It was a gray, cold, rainy November morning. The rain coursed down window fronts, on the front window of one shop in particular. Raindrops ran in tight little rivers over the ornate letters that spelled out "Carl Conrad Coreander: Old Books." The street was fairly quiet. From inside the shop, the lights glowed softly, accompanied by the falling rain and the slow turning of pages.
Suddenly, the door was opened with so much force that the little cluster of brass bells that hung near the top tinkled wildly, and took quite some time to quiet. The cause of such a racket was a rather chubby little girl of about ten or twelve. Her dark, bluish black shoulder length hair hung wetly over her face, the purple ribbons tied in random places could hardly be called vibrant, the color dulled, the bows falling haphazardly. She wore no coat. Her school uniform, drenched, clung tightly to her overweight form, the light blue coloring of it only added to the stark paleness of her skin. She was out of breath, but despite the desperate hurry she had been in just moments before, stood rooted to the spot in the open doorway.
Before her was a long narrow room, half of which was lost to the eye for lack of better lighting. Every wall was lined with books of all shapes and sizes. Folios were piled high on the floor, while every table carried heaps of small leather bound books, their spines glittering with gold. From time to time, a small curl of smoke would rise up into the lamplight, expanding slightly before vanishing once again into the darkness. Apparently someone was sitting there, and, sure enough, the little girl heard a rather ornery voice from behind the wall of books.
"Do your wondering inside or outside, but shut the door. There's a draft."
The girl quickly obeyed, shutting the door rather harshly behind her. She winced at the bang, but there was no response from the voice. She gulped softly and cautiously approached the wall of books and peeked around the corner, her hair forming a wet curtain around her wide brown eyes. Those eyes set upon a high worn leather wing chair which held a rather short, balding man in a rumpled black suit. His head hardly retained any hair than that which grew around his ears. His red face was rather pinched and sour looking. A pair of gold rimmed spectacles was perched upon his nose. The smoke came from a long curved pipe, which dangled from the corner of his mouth, pulling one cheek out of shape. On his lap, a book he evidently had been reading, for when closing it, he kept a forefinger of his left hand within the pages, like a bookmark.
With his right hand, he tilted his spectacles down to the very tip of his nose, angling his head downward to examine the young dripping girl. Narrowing his eyes, the man frowned and muttered something that sounded like 'good gracious' to the ears of the girl. He then pushed his spectacles back their original perch with precise motions and followed this by opening his book and continuing to read.
The girl furrowed her brow, and came fully around the bookcase. Now not knowing what to do, she just stood their gaping. With a gruff sigh, the old man looked up while closing the book on his placed forefinger again.
"Listen girl," he began gruffly, "I can't abide children, especially little girls." The girl's gaping resolved into a small frown. "I know its style nowadays to make a terrible fuss over you, but I simply have no use for children. As far as I'm concerned, they're no good for anything but screaming, torturing people, breaking things, smearing books with jam, and tearing the pages." The girl's fingers clenched tightly around the handle of the small book bag that she carried. "It never dawns on them that grown-ups may also have their troubles and cares. I'm only telling you this so you'll know where you're at. Anyway, I have no children's books and I wouldn't sell you the other kind. So now we understand each other, I hope!"
After saying all of this without removing his pipe, the man opened his book again and went on reading.
The girl, having been taught not to talk back to grown-ups, nodded and turned to go. But something deep inside her halted her in her spot. There was no way she could take those remarks laying down, grown-up or not. She turned slightly and said softly: "All children aren't like that."
Slowly, the man looked up and this time removed his spectacles. "Oh, you're still here? And what was that you were trying to say?"
"Just that. . . well, all children aren't the way you say."
"Oh I see. Then you must be that great exception, yes?"
The chubby girl was at a loss for words. She shrugged, her eyes towards the ground, and turned to go.
"And where are your manners?" The gruff voice continued behind her. "You could have at least introduced yourself."
"My name is Akane. . . Akane Tendo."
"Tendo. . . Tendo. . . where do I know that name. . . Ah yes, the Tendo Dojo. And the Art your school promotes? Anything Goes? Rather brash and uncultured if you ask me, but then again, I suppose it's not your fault. Ah well, my name is Carl Conrad Caoreander."
"You're English." Akane's eyes rose heavenward. "Ah well, I suppose it's not really your fault."
"So the kitten has claws after all." A wry smile stuck oddly upon his rough face. Akane immediately blushed and looked down. "Oh well, no matter. But before you leave, there's just one thing I'd like to know: What made you come bursting into my shop like that? It looked to me as if you were running away from something. Am I correct?"
Akane nodded. Suddenly her face grew paler, her eyes slowly filling with tears.
"I suppose you stole something. . . knocked an old woman down. The police after you, girl?"
Akane frowned slightly and violently shook her head.
"No police eh? Then who? Speak up girl? Who are you running from?"
"The others."
"What others?"
"The other children. . . the Kunos. . . they won't leave me alone."
"What do they do to you?"
