by Michael Ende
That same night Atreyu rode to the foot of the Silver Mountains. It was almost morning when he finally stopped to rest. Artax grazed a while and drank water from a small mountain stream. Atreyu wrapped himself in his red cloak and slept a few hours.
But when the sun rose, they were already on their way.
On the first day they crossed the Silver Mountains, where every road and trail was known to them, and they made quick progress. When he felt hungry, the boy ate a chunk of dried buffalo meat and two little grass-seed cakes that he had been carrying in his saddlebag—originally they had been intended for his hunt.
“Exactly,” said Bastian. “A man has to eat now and then.”
He took his sandwich out of his satchel, unwrapped it, broke it carefully in two pieces, wrapped one of them up again and put it away. Then he ate the other.
Recess was over. Bastian wondered what his class would be doing next. Oh yes, geography, with Mrs. Flint. You had to reel off rivers and their tributaries, cities, population figures, natural resources, and industries. Bastian shrugged his shoulders and went on reading.
By sunset the Silver Mountains lay behind them, and again they stopped to rest.
That night Atreyu dreamed of purple buffaloes. He saw them in the distance, roaming over the Grassy Ocean, and he tried to get near them on his horse. In vain. He galloped, he spurred his horse, but they were always the same distance away.
The second day they passed through the Singing Tree Country. Each tree had a different shape, different leaves, different bark, but all of them in growing—and this was what gave the country its name—made soft music that sounded from far and near and joined in a mighty harmony that hadn’t its like for beauty in all Fantastica. Riding through this country wasn’t entirely devoid of danger, for many a traveler had stopped still as though spellbound and forgotten everything else. Atreyu felt the power of these marvelous sounds, but didn’t let himself be tempted to stop.
The following night he dreamed again of purple buffaloes. This time he was on foot, and a great herd of them was passing. But they were beyond the range of his bow, and when he tried to come closer, his feet clung to the ground and he couldn’t move them.
His frantic efforts to tear them loose woke him up. He started out at once, though the sun had not yet risen.
The third day, he saw the Glass Tower of Eribo, where the inhabitants of the region caught and stored starlight. Out of the starlight they made wonderfully decorative objects, the purpose of which, however, was known to no one in all Fantastica but their makers.
He met some of these folk; little creatures they were, who seemed to have been blown from glass. They were extremely friendly and provided him with food and drink, but when he asked them who might know something about the Childlike Empress’s illness, they sank into a gloomy, perplexed silence.
The next night Atreyu dreamed again that the herd of purple buffaloes was passing. One of the beasts, a particularly large, imposing bull, broke away from his fellows and slowly, with no sign of either fear or anger, approached Atreyu. Like all true hunters, Atreyu knew every creature’s vulnerable spot, where an arrow wound would be fatal. The purple buffalo put himself in such a position as to offer a perfect target. Atreyu fitted an arrow to his bow and pulled with all his might. But he couldn’t shoot. His fingers seemed to have grown into the bowstring, and he couldn’t release it.
Each of the following nights he dreamed something of the sort. He got closer and closer to the same purple buffalo—he recognized him by a white spot on his forehead—but for some reason he was never able to shoot the deadly arrow.
During the days he rode farther and farther, without knowing where he was going or finding anyone to advise him. The golden amulet he wore was respected by all who met him, but none had an answer to his question.
One day he saw from afar the flaming streets of Salamander, the city whose inhabitants’ bodies are of fire, but he preferred to keep away from it. He crossed the broad plateau of the Sassafranians, who are born old and die when they become babies. He came to the jungle temple of Muwamath, where a great moonstone pillar hovers in midair, and he spoke to the monks who lived there. And again no one could tell him anything.
He had been traveling aimlessly for almost a week, when on the seventh day and the following night two very different encounters changed his situation and state of mind.
Cairon’s story of the terrible happenings in all parts of Fantastica had made an impression on him, but thus far the disaster was something he had only heard about. On the seventh day he was to see it with his own eyes.
