by Michael Ende
And sure enough, the will-o’-the-wisp hadn’t even heard the other messengers’ last words, for it was already flitting through the forest in long leaps.
“Oh well,” said the tiny, pushing his top hat onto the back of his head, “maybe it wouldn’t have been such a good idea to follow a will-o’-the-wisp.”
“To tell the truth,” said the night-hob, “I prefer to travel on my own. Because I, for one, fly.”
With a quick “hoo hoo” he ordered his bat to make ready. And whish! Away he flew.
The rock chewer put out the campfire with the palm of his hand.
“I, too, prefer to go by myself,” he crackled in the darkness. “Then I don’t need to worry about squashing some wee creature.”
Rattling and grinding, he rode his stone bicycle straight into the woods, now and then thudding into a tree giant. Slowly the clatter receded in the distance.
Gluckuk, the tiny, was last to set out. He seized the silvery reins and said: “All right, we’ll see who gets there first. Geeyap, old-timer, geeyap.” And he clicked his tongue.
And then there was nothing to be heard but the storm wind howling in the treetops.
The clock in the belfry struck nine. Reluctantly Bastian’s thought turned back to reality. He was glad the Neverending Story had nothing to do with that.
He didn’t like books in which dull, cranky writers describe humdrum events in the very humdrum lives of humdrum people. Reality gave him enough of that kind of thing, why should he read about it? Besides, he couldn’t stand it when a writer tried to convince him of something. And these humdrum books, it seemed to him, were always trying to do just that.
Bastion liked books that were exciting or funny, or that made him dream. Books where made-up characters had marvelous adventures, books that made him imagine all sorts of things.
Because one thing he was good at, possibly the only thing, was imagining things so clearly that he almost saw and heard them. When he told himself stories, he sometimes forgot everything around him and awoke—as though from a dream—only when the story was finished. And this book was just like his own stories! In reading it, he had heard not only the creaking of the big trees and the howling of the wind in the treetops, but also the different voices of the four comical messengers. And he almost seemed to catch the smell of moss and forest earth.
Down in the classroom they were starting in on nature study. That consisted almost entirely in counting pistils and stamens. Bastian was glad to be up here in his hiding place, where he could read. This, he thought, was just the right book for him!
A week later Vooshvazool, the little night-hob, arrived at his destination. He was the first. Or rather, he thought he was first, because he was riding through the air.
Just as the setting sun turned the clouds to liquid gold, he noticed that his bat was circling over the Labyrinth. That was the name of an enormous garden, extending from horizon to horizon and filled with the most bewitching scents and dreamlike colors.
Broad avenues and narrow paths twined their way among copses, lawns, and beds of the rarest, strangest flowers in a design so artful and intricate that the whole plain resembled an enormous maze. Of course, it had been designed only for pleasure and amusement, with no intention of endangering anyone, much less of warding off an enemy. It would have been useless for such purposes, and the Childlike Empress required no such protection, because in all the unbounded reaches of Fantastica there was no one who would have thought of attacking her. For that there was a reason, as we shall soon see.
While gliding soundlessly over the flowery maze, the night-hob sighted all sorts of animals. In a small clearing between lilacs and laburnum, a group of young unicorns was playing in the evening sun, and once, glancing under a giant bluebell, he even thought he saw the famous phoenix in its nest, but he wasn’t quite certain, and such was his haste that he didn’t want to turn back to make sure. For at the center of the Labyrinth there now appeared, shimmering in fairy whiteness, the Ivory Tower, the heart of Fantastica and the residence of the Childlike Empress.
The word “tower” might give someone who has never seen it the wrong idea. It had nothing of the church or castle about it. The Ivory Tower was as big as a whole city.
