by Michael Ende
“Doesn’t Falkor ever sleep?” Bastian asked finally.
“He’s asleep now,” Atreyu replied.
“In the air?”
“Oh yes. He doesn’t like to stay in houses, even when they’re as big as Querquobad’s palace. He feels cramped. He’s just too big and he’s afraid of knocking things over. So he usually sleeps way up in the air.”
“Do you think he’d let me ride him sometime?”
“Of course he would,” said Atreyu. “Though it’s not so easy. You’ve got to get used to it.”
“I’ve already ridden Grograman,” said Bastian.
Atreyu nodded and looked at him with admiration.
“So you said during your contest with Hero Hynreck. How did you tame the Many-Colored Death?”
“I have AURYN,” said Bastian.
“Oh!” said Atreyu. He seemed surprised, but he said nothing more.
Bastian took the Childlike Empress’s emblem from under his shirt and showed it to Atreyu. Atreyu looked at it for a while. Then he muttered: “So now you are wearing the Gem.”
Thinking he detected a note of displeasure, Bastian hastened to ask: “Would you like to have it back?”
He started undoing the chain.
“No!”
Atreyu’s voice sounded almost harsh, and Bastian wondered what was wrong. Atreyu smiled apologetically and repeated gently: “No, Bastian, I haven’t worn it in a long while.”
“As you like,” said Bastian. Then he turned the amulet over. “Look,” he said. “Have you seen the inscription?”
“Yes,” said Atreyu. “I’ve seen it, but I don’t know what it says.”
“How come?”
“Greenskins can read tracks in the forest, but not letters.”
This time it was Bastian who said: “Oh!”
“What does it say?” Atreyu asked.
“ ‘DO WHAT YOU WISH,’ “ Bastian read.
Atreyu stared at the amulet.
“So that’s what it says.” His face revealed nothing, and Bastian couldn’t guess what he was thinking.
“If you had known,” he asked, “would it have changed anything for you?”
“No,” said Atreyu. “I did what I wanted to do.”
“That’s true,” said Bastian, and nodded.
Again they were both silent for a time.
“There’s something I have to ask you,” said Bastian finally. “You said I looked different from when you saw me in the Magic Mirror Gate.”
“Yes, entirely different.”
“In what way?”
“You were fat and pale and you were wearing different clothes.”
Bastian smiled. “Fat and pale?” he asked incredulously. “Are you sure it was me?”
“Wasn’t it?”
Bastian thought it over.
“You saw me. I know that. But I’ve always been the way I am now.”
“Really and truly?”
“I should know. Shouldn’t I?” Bastian cried.
“Yes,” said Atreyu, looking at him thoughtfully. “YOU should know.”
“Maybe it was a deforming mirror.”
Atreyu shook his head.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then how do you explain your seeing me that way?”
“I don’t know,” Atreyu admitted. “I only know that I wasn’t mistaken.”
After that they were silent for a long while, and at length they went to sleep.
As Bastian lay in his bed, the head and foot of which were made of the finest silver filigree, his conversation with Atreyu ran through his head. Somehow it seemed to him that Atreyu was less impressed by his victory over Hero Hynreck and even by his stay with Grograman since he heard that he, Bastian, was wearing the Gem. And true enough, he thought, maybe his feats didn’t amount to much, considering that he had the amulet to protect him. But he wanted to win Atreyu’s wholehearted admiration.
He thought and thought. There had to be something that no one in Fantastica could do, even with the amulet. Something of which only he, Bastian, was capable.
At last it came to him: making up stories.
Time and time again he had heard it said that no one in Fantastica could create anything new. Even the voice of Uyulala had said something of the kind. And just that was his special gift. He would show Atreyu that he, Bastian, was a great storyteller.
He resolved to prove himself to his friend at the first opportunity. Maybe the very next day. For instance, there might be a storytelling contest, and he would put all others in the shade with his inventions!
Or better still: suppose all the stories he told should come true! Hadn’t Grograman said that Fantastica was the land of stories and that even something long past could be born again if it occurred in a story.
Atreyu would be amazed!
And while picturing Atreyu’s amazement, Bastian fell asleep.
The next morning, as they were enjoying a copious breakfast in the banquet hall of the palace, Silver Sage Querquobad said: “We have decided to hold a very special sort of festival for the benefit of our guest, the Savior of Fantastica, and his friend, who brought him to us. Perhaps, Bastian Balthazar Bux, it is unknown to you that in keeping with an age-old tradition we Amarganthians have always been the ballad singers and storytellers of Fantastica. From an early age our children are instructed in these skills. When they grow to adulthood they journey from country to country for several years, practicing their art for the benefit of all. Everywhere they are welcomed with joy and respect. But we have one regret: Quite frankly, our stock of stories is small. And many of us must share this little. But word has gone round—whether true or not, I don’t know—that you, in your world, are famous for your stories. Is that the truth?”
“Yes,” said Bastian. “They even made fun of me for it.”
Silver Sage Querquobad raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
“Made fun of you for telling stories that no one had ever heard? How is that possible? None of us can make up new stories, and we, my fellow citizens and I, would all be infinitely grateful if you would give us a few. Will you help us with your genius?”
