The Adventures of King Midas

“Are you a magician?” he asked in awe.

“Yes, indeed,” said Nandan. “A very good one too.”

“Can you make a rabbit come out of a hat?” asked the King rather childishly. He had once seen this done, and could never figure out the trick of it.

“Pooh,” said Nandan. “Could make an elephant come out of a thimble if I wanted to. Don’t want to, though,” he said quickly as the King opened his mouth to speak.

“What else can you do?”

“Lots of things,” replied the little man.

“Er … like what, for instance?” prompted the king, who was dying to see a bit of magic.

For answer, the magician plucked a hair out of his long white beard, flourished it in the air, made a few very dramatic passes at it with his free hand, and turned it into – a dressing-gown cord.

“Oh …” exclaimed the king in obvious disappointment.

“What, ‘oh’?” asked the little man sharply.

“Bit dull, that’s all,” muttered the king.

“Pardon me,” retorted Nandan sarcastically. “I didn’t realise you were so easily bored.” And with a brief, dismissive gesture, he tossed the cord away. As it touched the grass, there was a mighty bang, a cloud of smoke, and a huge snake-like monster leapt out of the ground.

Midas fell back in terror as the thing loomed over his head, hissed furiously at him, and then, at another mild gesture from Nandan, disappeared as suddenly as it had come.

Midas found himself on the ground, panting and goggle-eyed. Nandan was examining his fingernails.

“Now, what were we saying?” he remarked.

“That – that was astonishing,” the king managed to croak. “Very – ulp! – impressive, I must say.”

“What? – Oh, that. Nothing at all, I assure you. Just a little illusion.”

Midas felt a perfect idiot. He scrambled to his feet with some difficulty (he was rather fat).

“Shall we get back to your wish?” asked the magician pleasantly.

Midas felt his heart begin to beat strangely. The most incredible notion had come into his head. Could it – could he – might it –? But he couldn’t even finish the thought, it was so desperately exciting.

He didn’t say anything – just gazed at the magician with a look of longing.

“I could give you that wish, if I wanted to.”

“And – and – do you want to?” the king got out.

“Might,” his visitor answered. “Depends what you’d give me for doing it.”

The king swallowed. Even so, he could hardly articulate. “If you could give me all the g-gold I wanted,” he stammered, “I’d give you my best red rose.”

Not a lot, you might think, for such a gift. But the King had some sense. He realised that no ordinary, material reward would be any use to a magician of such powers. Nothing but his greatest achievement would suffice.

And the rose was his greatest achievement. It was an absolutely new kind, his very own, the product of years of careful work and dedication, recently hailed throughout the rose-growing world and named The Midas. It was said to be the most glorious rose in existence.

Nandan was looking at him with new interest. The old man had the most extraordinary eyes, very bright and twinkly. They reminded Midas of something – he couldn’t think what.

“One rose?”

“All of them,” Midas said recklessly.

“All of them? For ever? So no one will have a Midas rose but me?”

Midas swallowed again. It meant giving up his one special claim to fame and glory (apart from being a king, which really wasn’t his doing). But if he had his wish –! What else mattered?

“All of them, for ever,” he said.

The little man gave a tiny, thoughtful nod.

“A bargain,” he said.

With a sudden movement he pulled the king’s hands towards him and held them tightly by the fingers. Now his eyes were not twinkly any more. They seemed to bore into Midas’s brain.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “I cannot give you gold. But I can work a spell so that everything your hands touch becomes gold.”

The King thought he might lose consciousness. It was too wonderful to be borne.

“Oh, yes!” he said faintly. “Oh, please!”

“Think,” said the magician.

“Th-th-think?” the king stammered.

“Yes! Think, man! Think whether you want it or not!”

“I want it! I want it!” cried Midas without thinking for even one second.

“Because the spell is permanent. No way back.”

“If I could have this, I would have everything any man could want. It is my one dream of happiness.”

“Your dream of happiness! You have your child – you have royal blood – you have the love of your people. You even have wealth. And this is your dream of happiness?”

“Do you think it so awful?” asked the King, his hands still firmly held in front of him.

“It is of no importance what I think. Decide.”

“I have decided,” said the King. “I can’t come so close to it and reject it. I want it.”

Even as he said these words, he felt a charge, like a bolt of electricity, shoot through his fingers and through his hands, stopping short at his wrists. It shocked him so that he cried out and everything went black for a moment.