Toward noon, he was riding through a dense dark forest of enormous gnarled trees. This was the same Howling Forest where the four messengers had met some time before. That region, as Atreyu knew, was the home of bark trolls. These, as he had been told, were giants and giantesses, who themselves looked like gnarled tree trunks. As long as they stood motionless, as they usually did, you could easily mistake them for trees and ride on unsuspecting. Only when they moved could you see that they had branchlike arms and crooked, rootlike legs. Though exceedingly powerful, they were not dangerous—at most they liked to play tricks on travelers who had lost their way.
Atreyu had just discovered a woodland meadow with a brook twining through it, and had dismounted to let Artax drink and graze. Suddenly he heard a loud crackling and thudding in the woods behind him.
Three bark trolls emerged from the woods and came toward him. A cold shiver ran down his spine at the sight of them. The first, having no legs or haunches, was obliged to walk on his hands. The second had a hole in his chest, so big you could see through it. The third hopped on his right foot, because the whole left half of him was missing, as if he had been cut through the middle.
When they saw the amulet hanging from Atreyu’s neck, they nodded to one another and came slowly closer.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the one who was walking on his hands, and his voice sounded like the groaning of a tree. “We’re not exactly pretty to look at, but in this part of Howling Forest there’s no one else left who might warn you. That’s why we’ve come.”
“Warn?” Atreyu asked. “Against what?”
“We’ve heard about you,” moaned the one with the hole in his chest. “And we’ve been told about your Quest. Don’t go any further in this direction, or you’ll be lost.”
“The same thing will happen to you as happened to us,” sighed the halved one.
“Would you like that?”
“What has happened to you?” Atreyu asked.
“The Nothing is spreading,” groaned the first. “It’s growing and growing, there’s more of it every day, if it’s possible to speak of more nothing. All the others fled from Howling Forest in time, but we didn’t want to leave our home. The Nothing caught us in our sleep and this is what it did to us.”
“Is it very painful?” Atreyu asked.
“No,” said the second bark troll, the one with the hole in his chest. “You don’t feel a thing. There’s just something missing. And once it gets hold of you, something more is missing every day. Soon there won’t be anything left of us.”
“In what part of the woods did it begin?” Atreyu asked.
“Would you like to see it?” The third troll, who was only half a troll, turned to his fellow sufferers with a questioning look. When they nodded, he said: “We’ll take you to a place where there’s a good view of it. But you must promise not to go any closer. If you do, it will pull you in.”
“All right,” said Atreyu. “I promise.”
The three turned about and made for the edge of the forest. Leading Artax by the bridle, Atreyu followed them. For a while they went this way and that way between enormous trees, then finally they stopped at the foot of a giant tree so big that five grown men holding hands could scarcely have girdled it.
“Climb as high as you can,” said the legless troll, “and look in the direction of the sunrise. Then you’ll see—or rather not see it.”
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Atreyu pulled himself up by the knots and bumps on the tree. He reached the lower branches, hoisted himself to the next, climbed and climbed until he lost sight of the ground below him. Higher and higher he went; the trunk grew thinner and the more closely spaced side branches made it easier to climb. When at last he reached the crown, he turned toward the sunrise. And then he saw it:
The tops of the trees nearest him were still green, but the leaves of those farther away seemed to have lost all color; they were gray. A little farther on, the foliage seemed to become strangely transparent, misty, or, better still, unreal. And farther still there was nothing, absolutely nothing. Not a bare stretch, not darkness, not some lighter color; no, it was something the eyes could not bear, something that made you feel you had gone blind.
For no eye can bear the sight of utter nothingness. Atreyu held his hand before his face and nearly fell off his branch. He clung tight for a moment, then climbed down as fast as he could. He had seen enough. At last he really understood the horror that was spreading through Fantastica.
When he reached the foot of the great tree, the three bark trolls had vanished.