"They wait for me outside the gate. . . shout things, push me, laugh at me. . . "
"So why don't you do something about it? Miss Anything Goes?"
If it were even possible, the girl seemed to curl even further into herself as she muttered an answer.
"What was that? I asked you a question. Why don't you give those others a good punch or two?"
"I. . . I can't!"
"Why can't you?"
"Father won't. . . won't teach me. And. . . I'm too clumsy. . . and. . . f-fat."
"In other words," said Mr. Coreander, "you're a weakling."
Akane shrugged her shoulders.
"But you obviously have no problems speaking," said Mr. Coreander. "Why don't you just talk back to them when they make fun of you?"
"I tried that, but. . . "
"But?"
"They. . . they threw me in the canal. . . "
"So? Better than being thrown in the trash."
The girls face turned a deep red. "I can't' swim."
"Ah, so now you don't dare talk back. In that case, I suppose you're a scaredy-cat too"
Akane hung her head.
"But you must be good at something. . . teacher's pet, right?"
"No," said Akane, still looking down. "The teacher told my father that I'm very close to getting left back."
"Goodness!" cried Mr. Coreander. "You really are a failure."
Akane said nothing, she just stood there, her uniform still dripping water onto the floor.
"What kind of things do they say when they make fun of you?" Mr. Coreander wanted to know.
"Oh, all kinds."
"Such as?"
"Foul demon, nitwit, scoundrel, liar. . . "
"Foul demon? That's rather inventive. What makes them call you that?"
"I talk to myself sometimes."
"What kind of things do you say?"
"I think up stories. . . invent names and words that don't exist."
"And why do you say these things to yourself?"
"Well, nobody else would be interested."
Mr. Coreander dropped into a thoughtful silence.
"What do your parents say about this?"
Akane didn't answer right away. After a while she mumbled: "Father doesn't say anything, he just cries. . . he doesn't like to believe that his daughter's a loser."
"And your mother?"
"Gone."
"A divorce?"
"No. . s-she's dead."
At that moment, the telephone in the back rang. With some slight difficulty, Mr. Coreander
pulled himself from out of his chair and moved into the room behind the shop. Akane could barely make out the conversation once he picked up the phone.
Akane stood there. She didn't know quite why she had told the old man all of those things. She hated to be questioned by anyone. She suddenly broke into a slight sweat when she realized that she was going to be late for school. She'd have to hurry. . . have to run. . . but for some reason, she just stood there. Something held her, but she knew not what.
She could still hear the muffled voice from the back room. It was a long telephone conversation.
It came to Akane's attention that she had been staring at the book that Mr. Coreander had been hiding. She couldn't take her eyes off it. It seemed to have some magnetic power that attracted her irresistibly.
She went over to the chair, slowly stretching out a fingertip, and touched the edge of the book. It was as if something clicked inside her, as if some sort of trap had just shut. She picked up the book to examine it from all sides. It was bound in copper-colored silk that shimmered when she moved it around. Sifting though the pages, she discovered that the book was printed in two colors. There were no real pictures, but large, beautifully detailed capital letters at the beginning of each chapter. Examining the binding more closely, she discovered two snakes on it, one light, one dark. There were biting each other's tail, forming a circle. And inside the circle, in strangely intricate letters, she saw the title:
The Neverending Story
Human passions have mysterious ways, in children as well as adults. Those affected by them, can't explain them. And those who haven't have no understanding of them at all. Some people risk their lives to reach the top of a mountain, to dive to the depths of the ocean. No one, not even themselves, can really explain why. Others destroy themselves to win the heart of a person who wants nothing to do with them. Some are so bent on winning that they sacrifice everything they have for a dream that would never come true. Some think that happiness always lies elsewhere, so they spend their whole lives traveling from place to place. And some people find no rest until they become powerful. In other words, there are as many different passions as there are books.
At the moment, Akane Tendo's passion, was books.
If you have never spent an afternoon with burning ears and rumpled hair, forgetting the world around you, forgetting cold and hunger-
If you have never read secretly at night by a flashlight because some authority figure has taken away your lamp on the grounds that it was time for bed-
If you have never found yourself weeping bitter tears because a story has come to an end, and you must leave the characters with whom you have shared so much with, whom you loved and admired, for whom you have hoped and feared, and without whose company life seems empty and meaningless-
If such things aren't apart of your own experience, you probably won't understand what Akane did next.
Staring at the title of the book, she felt hot and cold, cold and hot. Here was just what she had been dreaming of. A story. . .the never ended! The book of all books!
She had to have it. . . at any price. Which is easily said. Even if she had her whole life savings in her pocket, there was no reason for cranky Mr. Coreander to sell it to her. And he certainly wouldn't just give it to her. The situation seemed hopeless.
And yet, Akane new she could not step out of the shop without that book. It was clear to her that the reason she ran into this shop, was for this book. It had called to her, because it wanted to be hers, because it had somehow always belonged to her.