From a distance it looked like a pointed mountain peak twisted like a snail shell. Its highest point was deep in the clouds. Only on coming closer could you notice that this great sugarloaf consisted of innumerable towers, turrets, domes, roofs, oriels, terraces, arches, stairways, and balustrades, all marvelously fitted together. The whole was made of the whitest Fantastican ivory, so delicately carved in every detail that it might have been taken for the latticework of the finest lace.
These buildings housed the Childlike Empress’s court, her chamberlains and maidservants, wise women and astrologers, magicians and jesters, messengers, cooks and acrobats, her tightrope walkers and storytellers, heralds, gardeners, watchmen, tailors, shoemakers and alchemists. And at the very summit of the great tower lived the Childlike Empress in a pavilion shaped like a magnolia blossom. On certain nights, when the full moon shone most gloriously in the starry sky, the ivory petals opened wide, and the Childlike Empress would be sitting in the middle of the glorious flower.
Riding on his bat, the little night-hob landed on one of the lower terraces, where the stables were located. Someone must have announced his arrival, for five imperial grooms were there waiting for him. They helped him out of his saddle, bowed to him, and held out the ceremonial welcome cup. As etiquette demanded, Vooshvazool took only a sip and then returned the cup. Each of the grooms took a sip, then they bowed again and led the bat to the stables. All this was done in silence. On reaching its appointed place, the bat touched neither food nor drink, but immediately rolled up, hung itself head-down on a hook, and fell into a deep sleep. The little night-hob had demanded a bit too much of his mount. The grooms left it alone and crept away from the stable on tiptoes.
In this stable there were many other mounts: two elephants, one pink and one blue, a gigantic griffon with the forequarters of an eagle and the hindquarters of a lion, a winged horse, whose name was once known even outside of Fantastica but is now forgotten, several flying dogs, a few other bats, and several dragonflies and butterflies for especially small riders. In other stables there were still other mounts, which didn’t fly but ran, crawled, hopped, or swam. And each had a groom of its own to feed and take care of it.
Ordinarily one would have expected to hear quite a cacophony of different voices: roaring, screeching, piping, chirping, croaking, and chattering. But that day there was utter silence.
The little night-hob was still standing where the grooms had left him. Suddenly, without knowing why, he felt dejected and discouraged. He too was exhausted after the long trip. And not even the knowledge that he had arrived first could cheer him up.
Suddenly he heard a chirping voice. “Hello, hello! If it isn’t my good friend Vooshvazool! So glad you’ve finally made it!”
The night-hob looked around, and his moon eyes flared with amazement, for on a balustrade, leaning negligently against a flower pot, stood Gluckuk, the tiny, tipping his red top hat.
“Hoo hoo!” went the bewildered night-hob. And again: “Hoo hoo!” He just couldn’t think of anything better to say.
“The other two haven’t arrived yet. I’ve been here since yesterday morning.”
“How—hoo hoo—how did you do it?”
“Simple,” said the tiny with a rather condescending smile. “Didn’t I tell you I had a racing snail?”
The night-hob scratched his tangled black head fur with his little pink hand.
“I must go to the Childlike Empress at once,” he said mournfully.
The tiny gave him a pensive look.
“Hmm,” he said. “I put in for an appointment yesterday.”
“Put in for an appointment?” asked the night-hob. “Can’t we just go in and see her?”
“I’m afraid not,” chirped the tiny. “We’ll ha
ve a long wait. You can’t imagine how many messengers have turned up.”
“Hoo hoo,” the night-hob sighed. “How come?”
“You’d better take a look for yourself,” the tiny twittered. “Come with me, my dear Vooshvazool. Come with me!”
The two of them started out.
The High Street, which wound around the Ivory Tower in a narrowing spiral, was clogged with a dense crowd of the strangest creatures. Enormous beturbaned djinns, tiny kobolds, three-headed trolls, bearded dwarfs, glittering fairies, goat-legged fauns, nixies with wavy golden hair, sparkling snow sprites, and countless others were milling about, standing in groups, or sitting silently on the ground, discussing the situation or gazing glumly into the distance.