“With pleasure,” said Bastian.
After breakfast Bastian, Atreyu, and the Silver Sage went out to the steps of Querquobad’s palace, where Falkor was already waiting for them.
A large crowd had gathered, but on this occasion it included few of the outsiders who had come for the tournament and consisted largely of Amarganthians, men, women, and children, all comely and blue-eyed, and all clad in silver. Most were carrying stringed instruments, harps, lyres, guitars, or lutes, all of silver. For almost everyone there hoped to display his art in the presence of Bastian and Atreyu.
Again chairs had been put in place. Bastian sat in the middle between Querquobad and Atreyu, and Falkor stood behind them.
Querquobad clapped his hands. When the crowd fell silent, he announced: “The great storyteller is going to grant our wish and make us a present of some new stories. Therefore, friends, give us your best, to put him in the right mood.”
The Amarganthians all bowed low. Then the first stepped forward and began to recite. After him came another and still others. All had fine, resonant voices and told their stories well.
Some of their tales were exciting, others merry or sad, but it would take us too long to tell them here. In all, there were no more than a hundred different stories. Then they began to repeat themselves. Those who came last could only tell what their predecessors had told before them.
Bastian grew more and more agitated while waiting for his turn. His last night’s wish had been fulfilled to the letter, and he could hardly bear the excitement of waiting to see whether everything else would come true as well. He kept casting glances at Atreyu, but Atreyu’s face was impassive, showing no sign of what he might be thinking.
At length Querquobad bade his compatriots desist and turned to Bastian with a sigh: “I told you, Bastian Balthazar Bux, that our stock of tales was sm
all. It’s not our fault. Won’t you give us a few of yours?”
“I will give you all the stories I’ve ever told,” said Bastian, “For I can always think up new ones. I told many of them to a little girl named Kris Ta, but most I thought up only for myself. No one else has heard them. But it would take weeks and months to tell them all, and we can’t stay with you that long. So I’ve decided to tell you a story that contains all the others in it. It’s called ‘The Story of the Library of Amarganth,’ and it’s very short.” Then after a moment’s thought he plunged in:
“In the gray dawn of time, the city of Amarganth was ruled by a Silver Sagess named Quana. In those long-past days Moru, the Lake of Tears, hadn’t been made yet, nor was Amarganth built of the special silver that withstands the water of Moru. It was still like other cities with houses of stone and wood. And it lay in a valley among wooded hills.
“Quana had a son named Quin, who was a great hunter. One day in the forest Quin caught sight of a unicorn, which had a glittering stone at the end of its horn. He killed the beast and took the stone home with him. His crime (for it is a crime to kill unicorns) brought misfortune on the city. From then on fewer and fewer children were born to the inhabitants. If no remedy were found, the city would die out. But the unicorn couldn’t be brought back to life, and no one knew what to do.
“Quana, the Silver Sagess, sent a messenger to consult Uyulala in the Southern Oracle. But the Southern Oracle was far away. The messenger was young when he started out, but old by the time he got back. Quana had long been dead and her son Quin had taken her place. He too, of course, was very old, as were all the other inhabitants. There were only two children left, a boy and a girl. His name was Aquil, hers was Muqua.
“The messenger reported what Uyulala’s voice had revealed. The only way of preserving Amarganth was to make it the most beautiful city in all Fantastica. That alone would make amends for Quin’s crime. But to do so the Amarganthians would need the help of the Acharis, who are the ugliest beings in Fantastica. Because they are so ugly they weep uninterruptedly, and for that reason they are also known as the Weepers. Their stream of tears wash the special silver deep down in the earth, and from it they make the most wonderful filigree.
“All the Amarganthians went looking for the Acharis, but were unable to find them, for they live deep down in the earth. At length only Aquil and Muqua were left. They had grown up and all the others had died. Together they managed to find the Acharis and persuade them to make Amarganth the most beautiful city in Fantastica.
“First the Acharis built a small filigree palace, set it on a silver barge, and moved it to the marketplace of the dead city. Then they made their streams of underground tears well up in the valley among the wooded hills. The bitter water filled the valley and became Moru, the Lake of Tears. On it the first silver palace floated, and in the palace dwelt Aquil and Muqua.
“But the Acharis had granted the plea of Aquil and Muqua on one condition, namely, that they and all their descendants should devote their lives to ballad singing and storytelling. As long as they did so, the Acharis would help them, because then their ugliness would help to create beauty.
“So Aquil and Muqua founded a library—the famous library of Amarganth—in which they stored up all my stories. They began with the one you have just heard, but little by little they added all those I have ever told, and in the end there were so many stories that their numerous descendants, who now inhabit the Silver City, will never come to the end of them.
“If Amarganth, the most beautiful city in Fantastica, is still in existence today, it is because the Acharis and the Amarganthians kept their promise to each other—though today the Amarganthians have quite forgotten the Acharis and the Acharis have quite forgotten the Amarganthians. Only the name of Moru, the Lake of Tears, recalls that episode from the gray dawn of history.”
