Midas’ Heir

By Hannah Robinson

Mind, there’s nothing inherently surprising about finding a drunken old man in the royal garden. I just never expected to see one eating Grandpa’s roses. Horribly undignified behavior for the most respectable house in Phrygia. I leaned over my balcony rail, fumbling through my mental lexicon for the appropriate words to address this situation.

In the end, the best conversation starter I could contrive was, “Hello?”

The chap tripped on a rock, toppling into the dirt with his legs splayed behind him. Odd. His pants were furry.

I descended to the garden. “Are you hurt, sir?”

“Just fine. Not a scratch.” He waved me away.

“Good.” I cleared my throat. “Now, sir, I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. This is a proud, venerable household, and a drunkard eating roses will certainly cast a stain on the honorable family—”

The old man lifted his head.

He had horns.

I’m not usually a screamer, but I think I violated my personal code of dignity for a moment. I’d expected a peculiar conversation, but this? No amount of royal tutelage had prepared me for an interaction with a horned, furry-legged old man with roses hanging out of his mouth.

“Name’s Silenus.” He thrust out his hand, grinning toothlessly. “Satyr of Dionysus. Here to see your pa.”

“My… pa?”

He crawled toward me. “Midas. You know, the king.”

I picked up a stray trowel and held it in front of me, just in case. “I’m the king. My father died in the war last year, and my grandfather, Midas, died twelve years ago.”

“Excellent. Tell him Silenus is here to see him, and I’ll give you a reward.” He held up a clod of dirt, wiggling his eyebrows. “There’s a good boy.”

Disgraceful. My face heated, and I glanced toward the balcony, hoping none of my servants were watching.

“Now fetch your pa,” said the satyr. “I’ve come about the curse.”

“I told you, Grandfather’s dead. I can’t—” My thoughts took a tumble. “What curse?”

“You know the gods. Always doling out curses. Your pa helped me out of a tight spot once, so my master Dionysus gave him a gift. He never told you?”

I shook my head, my mouth too dry to speak.

“Your pa wanted everything he touched to turn into gold. Silly request, but it worked. ‘Course he regretted it a day later, so Dionysus withdrew the gift.” Silenus spit out a petal. “Got any wine?”

“You don’t need wine.” I lowered my trowel, my stomach knotting. “Tell me about this curse.”

“Right. The caveat. Your pa—”

“Grandfather.”

“Whoever. He got rid of the gift, but had to accept a curse in exchange. That’s why I’m here.” Silenus puffed out his chest, looking tremendously uncouth from his position on the ground. “The curse is this: any of Midas’ offspring who touch the magical garden trowel will turn into gold.”

I yelped and dropped the trowel.

Silenus cackled. “Kidding. That would be a dumb curse.” He belched. “Nice roses. They’d pair nicely with—”

I clutched my head. “The curse, Silenus! Tell me!”

A crash sounded from the balcony, and I whirled to find my butler standing outside a shattered window, waving my scepter. “I’m the king now!” he yelled, laughing maniacally.

“Oops! Looks like I’m a little late!” Silenus stumbled to his feet. “Per the king’s request, everything he touched turned into gold. To get rid of his gift, Midas had to agree that in exactly fifty years, everyone who touched his gold would turn into a king.”

“That’s a dumb curse!” I seized my trowel again. “Grandfather loved gold. Nearly everything in the palace is gold! If that’s the case, then every single servant—”

One of the lower doors burst open. “Where’s my crown?” hollered the cook.

“You can’t have it!” The butler brandished my scepter. “I’m king.”

“Silly children!” The gardener hobbled out of a shed, leaning on a gold-encrusted cane. “I’m the real king. Stop playing games.”

I backed into the shadow of a trellis. “Well, this is awkward. Sort of puts me out of work.”

“Pity.” Silenus shrugged. “I’m off. Happy job-hunting!”

“Wait! Isn’t there any way to break this curse?”

Silenus paused, swiveling his head toward me. “If you invited me in for some wine, I might be able to come up with something.”

I frowned. Embarrassing though he was, panic was making me desperate. “Come on, then. And hurry. I don’t want to be seen with you in the palace.”

Once in the wine cellar, Silenus struggled to pry the lid off a cask. “A little help here?”

I realized I was still holding the garden trowel, and I handed it to him.

“Thanks.” He popped off the lid, dropped the trowel and stuck his face in the cask.

“Don’t mention it. Now, about that curse.”

“Oh. Yes. You’ve got three options.” He held up two fingers. “One: take back the original gift. Everything you touch turns to gold.”

I shuddered, imagining the consequences. What was Grandpa thinking when he asked for that gift?

“Three: get out of here, and let those loonies duke it out for the throne.” Silenus gulped more wine.

“You skipped two.”

“What?” He wiped his mouth. “Oh. I knew I’d forgotten something. Two: take that garden trowel to the front of the castle gates, where your citizens can see you, and wave it in the air, shouting, ‘By the power of my magical wand, I command you, ancient curse, begone!’”

I blushed at the very thought. “You mean, ‘Ancient curse, begone, and take my reputation with you’? Are you joking? They’d all think I’m mad!”

“Your choice.” Silenus grinned and tottered up the stairs.

“Wait! Silenus!”

He was gone.

I sat on a wine barrel, rubbing my forehead. The muffled screams of the servants drifted down the stairs:

“I’m the king! Give me that scepter!” 

“Get back, mutinous scoundrel!”

“Guards! Treason!”

Cringing, I picked up the trowel.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hannah Robinson is a YA fantasy author who loves spinning tales of royal intrigue, assassins, and, of course, dragons. She has won several writing awards through Florida Christian Writers Conference, including 2019 Writer of the Year. When she’s not writing, she enjoys exploring nature, making music, reading old books, and drinking lots of tea.

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