"Weren't you afraid you couldn't escape?"
"Yes!"
"And how did it affect you… were you scared for life?" Mr Coreander inquired.
"I was in the moment, but it's only a story."
"You see that's what I'm talking about, those are just stories. And those you have at home are safe, a chance to escape!"
"And so that about this one, isn't this safe, will I be safe?"
"No… I erm… I've said too much.' said Mr Coreander abruptly. 'Don't worry about it… Now come like I said let's see if we can find you a book!"
"But... but you just said it was..."
"I said forget about it… Bastian, this book is not for you… it's more than you could ever handle!' he sounded angry. 'And so what will it be, Oliver Twice…" Here he pulled down a book off the shelf, even though there was clearly no order or rhyme to the store, Mr Coreander seemed to know where the book was placed without even looking.
But still Bastian lingered for a second by the book.
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At that exact moment the telephone rang. With some difficulty Mr. Coreander pulled himself away, turning his head first to look in the direction of the phone, before walking away and shuffling off into a small room behind the shop.
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Bastian had heard him pick up the receiver and Mr Coreander speaking to whoever was on the other end, "Hello, Coreander's, how may I help."
There was an answer and further talking on the line, and indistinctly Bastian heard him saying his name. After that there was nothing to be heard, but the low mumbling of the owner as he spoke with the caller.
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Bastian looked around he saw a clock on the wall, it read 8:50 am; he suddenly realised he was already late for school. 'Oh great something else they'd call dad about.' he thought. He knew that he would have to hurry if he was going to get there, and knew that he would have to run. 'Ah, no doubt, Garret and his buddies will have gained a laugh or two out of this.'
But again as he looked away from the clock and back to the book, he just stood there, just finding himself unable to move. Something held him fast, he didn't know what, but he knew that he could leave, he knew above all else that he had to read this book.
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Bastian could still hear the muffled voice from the back room of Mr. Coriander, it was a long telephone conversation.
It came to Bastian that he had been staring the whole time at the book that Mr. Coreander had been holding and that was now lying on the armchair. He couldn't take his eyes off it. It seemed to have a kind of magnetic power that attracted him irresistibly.
He went over to the book and slowly held out his hand, to touch it. In that moment something inside him went click!, as though a trap had shut. Bastian had a vague feeling that touching the book had started something irrevocable, which would now take its course if he didn't take this book.
He picked up the book and examined it from all sides. It was bound in copper-coloured silk that shimmered when he moved it about. Leafing through the pages, he saw the book was printed in two colours. There seemed to be no pictures, but there were large, beautiful capital letters at the beginning of the chapters. Examining the binding more closely, he discovered two snakes on it, one light and one dark. They were biting each other's tail, so forming an oval. And inside the oval, in strangely intricate letters, he saw the title -
- The Neverending Story -
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Human passions have mysterious ways, in children as well as grown-ups. Those affected by them can't explain them, and those who haven't known them have no understanding of them at all. Some people risk their lives to conquer a mountain peak. No one, not even the individual themselves, can really explain their reasons why.
In short, there are as many different passions as there are people; and for Bastian Balthazar Bux, his passion happened to be above all else was books.
If you have never spent the whole afternoons with burning ears and rumpled hair, forgetting the world around you over a book, forgetting cold and hunger -
If you have never read secretly under the bedclothes with a flashlight, because your father or mother or some other well-meaning person has switched off the lamp on the plausible ground that it was time to sleep, because you had to get up so early -
If you have never wept bitter tears, because a wonderful story has come to an end and you must take your leave of the characters with whom you have shared so many adventures, whom you have loved and admired, for whom you have hoped and feared, and without whose company life seems empty and meaningless -
If you can come to understand such experiences, then you will probably come to understand what Bastian did next.
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Staring at the title of the book, he turned hot and cold, cold and hot. Here was just what he had dreamt of, what he had longed for ever since the passion for books had taken hold of him: A story that never ended! The book of all books!
He had to have this book and have it at any price, but Bastian had heard the owner's word - this book isn't for you - and knew that no matter how much money Bastian could muster it would never be enough for Mr Coreander to hand the book over. And he certainly wouldn't have just given it to him. The situation just seemed hopeless.
