Outside, it was a dark, cold, storming March morning. The rain ran down the glass and over the ornate letters. Through the glass there was nothing to be seen but the rain-splotched wall across the street.

Suddenly the door was opened so violently that a little cluster of brass bells tinkled wildly, taking quite some time to calm down. The cause of this hubbub was a young man of twenty or twenty-two. His wet, dark-brown hair hung down over his face, his coat was soaked and dripping, and he was carrying a bag slung over his shoulder. He was rather pale and out of breath, but despite the hurry he had been in a moment before, he was standing in the open doorway as though rooted to the spot.

'It's the same room,' the young man whispered to himself in astonishment. He gazed along the long, narrow room, the back of which was lost in the half-light. 'Same shelves lining the walls. Same books and folios. Same wall of books at the far end there.'

The young man could see the top of a lamp behind the wall of books and crept toward it. From time to time a wheezing cough rattled the lamplight, casting moving shadows, which danced for a moment before settling into silence. Apparently someone was sitting there, and, sure enough, the young man heard the cross voice he had expected from behind the wall of books: 'Do your wondering inside or outside, but shut the door. There's a draft.'

The young man smiled and obeyed, quietly closing the door. Then he approached the wall of books and looked eagerly around the corner. There, in the same high worn leather wing chair sat the same short, stout man in the rumpled black suit which looked even more frayed and still dusty. His paunch was held in by the same vest with the flower design. He was bald except for the outcroppings of white hair over his ears. His red face still suggested a vicious bulldog. The same gold-rimmed pince-nez was perched on his bulbous nose. On his lap he held a book, which he had evidently been reading, for in closing it he hand left the thick forefinger of his left hand between the leaves as a kind of bookmark.

With his right hand he now removed his spectacles and examined the young man, who stood there dripping. After a while, the old man narrowed his eyes, which made him look more vicious than ever, and muttered: 'Goodness gracious.' Then he opened his book and went on reading.

The young man was in the position of finding what he had hoped for but hadn't dared to expect, so he just stood there, gaping. Finally the old man closed his book - as before, with his finger between the pages - and growled: 'Listen, my boy, I can't abide teenagers. I know it's the style nowadays to make a terrible fuss over you - but I don't go for it. I simply have no use for teenagers. As far as I'm concerned, they're no good for anything but playing deafening music, engaging in reckless behaviour, crashing cars, filling books with notes and dog-earing pages. It never dawns on them that adults may also have their troubles and cares. I'm only telling you this so you know where you're at. Anyway, I have no Cliff's Notes and I wouldn't expect a teenager to read the real thing. So now we understand each other, I hope!'

After saying all this, he opened his book again and went on reading.

The young man marveled at how little the old man had changed. Certainly people speak in defined vocabularies, he mused, but he could nearly remember those exact words from the old man before. Even this shop, though now on a different continent, looked entirely as he remembered.

Suddenly he realized the book the old man was pouring over was exactly why he was here. The young man stepped forward to address this fact, but somehow felt that he couldn't take that last remark from the old man lying down. He took another step forward and smiled. 'All teens aren't like that.'

Slowly the old man looked up and again removed his spectacles. 'You still here? What is this terribly important thing you have to tell me?'

'It isn't terribly important,' said the young man, his smile widening. 'I only wanted to say that all teens aren't the way you said.'

'Really?' The man raised his eyebrows in affected surprise. 'Then you must be the big exception, I presume?'

'I'm older than I look,' the young man said, matching the height with his own brow.

'And anyway,' he heard the gruff voice say, muffled into the book he'd returned to, 'where are your manners? If you had any, you'd have introduced yourself.'

Now the time has come, the young man thought. He couldn't repress his wide grin. 'My name is Bast-'

The brass bells interrupted with a wild jangle.

'I have it for you here,' Mr Coreander said to the customer on the other side of the wall of books, removing his gnarled finger from between the pages and slipped the book into a slim paper bag. The old man slowly hobbled past the boy and around the corner.

Sure he couldn't mean to sell that book.

Bastian stood there, held fast by fear. If Mr Coreander sold the book, then his long run here through the storm will have been for naught. But what could he do? Dash in and demand the book be sold to him instead? Offer more than the other customer was giving?

He had to have the book - at any price.

Any price? That was easily said. Even if he had had more to offer than the paltry bit of pocket money on him - which, now jobless, comprised of his entire savings - cranky Mr Coreander had given him clearly to understand that he would never sell him a single book. Of course, if he remembered Bastian, the old man's mind might then be changed - but the fact remained that Bastian had very little money. The situation was hopeless.

'Thanks,' came the customer's voice from the far end of the room.

Bastian gasped.

Why was she here? Why was she buying The Neverending Story?

'Now!' Bastian commanded himself. Remembering how he had gone to meet the Many-Coloured Death in the Desert of Colours, he stepped out from behind the wall just as the brass bells announced her departure.

