Читать книгу The Adventures of King Midas - Lynne Banks Reid - Страница 5

King Midas was nothing special, as kings go. He hadn’t got a particularly large kingdom, just a small one, and it wasn’t either rich or poor. Just ordinary, really. Like the King himself, until a certain day in his life, on which everything changed.

But until that day, things jogged along for him quite normally. Of course, you might not think it normal to live in a small but charming palace surrounded by beautiful grounds, to have to sign papers all the time, wear a heavy crown quite often, and to have dozens of servants running around to do your bidding. But that’s normal for a king, and King Midas was quite used to it and thought nothing of it.

He hadn’t got a queen.

He’d had one, once, but sadly, she’d died. The King was terribly grieved. She had been so beautiful – a shining golden beauty that made the sun and the stars come out for him. He kept a lock of her hair, the colour of summer pollen, in a locket round his neck, and would take it out and smooth it in his fingers to keep it shiny and alive-looking.

But he had something better than that left from his happy younger days: a little daughter called Delia.

She looked rather like her mother – the same bright brown eyes and sun-spun golden hair, and lively, loving ways. King Midas simply adored her, and made a great fuss of her, giving her most of what she asked for and thinking of all kinds of lovely surprises for her.

But oddly enough, she wasn’t spoilt. She went to school in the village near the palace, like other children, and was quite ordinary, too, in a way. Of course, a princess can never be entirely ordinary, but there was one nice thing about her – she never boasted or gave herself airs. She was a very nice girl, really, which made what happened to her all the worse. She simply didn’t deserve it.

As to whether the King deserved to be the cause of this awful thing that happened to his beloved child, that’s another matter. There’s no denying that he had a fault. Who hasn’t? But this one was bad enough to lead him into the most dire trouble.

He allowed to grow in him a great desire, which came to rule his whole life.

He thought nobody knew about it. But little things gave him away to those quick-witted enough to understand.

For instance, one day some large oil paintings that he’d ordered from abroad arrived in big flat packing-cases. He was very excited and as soon as they were unpacked, he called Delia.

“You must see my new paintings, my darling,” he cried cheerfully. “You’ve got such an eye, I can’t wait to hear what you think of them!”

Delia had no more “eye” than most people, but she did like paintings. She loved making up stories about them. So she hurried after her father to one of the long galleries in the palace.

“I must supervise the hanging,” said the King importantly.

“Daddy, you know you’ve done away with capital punishment!” teased Delia.

The King laughed uproariously. He was in a very good mood.

There were already several servants up ladders, and several more below, with the first great canvas in their hands, ready to hand it up to those above. The King, who had arrived beaming with pleasure, took one look at the picture and flew into one of his rare, but alarming, rages.

“Take them away!” he roared. “I won’t have them! I don’t want them – not like that!”

One of his personal servants called Biffpot, the only one who dared speak to him when he was angry, murmured, “But Sire, the paintings are very fine!”

“The paintings? The PAINTINGS? Who’s talking about the paintings? It’s the FRAMES I can’t abide! GET THOSE FRAMES OUT OF MY SIGHT!”

“But Daddy, what’s wrong with the frames?” Delia exclaimed anxiously. “They’re beautiful, all carved and gilded –”

“Gilded! Precisely, my darling! You have put your finger on it! They are gilded! I would rather, far rather, have plain wooden ones than these – these – these pretenders! I tell you I will not be lied to – not even by a picture frame!”

And he stormed away, leaving the servants agape and Delia close to tears.

Later, in the servants’ hall, there was much gossip, and not for the first time.

“The King’s got this thing about fakes,” the butler remarked knowingly. “What they call a fixation.”

“No,” said the manservant who had been trying to hang up the picture. “He’s got a thing about lies. And I believe it’s called an obsession.”

But Biffpot, who was closer to the King than the others, being his personal valet, shook his head sadly.

“His Majesty,” he said, “is indeed obsessed AND fixated. But not with the things you mentioned. It is much, much more serious than that.”

“So what is it?” asked the others. But Biffpot only shook his head in a worried way and wouldn’t answer directly.

“I will say only this,” he said. “It is one of the most serious obsessions anyone can have, and No Good Will Come Of It.”

How right he was.