Yet all the same Bastian knew he couldn't leave without the book. It was clear to him that he had only come to the shop, because of this book. It had called him in some mysterious way, because the book himself needed him to read it to experience its world, its characters, its tale.
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Bastian listened again to see if Mr Coreander was still in the back room, he came to hear the mumbling from the little back room, and heard the words "Thank you for calling, you have a good say now… Goodbye!"
He knew time was running how he had to make a decision to leave with the book or miss out on the book. And in a twinkling, before he even knew what the right choice was, he had the book under his coat, and was hugging it with both arms he backed away.
Without a sound he tiptoed to the door, keeping an anxious eye on the other door, the one leading to the back room. Cautiously he turned the door handle. To keep the brass bells from ringing, he opened the glass door just wide enough for him to slip through, and he quietly closed the door behind him.
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Once out of the store and back on the streets, did he start running. The books, copybooks, pens and pencils in his rucksack jiggled and rattled inside to the rhythm of his speed.
By the time he had made it to the end of the road and across the crossing, Bastian had a hard pain in his side, 'A stitch!' he thought, but still he kept on running.
The cold wind blew around him, his nose and cheeks red, his lips turning blue, but he didn't feel any of the cold. Bastian felt hot all over, but it wasn't from the heat of running.
Then his consonants had awakened once again, all the argument to take the book had seemingly subsided under the fiery truth of -you should have left the book behind.- He looked down at where the book was held under his coat. 'I've stolen it… I am nothing but a thief!' he thought to himself.
To Bastian what he had done was worse than common theft, after all that book was certainly the only one of its kind and impossible to replace. It was surely Mr. Coreander's greatest treasure; this felt to Bastian as if he had stolen a violinist's precious violin or a king's crown, to him it wasn't the same as just filching money from a cash drawer or taking sweets from a sweet shop.
But there and then he knew he could have just turned around and walked back inside with a mere sorry to Mr. Coreander.
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Bastian as he continued on, passed a few people here and there, yet the street seemed deserted. He stopped at another crossing, he looked left and right, the book seemed to weigh more than it had even had, he couldn't even go home as he knew the trouble he'd be in and the punishment he would receive from his dad. Bastian never wanted to see the look of sadness and anger on his father's face after hearing he had a thief for a son.
He knew that he couldn't just walk into class either, the teacher would ask questions and that answers would lead him into more trouble and lies.
He was on the run, he knew he needed somewhere to hide, hide until it was safe to drop the book back to the rightful owner, but truly where could he go?
Bastian from within his books had come to read stories about boys who had ran away to sea and sailed out into the world to make their fortune. Some boys would strive to become brave heroes or to grow rich, so that when the day comes to return home years later no one could guess who they were or would be grateful of their valiant return.
However, Bastian knew that he wasn't up to that kind of life, nor was he truly convinced that he could persuade any great captain to allow him on board as a cabin boy.
So now the question was now, where could he go?
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Bastian looked around, he crossed the road and with the book held tight under his coat, he walked down the street, back on his usual route and reluctantly entered the school, as to him and any other kid this is the biggest prison he could find, the headmaster and his teachers the jailers and for some of the other children they were his fellow prisoners; with a jail sentence with no real nor true end in sight, and went to find somewhere to hide.
At every step that Bastian took through the school, his feeling of fear rose within him. He was extremely nervous and jumpy, looking back always over his shoulder at the slightest of sound or movement that seemed to ring through the echoing corridors.
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The school seemed different, bigger, colder, quieter. He tiptoed past his classroom, seeing his teacher looking out at the others. The door painted a limestone green. 'Our first class of the day… Mr Kentell… History.' Bastian thought. He continued on until he reached the attic door.
Bastian had come to know of this place, due to the fact that some months before, he had in fact helped the janitor to carry a laundry basket full of old copybooks up here. And he knew the key-locker to the attic door had been broken. He truly hadn't needed to think about it ever since, well until now that it's, as for today he thought that the attic was the best place to hide.