He had to act. But what could he do? He dashed to the door, doing his best to not trip on any of the small piles of books on the floor. He flung the door open - sending the brass bells into a frenzy - and called out over them: 'Christa!'

He could see her through the sheets of rain, but she didn't turn around.

'Christa!' he called louder.

She slowed and looked to either side for a moment, and then continued quickly on. Clearly the storm and traffic had hidden his voice. But Bastian had spent some years studying theatre - he knew how to project.

'Christa!' he called still louder.

This time she did come to a complete stop and looked behind her. 'Bastian!' Her glowing smile brought one to his face. 'Seven, right?'

'Seven?' What did she mean?

'Inside or outside, but shut the door!' roared the old man behind him.

Bastian turned and saw that the storm without had created a storm within, the wind sending loose papers whirling through the shop.

Seven. He was supposed to meet Christa tonight at seven o'clock. Bastian turned back to the young woman, but she was nowhere in sight. Where had she gone? Should he chase after her?

'Shut the door!'

With his poor sense of direction, Bastian would never be able to find her - even if he knew where she’d gone. He admitted defeat, stepped inside and closed the door.

Mr Coreander was nowhere to be seen.

As the bells quieted and the last of the papers fluttered to the floor, Bastian made his way toward the fit of coughing. He stepped up to the worn leather chair seating the old man whose interest lay in the book in his lap.

Bastian stood there, waiting, wondering why he was still here. Christa had the book. Bastian had no more need of this shop.

Yet he continued to wait as the man continued to read.

If he had treated a customer this way he would have been fired. He had been fired - or had he quit? - but for a far different reason. Or had it been no reason at all?

Amongst this rambling jumble of thoughts, Bastian finally saw what his eyes were resting upon.

The Neverending Story

But he had given it to her, hadn’t he? Mr Coreander put in the paper bag. And she had taken the bag. How was it that the old man was holding it?

‘What must one do to be rid of you?’

Bastian looked up, startled to see Mr Coreander studying him through his spectacles.

'I suppose you’re here to rob me,' the old man conjectured, ‘or just robbed the convienience store down the street? Are the police after you boy?’

Bastian laughed in embarasment. ‘No.’

‘Why aren’t you in school?’

‘I’m not- I don’t go to univeristy anymore.’

‘So you graduated early? Probably a hopeless grind?’

'No- I didn’t graduate. I took time off to write.’

‘Probably rotting the brains of millions with some mass market thriller drivel?’

‘No. I haven’t been published.’

‘A failure, huh? Your parents supporting you? Are you some spoiled brat?’

‘I moved out. I support myself.’

‘So you have some stuffy computer job? Tap-tap-tapping all day long on the computer?’

‘I used to work for a bookstore.’

Mr Coreander looked at the boy for a while disapprovingly. Then he asked: ‘Work for one of those chains? Are you here to help the weeds kill a small shop?’

Bastian shook his head. ‘And besides, I was fired.’

‘Good Lord!’

Bastian hung his head.

‘So now you spend your days stalking young women?’

Bastian gaped. ‘I wasn’t- I know her.’

‘Why didn’t you run after your girlfriend then?’

‘She’s . . . Christa’s just a friend.’

‘If you had any manners you would have introduced her. But you haven’t even introduced yourself.’

‘Her name is Christa,’ Bastian smiled. ‘Christa Catherine Christianson.’

‘That’s a rather odd name,’ the old man grumbled. ‘All those Cs. Oh well, she can’t help it. She didn’t chose it.’

‘Your name is three Cs,’ Bastian reminded him.

‘And yours is three B’s - we’re odd ones all around.’

Bastian smiled. He'd been worried the old man wouldn't remember him. He felt warm, despite Mr Coreander's cold treatment.

Mr Coreander frowned. ‘You didn’t come back to visit.’

At that moment the telephone rang. With some difficulty Mr Coreander pulled himself out of his armchair and shuffled into a small room behind the shop. He picked up the receiver and indistinctly Bastian heard him saying his name. After that there was nothing to be heard but a low mumbling.

Bastian went over to the chair, slowly held out his hand, and picked up the book. Though it had been a decade, the copper-coloured silk binding shimmered exactly the way Bastian remembered. And there on the cover were the two snakes - one light and one dark - biting each other’s tail. Inside the oval they formed, in strangely intricate letters, the title read:

But perhaps you cannot understand slipping the book under your coat. Maybe you have never become part of the story - never actually entered into the story.

Perhaps you cannot understand backing up to the door with the book and quietly sneeking out the door. Certainly you have never become a character in the book you were reading - never actually befriended the other characters.

Perhaps you cannot understand running for three miles along a stormy street, too afraid to stop and catch the bus lest the authourties be out looking for you. But then you surely haven’t entered into the story and rescued the land from complete destruction yourself.

His notebook, books, pens and pencils in his bag jiggled and rattled to the rhythm of his run. Ten years ago he would have had a stitch in his side, but thanks to his years of hard work, the only annoyance was the rain running down his back.