Vooshvazool stopped still when he saw them.
“Hoo hoo,” he said. “What’s going on? What are they all doing here?”
“They’re all messengers,” Gluckuk explained. “Messengers from all over Fantastica. All with the same message as ours. I’ve spoken with several of them. The same menace seems to have broken out everywhere.”
The night-hob gave vent to a long wheezing sigh.
“Do they know,” he asked, “what it is and where it comes from?”
“I’m afraid not. Nobody knows.”
“What about the Childlike Empress?”
“The Childlike Empress,” said the tiny in an undertone, “is ill, very ill. Maybe that’s the cause of this mysterious calamity that’s threatening all Fantastica. But so far none of the many doctors who’ve been conferring in the Magnolia Pavilion has discovered the nature of her illness or found a cure for it.”
“That,” said the night-hob breathlessly, “is—hoo hoo—terrible.”
“So it is,” said the tiny.
In view of the circumstances, Vooshvazool decided not to put in for an appointment.
Two days later Blubb, the will-o’-the-wisp, arrived. Of course, he had hopped in the wrong direction and made an enormous detour.
And finally—three days after that—Pyornkrachzark, the rock chewer, appeared.
He came plodding along on foot, for in a sudden frenzy of hunger he had eaten his stone bicycle.
During the long waiting period, the four so unalike messengers became good friends. From then on they stayed together.
But that’s another story and shall be told another time.
ecause of their special importance, deliberations concerning the welfare of all Fantastica were held in the great throne room of the palace, which was situated only a few floors below the Magnolia Pavilion.
The large circular room was filled with muffled voices. The four hundred and ninety-nine best doctors in Fantastica had assembled there and were whispering or mumbling with one another in groups of varying sizes. Each one had examined the Childlike Empress—some more recently than others—and each had tried to help her with his skill. But none had succeeded, none knew the nature or cause of her illness, and none could think of a cure for it. Just then the five hundredth doctor, the most famous in all Fantastica, whose knowledge was said to embrace every existing medicinal herb, every magic philtre and secret of nature, was examining the patient. He had been with her for several hours, and all his assembled colleagues were eagerly awaiting the result of his examination.
Of course, this assembly was nothing like a human medical congress. To be sure, a good many of the inhabitants of Fantastica were more or less human in appearance, but at least as many resembled animals or were even farther from the human. The doctors inside the hall were just as varied as the crowd of messengers milling about outside.
There were dwarf doctors with white beards and humps, there were fairy doctoresses in shimmering silvery-blue robes and with glittering stars in their hair, there were water sprites with big round bellies and webbed hands and feet (sitz baths had been installed for them) . There were white snakes, who had coiled up on the long table at the center of the room; there were witches, vampires, and ghosts, none of whom are generally reputed to be especially benevolent or conducive to good health.
If you are to understand why these last were present, there is one thing you have to know:
The Childlike Empress—as her title indicates—was looked upon as the ruler over all the innumerable provinces of the Fantastican Empire, but in reality she was far more than a ruler; she was something entirely different.
She didn’t rule, she had never used force or made use of her power. She never issued commands and she never judged anyone. She never interfered with anyone and never had to defend herself against any assailant; for no one would have thought of rebelling against her or of harming her in any way. In her eyes all her subjects were equal.
She was simply there in a special way. She was the center of all life in Fantastica.
And every creature, whether good or bad, beautiful or ugly, merry or solemn, foolish or wise—all owed their existence to her existence. Without her, nothing could have lived, any more than a human body can live if it has lost its heart.
All knew this to be so, though no one fully understood her secret. Thus she was respected by all the creatures of the Empire, and her health was of equal concern to them all. For her death would have meant the end of them all, the end of the boundless Fantastican realm.
Bastian’s thoughts wandered.
Suddenly he remembered the long corridor in the hospital where his mother had been operated on. He and his father had sat waiting for hours outside the operating room. Doctors and nurses hurried this way and that. When his father asked about his wife, the answer was always evasive. No one really seemed to know how she was doing.