He took the key out of the always broken key-locker and opened the door that let out a loud squeak. For a moment, a long strip of light lit his way; Bastian slipped into the room, looking up at the stairs into the darkness. He then with the same squeak closed the door to behind him. With a shaky hand Bastian put the big key in the lock on his side and turned it, hearing the bolt move forward and lock into place.
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Bastian began to shiver, his coat being too thin and offering him very little protection for the true cold of the attic. 'The first thing to do,' he came to realise. 'is to find a place where I can be more or less comfortable.' After all, he took it for granted that he would no doubt need to stay here a very long time. How long, though he truly didn't know.
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The attic of the school was large and dark, it smelling of dust and mothballs.
A milky light fell from a skylight in the roof.
Great beams blackened with age rose at regular intervals from the plank floor, joined with other beams at head height, and lost themselves in the darkness. Here and there were spider webs as big as hammocks swayed gently in the air currents.
Not a sound to be heard, except for the muffled drumming of the school vast and old heating and plumbing systems.
The one living thing in this part of the school, where spiders, sleeping moths and a very curious little mouse or two, which Bastian happened to come and see one out of the corner of his eye hobbling across the floor, leaving tiny footprints in the dust, and between them a fine line, a tail-print. Suddenly it stopped and pricked up its ears. And then it vanished quickly into a hole in the floor, as it came to realise it wasn't alone.
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Alone too, Bastian let out a heavy sigh of relief. Now no one would ever come and look for him up here. The place was seldom used; he was pretty sure of that, and even if by chance someone had something to do in the attic, today or tomorrow, he would simply find the door locked. And the key would be gone. And even if they somehow got the door open, Bastian would have time to hide behind the junk that was stored here.
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Little by little, his eyes got used to the dim light. He looked around for a while. The place was crammed with junk of all kinds; there were shelves full of old files and records, benches and ink-stained desks were heaped up every which way, a dozen old maps were hanging on an iron frame, there were blackboards that had lost a good deal of their black, and cast-iron stoves, cracked retorts and other chemical equipment, a galvanometer, and a large number of cardboard boxes filled with old books and papers.
There were broken pieces of gymnasium equipment that including, a horse with the stuffing coming out through the cracks in its hide and a number of soiled mats.
There were also quite a number of stuffed animals; at least what the moths had left of them, a large barn owl, a golden eagle, a red fox, and so on, there was even a human skeleton hanging on a clothes rack. The skeleton jiggled and swayed about slightly in the wind, but Bastian had no fear of it.
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Bastian finally decided to make his home out of the pile of old gym mats. He dragged them to the place under the skylight where the light was best. Not far away he found a pile of gray army blankets; they were dusty and ragged, but that didn't matter now. He carried them over to his nest.
When he came to sit down and stretch out on them, it was almost like lying on a sofa.
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It suddenly passed through his head, that the rest of them down in the classroom would still be having history with Mr Kentell, who would, he thought, be having the class write a composition on some deadly dull event or matter in history.
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Bastian sat up and settled himself down, he now sat down on the cold pile of mats, opened his coat zip and laid the book out before him. He took off his rucksack and redid his coat zip. Bastian even kicked off his shoes, as if he had made this attic his home, he then looked down at his odd socks and gave his feet a wiggle, before wrapping himself in the gray blankets.
He checked the contents of his lunchbox, as he knew that sooner rather than later he would be so hungry and thirsty; an apple, two rounds of cheese, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, a packet of crisps and a bottle of juice was all that he had.
The book was all that he truly had left in the world, he had truly lost a lot thanks to his actions.
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Bastian looked down at the closed book. "I wonder,' he thought to himself, a hand up onto his chin. "what's in a book while it's closed. Oh, I know it's full of letters printed on paper, but all the same, something must be happening, because as soon as I open it, there's a whole story with people I don't know yet and all kinds of adventures and deeds and battles. And sometimes there are storms at sea, or it takes you to strange cities and countries. All those things are somehow shut up in a book. Of course you have to read it to find out. But it's already there, that's the funny thing. I just wish I knew how it could be.'
He then picked up the book, opened it to the first page, and began to read - The Neverending Story - suddenly the mood and thrill swept over him; he had a true need to seek out new brave worlds and to boldly go where no one has gone before differed over him.
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