to grump about a book for a terribly long time and was craving to do so. Its infallible nose told it where suitable material could be found and it headed off in the direction of the laboratory. A few gnomes followed it, haltingly at first, in the hope that it would lead them to freedom. Then more and more creatures joined the parade, until finally, a thousand-strong army was on the march, headed by the book grump, which had taken over the revolutionary leadership without really meaning to.
Now, all these spirits may be small in size, but their powers are great, as we all know. When this army stormed the laboratory and started smashing everything in sight, the walls shook all the way down to the foundations as if an earthquake were taking place. Windowpanes shattered, doors burst open, and walls were rent asunder as if they had been hit by bombs.
Ultimately, the objects, which were still heavily charged all and sundry with Preposteror’s magic powers, began coming eerily to life and defending themselves against the rebels. The bottles, test tubes, flasks, and crucibles started moving, whistling, puffing, ballet dancing, and spraying the essences they contained at their attackers. Many shattered during the battle, although quite a few elemental spirits were also taught a painful lesson and opted to flee to the safety of the Dead Park, limping and wailing all the while.
The book grump had retreated from this noisy rumpus into the stillness of the library, where it peacefully went about satisfying its need. It pulled out the first tome it could find and immediately started grumping to its heart’s content. But the magic book would have none of this and snapped at it.
While they were still fighting, all the other books in the library started coming to life. Row upon row, they marched down from the shelves in their hundreds and their thousands.
Now, it is a well-known fact that books often hate each other’s guts. Even with normal books, no one with any sensitivity would put Justine, of all books, next to Heidi, or Revenue Law next to The Neverending Story, although normal books cannot defend themselves, of course. But sorcerers’ books are a different story, particularly when they have just shaken off the shackles of slavery. Within a short period of time, various platoons had formed among the countless books, according to their tables of contents—and they now charged one another with open, snarling covers and tried to gobble each other up. Even the book grump was seized with fear and fled.
In the end, even the furniture started joining in the common ruckus. Heavy wardrobes grunted into action, chests full of household articles and china hopped solemnly about, stools and armchairs whirled around on one leg like ice skaters, tables galloped and bucked like broncos at a rodeo—in short, ’twas a veritable witches’ sabbath.
The clock with the cruel works had stopped hitting its own sore thumb with the hammer and was flailing wildly about. Its hands turned like propellers, and it flew from the wall and circled the battlefield like a helicopter. And every time it passed over the heads of the sorcerer and the witch, who still could not move, it hammered full force.
In the meantime, the last remaining elemental spirits had fled outside and scattered to the four winds. The books, furniture, and objects, which had, up to now, fought principally among themselves, increasingly directed their common rage against their oppressors. Preposteror and Tyrannia were hit by flying books, bitten by the stuffed shark, sprayed by glass flasks, elbowed by chests of drawers, and knocked over by bucking table legs, until they both rolled across the floor at the same time. But that, of course, broke the mutual hypnotic trance and the two of them were able to struggle to their feet.
“Stop!” thundered Preposteror in a powerful voice.
He raised his arms, and green-glowing thunderbolts shot out of all ten fingers into every corner of the laboratory, into all the other rooms of the Villa Nightmare, through the crooked corridors, up the stairs to the attic, and down to the cellar. At the same time he roared:
“Things and beings, flesh and plaster,
Of my power do take heed!
Once again your fate’s decreed
By the one and only Master.”
He wasn’t able to order back the elemental spirits, for they had already escaped the clutches of his magic influence, but the bedlam inside the villa instantly came to a stop. Whatever was buzzing through the air crashed or clattered to the floor; jaws were pried apart and limbs unwound. Everything lay still—except for the long parchment scroll bearing the formula, which was still coiling like a giant worm, since it had fallen into the fireplace and was burning to ashes.
Preposteror and Tyrannia gazed about the laboratory, puffing loudly. It was a dreadful sight: nothing but tattered books, broken windows and containers, upended and demolished furniture, shards of glass and china and rubble. Essences dripped from the walls and ceiling and formed smoking puddles on the floor. The sorcerer and the witch had not been roughed up any less; they were covered with bumps, scrapes, and black-and-blue marks, and their clothes were ragged and soiled.
Only the Satanarchaeolidealcohellish Notion Potion still stood intact in the middle of the room in its bowl of Cold Fire.
The cat and the raven returned to the cat’s chamber from the steeple just in time to hear the shattering and bursting of the preserve jars in the corridor. Since they had no idea what the cause of this hellish racket was, they fled out into the dark garden and onto the branch of a dead tree. There they sat, pressed closely together, listening in horror to the supposed earthquake, which shook the entire villa, and watching the windowpanes burst.
“Do you think they are having a quarrel?” whispered Morris.
Jacob, who was still desperately holding the ice cube with the beautiful little light in his beak, could only mumble, “Hmm, hmm?” and shrug his wings.
Meanwhile, the wind had stopped blowing. The dar
k clouds had disappeared, and the starry night glittered like a million diamonds. But it had become colder still.
The two animals shivered and shifted closer together.
Preposteror and Tyrannia stood facing each other, the gigantic bowl between them. They stared at each other with unmasked hatred.
“You damned old witch,” he growled, “this is all your fault.”
“No, it’s yours, you conniving swindler,” she hissed. “Don’t you ever do that again!”
“You started it.”
“No, you did.”
“You’re a liar.”
“You wanted to get rid of me and drink the potion all by yourself.”
“That’s exactly what you wanted to do.”
There was an embittered silence.
“Bubby,” the witch said at last, “let’s be reasonable. No matter whose fault it was, we’ve already lost an awful lot of time. And if we don’t want to have brewed the potion in vain, then it’s high time to get down to business.”
“You’re right, Aunt Tye,” Preposteror said with a crooked grin. “We should bring in the two spies without further delay, so we can finally start the party.”
“I better go along with you,” said Tyrannia, “otherwise you’re likely to get some strange ideas in your head again, my boy.”
And they climbed hastily over the rubble and rushed out into the corridor.
•
“They’re gone now,” whispered Morris, who had night sight and could better observe the interior of the house. “Quick now, Jacob! Fly ahead, I’ll follow you.”
Jacob fluttered unsteadily down from the branch to one of the broken laboratory windows. Morris, his paws numb with cold, first had to clamber down the dead tree, work his way through the high snow to the house, jump up onto the window ledge, and climb carefully through the hole in the pane. He noticed a few bloody feathers along the jagged edge of the hole and panicked.