The Neverending Story by Michael Ende Read Free Book Online Page B

the Silver Mountains, where every road and trail was known to them, and they made quick progress. When he felt hungry, the boy ate a chunk of dried buffalo meat and two little grass-seed cakes that he had been carrying in his saddlebag—originally they had been intended for his hunt.
    “Exactly,” said Bastian. “A man has to eat now and then.”
    He took his sandwich out of his satchel, unwrapped it, broke it carefully in two pieces, wrapped one of them up again and put it away. Then he ate the other.
    Recess was over. Bastian wondered what his class would be doing next. Oh yes, geography, with Mrs. Flint. You had to reel off rivers and their tributaries, cities, population figures, natural resources, and industries. Bastian shrugged his shoulders and went on reading.
    By sunset the Silver Mountains lay behind them, and again they stopped to rest.
    That night Atreyu dreamed of purple buffaloes. He saw them in the distance, roaming over the Grassy Ocean, and he tried to get near them on his horse. In vain. He galloped, he spurred his horse, but they were always the same distance away.
    The second day they passed through the Singing Tree Country. Each tree had a different shape, different leaves, different bark, but all of them in growing—and this was what gave the country its name—made soft music that sounded from far and near and joined in a mighty harmony that hadn’t its like for beauty in all Fantastica. Riding through this country wasn’t entirely devoid of danger, for many a traveler had stopped still as though spellbound and forgotten everything else. Atreyu felt the power of these marvelous sounds, but didn’t let himself be tempted to stop.
    The following night he dreamed again of purple buffaloes. This time he was on foot, and a great herd of them was passing. But they were beyond the range of his bow, and when he tried to come closer, his feet clung to the ground and he couldn’t move them.
    His frantic efforts to tear them loose woke him up. He started out at once, though the sun had not yet risen.
    The third day, he saw the Glass Tower of Eribo, where the inhabitants of the region caught and stored starlight. Out of the starlight they made wonderfully decorative objects, the purpose of which, however, was known to no one in all Fantastica but their makers.
    He met some of these folk; little creatures they were, who seemed to have been blown from glass. They were extremely friendly and provided him with food and drink, but when he asked them who might know something about the Childlike Empress’s illness, they sank into a gloomy, perplexed silence.
    The next night Atreyu dreamed again that the herd of purple buffaloes was passing. One of the beasts, a particularly large, imposing bull, broke away from his fellows and slowly, with no sign of either fear or anger, approached Atreyu. Like all true hunters, Atreyu knew every creature’s vulnerable spot, where an arrow wound would be fatal. The purple buffalo put himself in such a position as to offer a perfect target. Atreyu fitted an arrow to his bow and pulled with all his might. But he couldn’t shoot. His fingers seemed to have grown into the bowstring, and he couldn’t release it.
    Each of the following nights he dreamed something of the sort. He got closer and closer to the same purple buffalo—he recognized him by a white spot on his forehead—but for some reason he was never able to shoot the deadly arrow.
    During the days he rode farther and farther, without knowing where he was going or finding anyone to advise him. The golden amulet he wore was respected by all who met him, but none had an answer to his question.
    One day he saw from afar the flaming streets of Salamander, the city whose inhabitants’ bodies are of fire, but he preferred to keep away from it. He crossed the broad plateau of the Sassafranians, who are born old and die when they become babies. He came to the jungle temple of Muwamath, where a great moonstone pillar hovers in