Finally a bald-headed man in a white smock had come out to them. He looked tired and sad. Much as he regretted it, he said, his efforts had been in vain. He had pressed their hands and mumbled something about “heartfelt sympathy.”
After that, everything had changed between Bastion and his father. Not outwardly. Bastion had everything he could have wished for. He had a three-speed bicycle, an electric train, plenty of vitamin pills, fifty-three books, a golden hamster, an aquarium with tropical fish in it, a small camera, six pocketknives, and so forth and so on. But none of all this really meant anything to him.
Bastian remembered that his father had often played with him in the past. He had even told him stories. No longer. He couldn’t talk to his father anymore. There was an invisible wall around his father, and no one could get through to him. He never found fault and he never praised. Even when Bastian was put back in school, his father hadn’t said anything. He had only looked at him in his sad, absent way, and Bastian felt that as far as his father was concerned he wasn’t there at all. That was how his father usually made him feel. When they sat in front of the television screen in the evening, Bastian saw that his father wasn’t even looking at it, that his thoughts were far away. Or when they both sat there with books, Bastian saw that his father wasn’t reading at all. He’d been looking at the same page for hours and had forgotten to turn it.
Bastian knew his father was sad. He himself had cried for many nights—sometimes he had been so shaken by sobs that he had to vomit—but little by little it had passed. And after all he was still there. Why didn’t his father ever speak to him, not about his mother, not about important things, but just for the feel of talking together?
“If only we knew,” said a tall, thin fire sprite, with a beard of red flames, “if only we knew what her illness is. There’s no fever, no swelling, no rash, no inflammation. She just seems to be fading away—no one knows why.”
As he spoke, little clouds of smoke came out of his mouth and formed figures.
This time they were question marks.
A bedraggled old raven, who looked like a potato with feathers stuck onto it every which way, answered in a croaking voice (he was a head cold and sore throat specialist):
“She doesn’t cough, she hasn’t got a cold. Medically speaking, it’s no disease at all.” He adjusted the big spectacles on his beak and a c
ast a challenging look around.
“One thing seems obvious,” buzzed a scarab (a beetle, sometimes known as a pill roller): “There is some mysterious connection between her illness and the terrible happenings these messengers from all Fantastica have been reporting.”
“Oh yes!” scoffed an ink goblin. “You see mysterious connections everywhere.”
“My dear colleague!” pleaded a hollow-cheeked ghost in a long white gown.
“Let’s not get personal. Such remarks are quite irrelevant. And please—lower your voices.”
Conversations of this kind were going on in every part of the throne room. It may seem strange that creatures of so many different kinds were able to communicate with one another. But nearly all the inhabitants of Fantastica, even the animals, knew at least two languages: their own, which they spoke only with members of their own species and which no outsider understood, and the universal language known as High Fantastican. All Fantasticans used it, though some in a rather peculiar way.
Suddenly all fell silent, for the great double door had opened. In stepped Cairon, the far-famed master of the healer’s art.
He was what in older times had been called a centaur. He had the body of a man from the waist up, and that of a horse from the waist down. And Cairon was furthermore a black centaur. He hailed from a remote region far to the south, and his human half was the color of ebony. Only his curly hair and beard were white, while the horselike half of him was striped like a zebra. He was wearing a strange hat plaited of reeds. A large golden amulet hung from a chain around his neck, and on this amulet one could make out two snakes, one light and one dark, which were biting each other’s tail and so forming an oval.
Everyone in Fantastica knew what the medallion meant. It was the badge of one acting on orders from the Childlike Empress, acting in her name as though she herself were present.
It was said to give the bearer mysterious powers, though no one knew exactly what these powers were. Everyone knew its name: AURYN.
But many, who feared to pronounce the name, called it the “Gem” or the “Glory”.