When Bastian had finished, Silver Sage Querquobad rose slowly from his chair.
“Bastian Balthazar Bux,” he said, smiling blissfully. “You have given us more than a story and more than all the stories in the world. You have given us our own history. Now we know where Moru and the silver ships and palaces on it came from. Now we know why we have always, from the earliest times, been a people of ballad singers and storytellers. And best of all, we know what is in that great round building in the middle of the city, which none of us, since the founding of Amarganth, has ever entered, because it has always been locked. It contains our greatest treasure and we never knew it. It contains the library of Amarganth.”
Bastian himself could hardly believe it. Everything in his story had become reality (or had it always been? Grograman would probably have said: both!). In any event he was eager to see all this with his own eyes.
“Where is this building?” he asked.
“I will show you,” said Querquobad, and turning to the crowd, he cried: “Come along, all of you! Perhaps we shall be favored with more wonders.”
A long procession, headed by the Silver Sage, Bastian, and Atreyu, moved over the gangplanks connecting the silver ships with one another and finally stopped outside a large building which rested on a circular ship and was shaped like a huge silver box. The outside walls were smooth, without ornaments or windows. It had only one large door, and that door was locked.
In the center of the smooth silver door there was a stone set in a kind of ring. It looked like a piece of common glass. Over it the following inscription could be read:
Removed from the unicorn’s horn, I lost my light.
I shall keep the door locked until my light
is rekindled by him who calls me by name.
For him I will shine a hundred years.
I will guide him in the dark depths
of Yor’s Minroud.
But if he says my name a second time
from the end to the beginning,
I will glow in one moment
with the light of a hundred years.
“None of us can interpret this inscription,” said Querquobad. “None of us knows what the words ‘Yor’s Minroud’ mean. None of us to this day has ever discovered the stone’s name, though we have all tried time and again. For we can only use names that already exist in Fantastica. And since these are all names of other things, none of us has made the stone glow or opened the door. Can you find the name, Bastian Balthazar Bux?”
A deep, expectant silence fell on the Amarganthians and non-Amarganthians
alike.
“Al Tsahir!” cried Bastian.
In that moment the stone glowed bright and jumped straight from its setting into Bastian’s hand. The door opened.
A gasp of amazement arose from a thousand throats.
Holding the glowing stone in his hand, Bastian entered the building, followed by Querquobad and Atreyu. The crowd surged in behind them.
It was dark in the large circular room and Bastian held the stone high. Though brighter than a candle, it was not enough to light the whole room but showed only that the walls were lined with tier upon tier of books.
Attendants appeared with lamps. In the bright light it could be seen that the walls of books were divided into sections, bearing signs such as “Funny Stories,” “Serious Stories,” “Exciting Stories,” and so on.
In the center of the circular room, the floor was inlaid with an inscription so large that no one could fail to see it:
LIBRARY
OF THE COLLECTED WORKS
OF BASTIAN BALTHAZAR BUX
Atreyu looked around in amazement. Bastian saw to his delight that his friend was overcome with admiration.
“Is it true,” asked Atreyu, pointing at the silver shelves all around, “that you made up all those stories?”
“Yes,” said Bastian, slipping Al Tsahir into his pocket.
Atreyu could only stand and gape.
“I just can’t understand it,” he said.
The Amarganthians had flung themselves on the books and were leafing through them or reading to one a
nother. Some sat down on the floor and began to learn passages by heart.
News of the great event spread through the whole city like wildfire.
As Bastian and Atreyu were leaving the library, they ran into Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn.
“Sir Bastian,” said the red-haired Hysbald, evidently the deftest of the three not only with the sword but with his tongue as well, “we have heard about your incomparable gifts, and humbly pray you: Take us into your service and let us accompany you on your further travels. Each one of us longs to acquire a story of his own. And though you surely have no need of our protection, you may derive some advantage from the service of three such able and willing knights. Will you have us?”
“Gladly,” said Bastian. “Anyone would be proud of such companions.”
The three knights wished to swear fealty by Bastian’s sword, but he held them back.
“Sikanda,” he explained, “is a magic sword. No one can touch it without mortal peril, unless he has eaten, drunk, and bathed in the fire of the Many-Colored Death.”
So they had to content themselves with a friendly handshake.
“What has become of Hero Hynreck?” Bastian asked.
“He’s a broken man,” said Hykrion.
“Because of his lady,” Hydorn added.
“Perhaps you can do something to help him,” said Hysbald.
All five of them went to the inn where they had stopped on their arrival in Amarganth and where Bastian had brought Yikka to the stable.
When they entered, one man was sitting there, bent over the table, his hands buried in his fair hair. The man was Hynreck.
Evidently he had had a change of armor in his luggage, for the outfit he was now wearing was rather simpler than the one that had been cut to pieces the day before.
In response to Bastian’s greeting, he merely stared. His eyes were rimmed with red.
When Bastian asked leave to sit down with him, he shrugged his shoulders, nodded, and sank back in his chair. Before him on the table was a sheet of paper, which looked as if it had been many times crumpled and smoothed out again.