So Biffpot knew about the King’s desire. And soon, one other person knew, because Midas told her – Delia.

When she was at school, and he had finished his signing for the day and had nothing much to distract him, he would walk about the palace and the gardens, with his hands behind his back and his head down on his chest, feeling deeply depressed. No, it was more like feeling desperately hungry. Only what he was hungry for wasn’t food.

Once, Delia, returning from school and not finding him in his office, came out to look for him in the garden. She saw him at a distance and crept up behind him, but when, startled out of his dream, he turned suddenly, she saw he had tears on his face.

She threw herself into his arms.

“Daddy! You’re crying! What’s wrong, were you thinking of Mother?”

“Ah, my darling! If it were only that! I wish I could say I had been, but no. I’ll tell you the truth, but promise you won’t tell.”

“Of course, I’d never tell your secrets,” she said, snuggling under his arm. “It can’t be anything bad.”

He found it very difficult to explain. He cleared his throat several times, and then said: “Have you ever looked around you, and wished everything were a different colour?”

She stared at him. “No.”

He tried again.

“Have you ever thought how wonderful it would be, if everything were made of – a different kind of stuff?”

“No … What kind of stuff?”

“Well, er – anything you like. Chocolate, perhaps?”

She wrinkled up her nose and shook her head. “Too sticky.”

“Wouldn’t you like it if everything around us were a toy, something for you to play with?”

“But then nothing would be real and there’d be no point in pretending.”

He groaned, and came right out with it.

“Well, wouldn’t you think it was the most wonderful thing in the world if everything were made of gold?”

She gazed at him open-mouthed. “I think that would be horrid,” she said. Then she saw his face fall. “Oh, Daddy! I’m sorry, is that what you want?”

He nodded, and she saw the hungry, haunted look in his eyes. She didn’t know what to say. She felt quite shocked and upset. It seemed so … But she couldn’t think words like “silly” and “greedy” about her father.

“But Daddy,” she said slowly. “We’ve got so much gold already. More than most people at school will ever see in their whole lives.”

He said nothing.

“We’ve got all that gold jewellery of Mother’s, and your gold watch, and the gold ornaments, and the special gold knives and forks and plates for state dinners, and –”

But the King was shaking his head.

“It’s – it’s not enough, somehow,” he muttered.

“But if it’s money you want, we’ve got the Treasury!”

“They send me what I order in –” (he shuddered) “bank notes” he said with disgust. “Dirty, deceitful things, pretending to be gold, well, as good as gold, but they’re lying, they’re lying!” His round, jolly face went dark red, and Delia backed away a step. He quickly controlled himself and reached out his hand to her. It was trembling.

“Delia … Tell me it’s not madness. Tell me you understand.”

She couldn’t. So she just held his hand tight and looked at the ground. They stood like that for a moment. Then she raised her face.

“You’ll get over it, Daddy. Now please, stop grumping around and come and read my new book with me!”

And she tugged him after her.

The King shook himself free of his longing, for the moment, and tried to cheer up for Delia’s sake, because he loved her. But the thing was getting too strong for him. It seemed to be taking him over. Any time he wasn’t busy, or was feeling a bit down, that gnawing hunger would come back to him, and he would just have to go away by himself and wish and wish and wish for gold.

One day, when he was feeling like this and walking about the garden, he was startled to see a little old man – really little, about two feet tall – with a long white beard and a black cloak, pop out from behind a bush in front of the King.

Midas blinked. “Good morning,” he said politely.

“It isn’t good and it isn’t morning,” snapped the little old man. “It’s the middle of the afternoon, as you’d know if you were thinking about it.”

“So it is,” said the King. “My mind was on something else.”

“Obviously.”

The King’s white moustache (did I mention that he had a white moustache?) began to bristle.

“Excuse me, but who are you, and how did you get into my garden?” he asked.

“My name is Nandan,” replied this strange little figure. “I got in by wishing to be in. And speaking of wishes, I see that you have a very powerful one.”

Startled, the King said, “What do you mean, you see?”

“It’s written all over you,” replied the little man, his bright eyes twinkling under his bushy eyebrows.

The King looked down at himself. To his amazement, the one word GOLD was written in large letters all over his clothes. Even as he stared, it faded.

“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.

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.