The Neverending Story (51 page)

In this last moment, when he no longer possessed any of the Fantastican gifts but had not yet recovered his memory of his own world and himself, he was in a state of utter uncertainty, not knowing which world he belonged to or whether he really existed.

But then he jumped into the crystal-clear water. He splashed and spluttered and let the sparkling rain fall into his mouth. He drank till his thirst was quenched. And joy filled him from head to foot, the joy of living and the joy of being himself. He was newborn. And the best part of it was that he was now the very person he wanted to be. If he had been free to choose, he would have chosen to be no one else. Because now he knew that there were thousands and thousands of forms of joy in the world, but that all were essentially one and the same, namely, the joy of being able to love.

And much later, long after Bastian had returned to his world, in his maturity and even in his old age, this joy never left him entirely. Even in the hardest moments of his life he preserved a lightheartedness that made him smile and that comforted others.

“Atreyu!” he cried out to his friend, who was standing with Falkor at the edge of the great golden bowl. “Come on in! Come and drink! It’s wonderful!”

Atreyu laughed and shook his head.

“No,” he called back. “This time we’re only here to keep you company.”

“This time?” Bastian asked. “What do you mean by that?”

Atreyu exchanged a glance with Falkor. Then he said: “Falkor and I have already been here. We didn’t recognize the place at first, because we were asleep when we were brought here and when we were taken away. But now we remember.”

Bastian came out of the water.

“Now I know who I am,” he said, beaming.

“Yes,” said Atreyu, and nodded. “And now I recognize you. Now you look the way you did when I saw you in the Magic Mirror Gate.”

Bastian looked up at the foaming, sparkling water.

“I’d like to bring my father some,” he shouted. “But how?”

“I don’t think you can do that,” said Atreyu. “It’s not possible to carry anything from Fantastica across the threshold.”

“For Bastian it is!” said Falkor, whose voice had resumed its full bronze resonance. “He can do it.”

“You really are a luckdragon,” said Bastian.

Falkor motioned him to be still while he listened to the roaring voice of the Water.

Then he said: “The Water says you must be on your way now and so must we.”

“Which is my way?” Bastian asked.

“Out through the other gate,” Falkor answered. “Where the white snake’s head is lying.”

“All right,” said Bastian. “But how will I get out? The white head isn’t moving.”

Indeed, the white snake’s head lay motionless. It held the black snake’s tail in its jaws and stared at Bastian out of its great eyes.

“The Water asks you,” Falkor translated, “whether you completed all the stories you began in Fantastica.”

“No,” said Bastian. “None of them really.”

Falkor listened awhile. His face took on a worried look.

“In that case, it says, the white snake won’t let you through. You must go back to Fantastica and finish them all.”

“All the stories?” Bastian stammered. “Then I’ll never be able to go back. Then it’s all been for nothing.”

Falkor listened eagerly.

“What does it say?” Bastian wanted to know.

“Hush!” said Falkor.

After a while he sighed arid said: “It says there’s no help for it unless someone promises to do it in your place. But no one can do that.”

“I can! I will!” said Atreyu.

Bastian looked at him in silence. Then he fell on his neck and stammered: “Atreyu! Atreyu! I’ll never forget this!”

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 morning 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.”