The Collector

Kakao was not a simple crow. He was a curator, and a connoisseur of all things that gleamed. His current hoard, tucked into the gnarled hollow of an old olive tree, was, to put it mildly, pathetic. A single, half-smashed bottle cap. A trio of grey, uninteresting pebbles. A forgotten button of a dull, bone-like substance. It was a collection to weep over, especially when one’s best friend, a dragon called Ignis, who had always had a passion for beautiful things, was now in his third decade of napping, and Kakao wanted to give him a proper wake-up present.

He had heard the whispers, the frantic, panicked gossip of the sparrows in the palace gardens. They chirped of a king who cried golden tears, whose touch turned roses to rose-gold and fountains to liquid sunshine. The sparrows saw a curse, but Kakao saw a career opportunity. He had a small, shimmering lizard scale from Ignis, a gift from before the long sleep, and he often held it, dreaming of the day he could surround it with a truly magnificent hoard. He landed on a high branch overlooking the royal courtyard, adjusting his ruffled feathers. He watched as the king, a portly man with a permanent frown, reached for a bunch of grapes from a vine. The instant his fingers brushed against the fruit, a wondrous transformation occurred. The deep purple of the grapes shimmered, then burst into a glorious, blinding yellow. They became perfect, impossibly heavy spheres of solid gold. The king let out a mournful sigh and dropped the now-useless grapes into a basket.

To the king’s sorrow, Kakao’s heart gave a joyous flutter. He swooped down, a dark shadow against the newly golden courtyard, and with a single, practised peck, he detached one of the golden grapes. It was heavier than he expected, a delightful, luxurious weight. He flew it back to his paltry hoard and nestled it proudly next to the bottle cap. It was a start. A perfect, glimmering, golden start.

Over the next few weeks, Kakao’s collection grew with dizzying speed. He followed the king, now known as Midas, with the focused intensity of a tax collector. The king’s sorrow deepened with each object he accidentally transformed, but Kakao was blind to it. He was busy. There were golden plates left on the table, shimmering with an impossible light. A discarded sandal that Midas had dropped in despair, its straps now golden filigree. A half-eaten loaf of bread, now a solid, decorative brick. Kakao didn’t care for the king’s mournful sighs; he cared only for the glorious shine of his ever-growing pile. He even noticed Midas one day, watching him swoop down to collect a golden leaf. The king gave a wry, defeated smile, as if in that moment, he understood that his curse was at least a blessing for someone. Each new piece was a promise of Ignis’s joyful roar when he finally woke up.

Then came the day it ended. Kakao had landed on the edge of a great river, a place where Midas often came to brood. Midas stood on the bank, a look of grim determination on his face. Kakao spotted a beautiful, sparkling goblet on the ground nearby. Oh, a new trinket! he thought, poised to swoop down. But then he watched in horror as Midas stepped into the river. The water itself began to change, a golden wave spreading out from the king’s body. Midas sighed, a deep, cleansing sound. The gold was leaving him. The riverbed became a river of gold, but the king’s touch was now only a king’s touch. The goblet on the ground, which Kakao had been eyeing, was now just a normal, boring metal cup.

For the first time since meeting Midas, Kakao felt a profound sadness. It was a different kind of sadness from Midas’s — less about a curse and more about a sudden, devastating lack of supply. The golden age was over. There would be no more golden leaves, no more golden grass blades, and no more glorious grapes. His grand plan, his magnificent collection for his best friend, was now frozen in time, incomplete. He looked at the cup, a dull and worthless thing. It was just a cup, and Midas was just a man.

Kakao flew back to his hollow and looked at his collection: the glorious golden grape, the small, glittering pieces, the grand, solid golden loaf of bread. It wasn’t enough. Ignis would want more, a true mountain of wealth to sink into. But there would be no more. He nudged a golden grape with his beak, and it spun on the dusty floor of his hollow, casting a final, defiant glimmer of light. He sighed, a sound that, for a crow, was full of sorrow. Kakao’s treasure hunt was over. He tucked his head under a wing, hoping he could dream of gold instead.