King Midas and the Golden Touch

At the bottom of a river called the Pactolus, people still say, the sand glints with gold whenever sunlight falls on it. It looks as if thousands of tiny grains of gold were drifting in the clear water.

The old tellers say this is what remains of the story of Midas, king of Phrygia, and a gift a god once gave him. At first Midas thought it the finest gift in the world. Then it very nearly trapped him with no way out.

Dionysus, the god of wine and merrymaking, had an old teacher who was also his foster father. His name was Silenus. One day old Silenus enjoyed his wine a little too much and wandered off, and no one knew where he had gone. Luckily, some farmers found him stumbling across a field and brought him to King Midas.

Midas knew at once who he was. He welcomed Silenus with great warmth and held a feast for ten days and ten nights. Music, singing and laughter never stopped in the palace. On the eleventh day, Midas himself brought Silenus home safely and handed him back to Dionysus.

Moved by the king's kindness, Dionysus offered him any reward he liked, as long as he named it. Midas did not hesitate long. He wished that from then on, whatever his hand touched would turn to pure gold. Dionysus gave a small sigh, sorry that Midas had not chosen a wiser wish, but the god nodded and granted it.

Midas hurried back toward his palace, his heart racing, eager to try his new power at once. He snapped an oak twig by the road and felt it stiffen in his palm, shining bright gold. He bent and picked up a stone, and the stone turned to gold in an instant, heavy and icy against his fingertips. He touched a patch of grass at his feet, and the grass turned to gold. He picked an apple from a tree. It was round and heavy and glowing, as if it had come from the most precious garden on earth. With one light touch each, the twig, the stone, the grass and the apple had turned to gold one after another before his eyes. Midas laughed aloud, happier than any words could say.

Back at the palace, Midas ordered a splendid feast to celebrate. But as soon as his hand touched a loaf of bread, the loaf went hard, and no one could have bitten into it. He raised a cup of wine to his lips, and the wine flowing into his mouth turned into hot liquid gold. Midas froze, and his trembling hand set the cup back down on the table. He grew more and more worried, because nothing he touched could be eaten anymore. A table loaded with food lay right in front of him, and yet the man sitting there could not taste a single bite.

Midas raised his gleaming golden hands to the sky. Trembling, he begged Dionysus to take pity on him and lift the wish. The gift he had once wanted more than anything in the world was now a gift he wished he had never asked for.

Dionysus heard the plea and was moved. The god told Midas to go to the very source of the Pactolus River and plunge his head and body into the water, to wash away the magic and his mistake with it. Midas did exactly as he was told. The moment the water touched his skin, the golden power left his body and slipped into every grain of sand on the riverbed. From that day on, the sand of the Pactolus has carried a glittering gold. And that gold, the story goes, is still there today.

After that, Midas no longer cared for gold, jewels or grand palaces. He left his wealthy life behind and went to live in the countryside, listening every day to the wind and the streams. He became a faithful follower of Pan, the god of the fields.

One day Pan grew far too sure of himself. He brought out his pipe and challenged Apollo, the god of the lyre, to a contest of music. The mountain god Tmolus was asked to be the judge. Tmolus took his seat and pushed aside even the trees around him, so that he could hear every note clearly.

Pan lifted his pipe to his lips and played a simple country tune, soft and lilting and homespun, like wind blowing across a field of grain. The music pleased Pan himself, and it pleased his most faithful friend, who stood there listening. That friend was Midas. Then it was Apollo's turn. The god stepped forward with a laurel wreath on his brow and a long, flowing cloak sweeping the ground. His left hand held the lyre, and his right hand gently brushed the strings. The music rang out clear, one note after another, like sunlight pouring down from high above. Tmolus listened spellbound. Without a moment of doubt, he declared Apollo the winner.

Everyone there that day agreed with the verdict. Only Midas refused. He spoke up against it and said the judgment was unfair.

Apollo could not allow such dull ears to keep a human shape. The god made Midas's ears slowly grow longer and sprout hair, until they could move like a donkey's ears.

Midas was deeply embarrassed, but he found a way to hide his trouble: a very large turban, wrapped tight from morning to night. Only his own barber knew the secret, and Midas warned him in every way he could to keep his mouth shut.

But keeping such a big secret was too much for the poor barber. It weighed on him day after day, so heavily that he could neither eat nor sleep in peace. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he slipped away to an empty field and dug a small hole. He leaned down close to it and whispered the whole secret inside. Then he filled the hole with earth very carefully, feeling as though a great load had been lifted from his heart.

Before long, a thick clump of reeds sprang up in that very spot. Once the reeds had grown tall enough, every time a breeze passed, their stems rustled softly, as though they were whispering something. People still say that from that day to this, the reeds have never stopped whispering whenever the wind blows through them, telling the secret again, softly and patiently, without end.