The Adventures of King Midas. Lynne Banks Reid

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.

      When he opened his eyes, things were apparently back to normal. The little man was yawning.

      “That’s it,” he said. “Where’s my rose?”

      Feeling rather dazed, the king pointed out to him the special rose bush. Not that you could miss it. The roses on it were double the size of any other rose in the garden. They glowed with a special, deep red which seemed to hold all other reds within it. For several yards around the bush the perfume wafted and played in the air, so delicious you could almost see it.

      “Ah! Ah!” exclaimed Nandan. “A treasure from the far side of magic! And this is to be mine alone!”

      Reverently, he plucked one of the huge roses, attached it to his leather waistcoat, drew in a deep breath of its scent, and gave Midas one long look of – what? Admiration? Gratitude? Whatever it was, Midas felt that for the first time since the magician had appeared, they were equals.

      Suddenly the little man made a grasping pass with his hand.

      The whole rose bush, covered with Midas roses, vanished.

      In another split second, the bush, now a tiny miniature, complete with its roots, reappeared in the little man’s hand. He was taking it with him! The Midas rose was no more for this world. The magician gave a high-pitched laugh.

      “I’ve had the best of our bargain,” he cried. “Goodbye, King Midas!”

      He disappeared into the air, and the roses with him. But after a second, he came back.

      “If I were less pleased with my fee, I would not bother to say this,” he said. “But if you should ever want to see me again, come to this spot where my rose once grew and say, ‘Red Rose, bloom again’. But make sure it’s not raining!”

      He let out another eldritch chuckle and vanished once more.

       Chapter Two Gold!

      The King looked around him.

      He wondered if he had been dreaming. He definitely felt dizzy. So he put out his hand and leant against a tree to steady himself.

      The rough, warm bark changed instantly under his hand to something hard and smooth and cold. The King took his hand away quickly and looked up at the tree.

      At first he couldn’t credit what his eyes told him. From its roots to its topmost branches, the tree was made of shining gold. Every tiny leaf was like a golden mirror that shone so brightly it dazzled the King’s eyes.

      He broke off a leaf and stared at it. He broke off some more, until he had a whole handful. On a sudden impulse, he flung them into the air. Sending out sparks of dancing light, they fell heavily, scattering around his feet.

      “It’s true,” he breathed, gazing at the tree in a befuddlement that trembled on the brink of absolute happiness. “It’s TRUE!” he shouted, jumping into the air, grasping a low-hanging golden bough in both hands and swinging on it like a schoolboy. “IT’S TRUE IT’S TRUE IT’S TRUE!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, dropping from the branch and capering around the base of the tree.

      “I have it! It’s mine! The golden touch is mine!”

      He couldn’t stay still. He left the heavy shade of the tree and ran to another, and another. Each one froze to his touch into brilliant, solid, flawless gold. The branches stopped swaying and the leaves stopped whispering. The birds that had been resting in the trees flew away in chirping, frightened clouds. Squirrels