Atreyu swung himself into the saddle and galloped as fast as Artax would carry him in the direction that would take him away from this slowly but irresistibly spreading Nothing. By nightfall he had left Howling Forest far behind him; only then did he stop to rest.
That night a second encounter, which was to give his Great Quest a new direction, awaited him.
He dreamed—much more distinctly than before—of the purple buffalo he had wanted to kill. This time Atreyu was without his bow and arrow. He felt very, very small and the buffalo’s face filled the whole sky. And the face spoke to him. He couldn’t understand every word, but this is the gist of what it said:
“If you had killed me, you would be a hunter now. But because you let me live, I can help you, Atreyu. Listen to me! There is, in Fantastica, a being older than all other beings. In the north, far, far from here, lie the Swamps of Sadness. In the middle of those swamps there is a mountain, Tortoise Shell Mountain it’s called. There lives Morla the Aged One. Go and see Morla the Aged One.”
Then Atreyu woke up.
The clock in the belfry struck twelve. Soon Bastian’s classmates would be going down to the gym for their last class. Today they’d probably be playing with the big, heavy medicine ball which Bastian handled so awkwardly that neither of the two teams ever wanted him. And sometimes they played with a small hard rubber ball that hurt terribly when it hit you. Bastian was an easy mark and was always getting hit full force. Or perhaps they’d be climbing rope—an exercise that Bastian especially detested. Most of the others would be all the way to the top while he, with his face as red as a beet, would be dangling like a sack of flour at the very bottom of the rope, unable to climb as much as a foot. They’d all be laughing their heads off. And Mr. Menge, the gym teacher, had a special stock of gibes just for Bastian.
Bastian would have given a good deal to be like Atreyu. He’d have shown them.
He heaved a deep sigh.
Atreyu rode northward, ever northward. He allowed himself and his little horse only the most necessary stops for sleep and food. He rode by day and he rode by night, in the scorching sun and the pelting rain. He looked neither to the left nor the right and asked no more questions.
The farther northward he went, the darker it grew. An unchanging, leaden-gray twilight filled the days. At night the northern lights played across the sky.
One morning, when time seemed to be standing still in the murky light, he looked out from a hilltop and finally glimpsed the Swamps of Sadness. Clouds of mist drifted over them. Here and there he distinguished little clumps of trees. Their trunks divided at the bottom into four, five, or more crooked stilts, which made the trees look like great many-legged crabs standing in the black water. From the brown foliage hung aerial roots resembling motionless tentacles. It was next to impossible to make out where there was solid ground between the pools of water and where there was only a covering of water plants.
Artax whinnied with horror.
“Are we going in there, master?”
“Yes,” said Atreyu. “We must find Tortoise Shell Mountain. It’s at the center of those swamps.”
He urged Artax on and Artax obeyed. Step by step, he tested the firmness of the ground, but that made progress very slow. At length Atreyu dismounted and led Artax by the bridle. Several times the horse sank in, but managed to pull himself loose. But the farther they went into the Swamps of Sadness, the more sluggish became his movements.
He let his head droop and barely dragged himself forward.
“Artax,” said Atreyu. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, master. I think we should turn back. There’s no sense in all this. We’re chasing after something you only dreamed about. We won’t find anything. Maybe it’s too late even now. Maybe the Childlike Empress is already dead, and everything we’re doing is useless. Let us turn back, master.”
Atreyu was astonished. “Artax,” he said. “You’ve never spoken like this. What’s the matter? Are you sick?”
“Maybe I am,” said Artax. “With every step we take, the sadness grows in my heart. I’ve lost hope, master. And I feel so heavy, so heavy. I can’t go on!”
“But we must go on!” cried Atreyu. “Come along, Artax!”
He tugged at the bridle, but Artax stood still. He had sunk in up to his belly. And he made no further effort to extricate himself.
“Artax!” cried Atreyu. “You mustn’t let yourself go. Come. Pull yourself out or you’ll sink.”
