The Neverending Story (32 page)

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 small. 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 another. 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.

“Can you forgive me?” said Bastian.

Hero Hynreck shook his head.

“It’s all over for me,” he said mournfully. “Here. Read it.”

He pushed the note across the table, and Bastian read it.

“I want only the best. You have failed me. Farewell.”

“From Princess Oglamar?” Bastian asked.

Hero Hynreck nodded.

“Immediately after our contest, she mounted her palfrey and rode off to the ferry. God knows where she is now. I’ll never see her again.”

“Can’t we overtake her?”

“What for?”

“Maybe she’ll change her mind.”

Hero Hynreck gave a bitter laugh.

“You don’t know Princess Oglamar,” he said. “I trained more than ten years to acquire my different skills. With iron discipline I avoided everything that could have impaired my physique. I fenced with the greatest fencing masters and wrestled with the greatest wrestlers, until I could beat them all. I can run faster than a horse, jump higher than a deer. I am best at everything—or rather, I was until yesterday. At the start she wouldn’t honor me with a glance, but little by little my accomplishments aroused her interest. I had every reason to hope—and now I see it was all in vain. How can I live without hope?”

“Maybe,” Bastian suggested, “you should forget Princess Oglamar. There must be others you could love just as much.”

“No,” said Hero Hynreck. “I love Princess Oglamar just because she won’t be satisfied with any but the greatest.”

“I see,” said Bastian. “That makes it difficult. What could you do? Maybe you could take up a different trade. How about singing? Or poetry?”

Hynreck seemed rather annoyed. “No,” he said flatly. “I’m a hero and that’s that. I can’t change my profession and I don’t want to. I am what I am.”

“I see,” said Bastian.

All were silent for a time. The three knights cast sympathetic glances at Hero Hynreck. They understood his plight. Finally Hysbald cleared his throat and turned to Bastian.

“Sir Bastian,” he said. “I think you could help him.”

Bastian looked at Atreyu, but Atreyu had put on his impenetrable face.

“A hero like Hynreck,” said Hydorn, “is really to be pitied in a world without monsters. See what I mean?”

No, Bastian didn’t see. Not yet at any rate.

“Monsters,” said Hykrion, winking at Bastian and stroking his huge moustache, “monsters are indispensable if a hero is to be a hero.”