His conscience, however, which had been sound asleep before, now roared.

What he had done was worse than common theft. Taking a friend’s prized possession wasn’t at all the same as stealing any old book from a bookstore.

As he ran, he hugged the book tight under his coat. Regardless of what this book might cost him, he couldn’t bear to lose it. It was all he had in the world.

Because naturally he couldn’t live in this world any longer.

He had left on bad terms with his father, unable to share with him some of his inner turmoil - unable to even face it himself. So there was no financial support there. And his savings over these past two months of unemployment had dwindled into nothing. Rent was past due and he had no way of paying it. He had even considered doing something immoral to obtain money, but couldn’t bring himself to do that. He had no idea what he was going to tell his housemates when they finally hinted that rent was due.

Bastian’s world had crumbled about him, and the book he held was his salvation.

Strange that his salvation lay in the book in which he had been the story’s saviour. And finally a chance to finish my stories, he smiled to himself.

Bastian saw the smallish old house at the end of the long street, and for the first time in a long while felt hope. In the daylight, the house was more often than not a thing of joy. But coming to it in the dark usually filled him with dread, for then his housemates were usually home.

It wasn’t just the current worry about money that caused the rift between. There was a canyon of many disagreements and hurt feelings, all founded on Bastians’s mistaken belief that they were friends. Rather, they were acquaintences who had been introduced by a mutual acquaintence who called them friends. Quick to trust and fast to feel, Bastian had fooled himself into considering them friends after only having spent time with them on two occasions and having exchanged the odd letter. So when they mentioned moving to the big city and needing a housemate, Bastian jumped at the chance. If only he had known what they were really like ahead of time . . .

But thankfully they werne’t home, so Bastian entered without apprehension, and dripped a trail of water and mud to his room, closing the door behind him.

Bastian felt safe and at peace in his room. His housemates never bothered him there. Come to think of it, Bastian doubted they had ever once stepped foot inside. But they had seen it through the open door from the hallway and joked that it was the reason Bastian seemed unable to secure any romantic interests.

It wasn’t that the room was messy - it had been consistantly so, but with all this unwanted free time, Bastian was able to keep it tidy. No, the problem with the bedroom, his housemates said, was that it was too rediculously a testimony to the lover of the fantasitc that Bastian was.

In one corner hang a large purple pennant with a white chinese dragon coiling on it. It’s bottom fell behind the waist-high bookcase made of cheap wood painted to look like more expensive wood. It was crammed full of books.

In the opposite corner sat the little-used tiny televison set atop a ceramic pedestal painted to look like green marble. Bastian fancied himself a clever social commentator with that statement. The pedestal itself was a thing of pride for him as he and his father had taken a class together to paint a pair of these pedestals for their house. But Bastian had ended up doing all the painting himself. And a fine job of it too. Unfortunatly, he had given the other pedestal to a friend who had long admired them - and the friend had soon broken it.

In another corner stood a small three-legged table that kept all Bastian’s random papers and keys and change and such.

And along a wall was a set of shelves jam-packed with mystic figurines and crystals and other suck brickbrack.

The newest thing in the bedroom was Bastian’s bed. After having the same too-small bed since his early childhood, a housemate sold Bastian his queen size for an exorbant amount as he had decided to buy a king size. But after the first night, Bastian wished he hadn’t bought it. Sleeping in it alone made it seem like sleeping in an endless lonely tundra.

Bastian then realized he was swimming in sweat from his hard run, so he peeled off his clothes, leaving them in a pile beside the bed, and dressed in the set of sweats he used as pajamas during the cold seasons. As soon as he put them on, he wished he had showered first. But it was too late now, so he crawled under the bed covers and pulled the book up beside him.

Bastian looked at the book.

‘I wonder,’ he said to himself, ‘what the last page of an unending book could be like.’ A curious notion that had never occured to him before just then. Dare he look? Could he? Should he? The curiosity was too great. He had to.

Flipping backwards past the decorative end paper and the blank pages, he came to the last one with printing on it. And there in green ink at the bottom of the page were the two most illogical words:

Unless . . .

Leaving his long finger to hold the place, Bastian closed the book to look at the cover. And he gaped at what he saw.

There within the oval of the two snakes biting each other’s tail, the title read:

He opened the book back to the end and read the paraphraph above those two eerie words. The paragraph wasn’t much better.

The gargantuan Labyrinth about the Ivory Tower faded from existance with disturbing speed. Now of all the vast empire of Fantasia, only the Ivory Tower existed. It was as if the entire world was the Ivory Tower and only the Ivory Tower. And then it too began to fade until at last Fantasia ceased to be.

‘No,’ he told himself, ‘not now. There is an entire story first. I can start at the beginning and try to find some way to prevent the end from happening before I get there.’

Suddenly a determined and somehow courageous mood came over him as he flipped to the first page and began reading