Akane continued to listen to the mumbling from the back room. Before she knew it, the book was in her school bag, which was now clutched with both arms. Without a sound, she backed up to the street door, anxiously watching the other door that led to the back room, for any movement. Slowly, she turned the door handle. To keep the bells from ringing, she pushed the door open just wide enough for her to slip though. Then she quietly shut it behind her.
Only then did she start running.
Her bag continually whapped against her leg, she had a stitch in her side, but she kept on running. The rain ran down her face, down her collar, down her blouse. The wind threw a steady frozen breeze against her, but Akane felt hot all over, and not from running.
Her conscience, which hadn't said a word in the bookshop, had suddenly woken up. Every argument that had made taking the book seem so convincing melted away like snow under the fiery breath of a dragon.
She had taken something without paying for it! She was a thief! A criminal!
And what she had done was far worse than petty theft. That book was definitely a one of a kind. It had to be Mr. Coreander's greatest treasure.
As she ran, she tucked the book in her arms, crouched tightly over it. Whatever the book might have cost her, she could not bear to lose it. It was all she had in the world. After all, she couldn't go home now.
She tried to imagine her father sitting on the porch of their home. Since that terrible day, he would sit, staring, rain or shine. Akane had never stopped to ask what he was thinking about. . .or why he did that, and it occurred to her now, for the first time that she would never be able to ask him.
If she went home now, her father wouldn't glance up, but would ask 'home already?' 'Yes,' Akane would answer. 'No school today?' And Akane saw her father's quiet, sad face, and knew she couldn't possibly lie to him. And of her sisters? They would never understand what would make her do such a thing. Kasumi would be horrified. And Nabiki, Nabiki would outright call her a thief. No, she couldn't go home. She couldn't lie to them, and there was no way she could tell them the truth. No, the only thing left was to go away somewhere, somewhere far, far away. Her family must never find out that their Akane was a thief. But then again, maybe they wouldn't even notice if she was there anymore. Akane found this thought rather comforting.
She had quit running about a block back. Walking slowly, she spied the gates of the middle school ahead. Without thinking, she had taken the usual route to school. The streets seemed deserted. Then again, to a schoolgirl arriving very, very late, the area around the school always seemed lifeless. As her steps lead her closer and closer to the front door of the imposing building, Akane felt the fear rise within her. This school was a place she had began to look at as a prison. A hell where other children never missed an opportunity to mock her for her clumsiness, for her many faults. As she reached for the door handle, she suddenly knew that this too, was no place for her. She had to get away. But where to?
Akane had read stories about boys who ran away to become pirates, who trained in far off places to return a hero, a legend. But Akane didn't really feel up to that sort of thing. Besides, where was she to find a ship to stow away on? How would she get to these far off places? She certainly had no intension of swimming to China.
So where could she go?
Suddenly she thought of the right place, the only place where---at least for the time being---no one would find her or even look for her.
The old shed in back of the school was old, paint chipped on every panel of wood, but the door was still solid enough. Inside, it smelled of dust and moth balls. Here and there, spider webs as big as hammocks swayed gently from the light breeze flowing from one of the high up windows. The door had been unlocked, but once inside, Akane clicked the latch into place to shield herself more fully from the outside world.
Little by little, her eyes got used to the scant light pouring through the windows. She knew this place. She had helped the gym teacher carry old, broken down equipment in here. She hadn't thought of it since then, but today, she remembered.
Akane began to shiver, her clothes were soaked through and it was cold in the shed. The first thing to do was find a place where she could make herself more or less comfortable, because she took it for granted that she'd have to stay here for a long time. How long? The question didn't occur to her, nor did it occur to her that she would soon be hungry and thirsty.
She looked around for a while. The shed was quite larger than it looked on the outside, but was crammed with junk of all sorts; old sports equipment, files and records, benches and ink-stained desks, a dozen or so maps hanging on an iron frame, blackboards that had lost a good deal of their black, faded theatre costumes, lots of soiled mats. There were also, surprisingly, quite a number of stuffed animals; a big owl, a golden eagle, a purple cat, and so on. A human skeleton hung on one of the costume rack in the corner. Akane finally decided to make her home on one of the old gym mats. When she stretched out on them, she found it was almost like lying on a futon. She dragged them to a place where the light was strongest. Not far away, she found a pile of green army blankets, there were dusty and ragged but that didn't matter now. She carried them to her new home and stripped down to her underclothing, hanging her wet clothes next to the skeleton. It jiggled and swayed, but Akane had no fear of it, it reminded her of the kind doctor down the street from them; one of the only ones with a welcome smile for her, and a rather fondness for a skinless girl named Betty. She removed her shoes and wet socks, and then squatted down on the mats, wrapping herself in the blankets. Beside her lay her school bag, and the book.
It passed through her mind that right now the rest of her class would be have English just about now. Maybe they'd be writing a paper on a deadly dull subject.
Akane looked at the book.
'I wonder,' she said to herself, 'what kind of story never ends? Is it an adventure? A mystery? A happy end—never-ending. . . Of course you have to read it to find out.'
A rare blooming smile appeared on her face.
She settled herself, picked up the book, opened it the first page and began to read
The Neverending Story