King Midas and the Golden Wish
Of all the kings who ever lived, Midas of Phrygia was perhaps the most golden-hearted — not in the sense of goodness, but in the sense of obsession. His great vault held enough gold to fill a swimming pool, and still he would stand before it at night, running his hands through the coins and thinking: not enough.
So when the cheerful, wine-scented god Dionysus offered him a favour — for Midas had given kind hospitality to one of Dionysus's wandering companions — Midas did not take a moment to consider.
"I wish that everything I touch be turned to gold."
Dionysus paused. His eyes flickered with something — pity, perhaps, or the particular amusement of someone watching a man open a trap door and step through it.
"Granted," he said.
The next morning was magnificent. Midas walked through his garden touching roses — gold. He stroked the bark of an oak tree — gold. He picked up a stone from the path — gold, instantly, beautifully, uselessly gold. He felt like a god himself.
He sat down to breakfast in high spirits.
The bread turned to gold in his hands. His wine turned to liquid gold against his lips and burned his tongue. His eggs, his figs, his honey — all solid, cold, inedible metal. He pushed the plate away, hungry.
His daughter Marygold came bounding in, late for breakfast as usual, and flung herself into his arms before he could stop her. The hug ended with a golden statue where his daughter had been.
Midas sat on the floor and screamed.
He found Dionysus that afternoon, hollow-eyed and hollow-stomached, and said that he had been a fool and asked to be released.
"You wished, I granted," said Dionysus — but he was not cruel. "Go to the headwaters of the Pactolus river. Wash your hands where the stream rises from the earth. The wish will flow out of you and into the sands."
Midas ran all night. He threw himself into the cold headwaters at dawn and felt the golden touch leave him like warmth leaving a stone. The sand around his hands glittered. He stumbled home and ran to his daughter's room.
She was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes, wondering why she had a strange dream about being very still and very cold.
He held her for a long time without saying anything.
The river Pactolus still runs with golden-flecked sand, if you know where to look. But Midas, from that day on, kept his hands firmly in his pockets around the things he loved best.