“Leave me, master,” said the little horse. “I can’t make it. Go on alone. Don’t bother about me. I can’t stand the sadness anymore. I want to die!”
Desperately Atreyu pulled at the bridle, but the horse sank deeper and deeper.
When only his head emerged from the black water, Atreyu took it in his arms.
“I’ll hold you, Artax,” he whispered. “I won’t let you go under.”
The little horse uttered one last soft neigh.
“You can’t help me, master. It’s all over for me. Neither of us knew what we were getting into. Now we know why they are called the Swamps of Sadness. It’s the sadness that has made me so heavy. That’s why I’m sinking. There’s no help.”
“But I’m here, too,” said Atreyu, “and I don’t feel anything.”
“You’re wearing the Gem, master,” said Artax. “It protects you.”
“Then I’ll hang it around your neck!” Atreyu cried. “Maybe it will protect you too.”
He started taking the chain off his neck.
“No,” the little horse whinnied. “You mustn’t do that, master. The Glory was entrusted to you, you weren’t given permission to pass it on as you see fit. You must carry on the Quest without me.”
Atreyu pressed his face into the horse’s cheek. “Artax,” he whispered. “Oh, my Artax!”
“Will you grant my last wish?” the little horse asked.
Atreyu nodded in silence.
“Then I beg you to go away. I don’t want you to see my end. Will you do me that favor?”
Slowly Atreyu arose. Half the horse’s head was already in the black water.
“Farewell, Atreyu, my master!” he said. “And thank you.”
Atreyu pressed his lips together. He couldn’t speak. Once again he nodded to Artax, then he turned away.
Bastion was sobbing. He couldn’t help it. His eyes filled with tears and he couldn’t go on reading. He had to take out his handkerchief and blow his nose before he could go on.
Atreyu waded and waded. For how long he didn’t know. The mist grew thicker and he felt as if he were blind and deaf. It seemed to him that he had been wandering around in circles for hours. He stopped worrying about where to set his foot down, and yet he never sank in above his knees. By some mysterious means, the Childlike Empress’s amulet led him the right way.
Then sudd
enly he saw a high, steep mountain ahead of him. Pulling himself up from crag to crag, he climbed to the rounded top. At first he didn’t notice what this mountain was made of. But from the top he overlooked the whole mountain, and then he saw that it consisted of great slabs of tortoise shell, with moss growing in the crevices between them.
He had found Tortoise Shell Mountain.
But the discovery gave him no pleasure. Now that his faithful little horse was gone, it left him almost indifferent. Still, he would have to find out who this Morla the Aged One was, and where she actually lived.
While he was mulling it over, he felt a slight tremor shaking the mountain. Then he heard a hideous wheezing and lip-smacking, and a voice that seemed to issue from the innermost bowels of the earth: “Sakes alive, old woman, somebody’s crawling around on us.”
In hurrying to the end of the ridge, where the sounds had come from, Atreyu had slipped on a bed of moss. Since there was nothing for him to hold on to, he slid faster and faster and finally fell off the mountain. Luckily he landed on a tree, which caught him in its branches.
Looking back at the mountain, he saw an enormous cave. Water was splashing and gushing inside, and something was moving. Slowly the something came out. It looked like a boulder as big as a house. When it came into full sight, Atreyu saw that it was a head attached to a long wrinkled neck, the head of a turtle. Its eyes were black and as big as ponds. The mouth was dripping with muck and water weeds. This whole Tortoise Shell Mountain—it suddenly dawned on Atreyu—was one enormous beast, a giant swamp turtle; Morla the Aged One.
The wheezing, gurgling voice spoke again: “What are you doing here, son?”
Atreyu reached for the amulet on his chest and held it in such a way that the great eyes couldn’t help seeing it.
“Do you recognize this, Morla?”
She took a while to answer: “Sakes alive! AURYN. We haven’t seen that in a long time, have we, old woman? The emblem of the Childlike Empress—not in a long time.”
“The Childlike Empress is sick,” said Atreyu. “Did you know that?”