“The Wealth of a King”

Adapted from a Roman Myth

1 "Father, will you weave me a story of the ancient ones?" the girl asked, her voice hovering like a hesitant butterfly in the stone doorway. Inside, her father was not a king of men, but a slave to his coins, his fingers dancing over the gold like scuttling spiders. "You promised that when the sun sat at the throne of the sky, I could leave the garden to join you. Now, the shadows have shrunk into nothing, and—"

2 "Stories? Stories!" the king roared, his voice a sudden crack of thunder that shook the dust from the rafters. "Begone, child! My treasury is a wounded beast, bleeding a small fortune I cannot find. And you come to me begging for idle words?"

3 The girl fled, her tears falling like heavy rain across the royal courtyard. In her room, her servant was drawing the curtains, trying to shut out the sun which shone as indifferent as a bright brass eye. Seeing the girl’s face, the servant reached out, but the princess pulled away. "I want my father," she sobbed, her heart a shattered mirror.

4 The servant sighed, whispering to the empty air, "Shame on the king! His soul is a barren desert with no room for a flower to grow. The poor child has no mother, and her father is but a statue of salt."

5 While the girl sat in the silence of her room, the king’s luck turned. He found the missing coins tucked away in a drawer, hidden by his own foggy memory. His mood brightened further when Silenus, a follower of Bacchus, wandered onto the grounds. For days, the palace rang with laughter that was as hollow as a drum, for while the king feasted with his guest, his daughter remained a ghost in the hallways.

6 When it was time for Silenus to depart, the god Bacchus appeared, his presence smelling of crushed grapes and summer storms. To thank the king, he offered him a single wish. Midas, whose greed was a fire that could never be quenched, blurted out: "Let my touch be a magic wand that turns all the world to gold!"

7 The god’s smile was sharper than a sword. He granted the wish, thinking to himself, "This fool’s crown will soon be a heavy burden of his own making."

8 Returning to his hall, Midas was a whirlwind of excitement. He touched a peacock, and the bird’s feathers—once a rainbow of silk—became rigid plates of yellow metal.

9 His daughter appeared then, her eyes wide as moons with fright. "What has happened to the beautiful bird?" she cried, racing toward him. The king, feeling a flicker of love deep within his frozen heart, reached out to catch her.

10 The moment his fingers brushed her skin, the life fled from her like smoke in a breeze. Her warmth vanished, replaced by a cold, metallic shimmer. She stood before him no longer a child, but a glittering monument to his own greed. In the sudden, suffocating silence, the king’s wail rose like a wounded animal: "What have I done? What have I done?"