Gold was the humblest of servants. It hid its light, not just under a bushel but under a mile of earth. It lived to serve. Its service was to give metaphor – without which no ratio could be golden; no poet could speak of measuring things by the true carat of the heart.

But then one day, men lost faith in metaphor. They wanted literal things, and started digging for literal gold. Whole mountains were ground up. Worst of all was that they began to bow down to gold. This gave Gold the willies.

Gold began to pray. It prayed with everything that it was. If it lay inert for a million years, that inertness was prayer. If it moved within rocks with the slowness of rocks, that slowness was prayer. And if it hung shining from the necks and wrists of men, that hanging and shining was the saddest of all prayers. And although Gold had neither hands nor voice to raise, something nevertheless rose – and would not relent. The mountains – the ones that had not been ground up – were the first to feel it. The old trees felt it in their roots. Some of the quiet animals caught on and joined in. And this prayer went on and on, even as the worship of gold spread all over the earth. And gold nearly died from getting way more willies than it could handle.

What they prayed for was for the Creator to send a Gold Thief to steal back all the gold from men.

And the Creator, who would turn a deaf ear to what was loud, could not help but hear what was silent.

~

Now, among all of earth’s gold worshipers, there was one King Midas who had acquired the power to turn everything he touched into gold: not just pianos, pina coladas, and party hats, but also politics, poverty, and peasant protests. He became the most powerful King that ever was. Until one day, in a moment of excitement, he took his daughter into his arms, and turned her into gold: a pure gold statue that could not talk, or laugh, or call him “daddy,” or frolic skippingly through a meadow in the spring with flowers in her hair. He cried her name, and cried and cried. She did not answer. He cursed the statue, and cursed and cursed. The statue did not answer.

For days he sat before the lifeless form. The girl had been frozen leaning as if into a leap, with her arms stretched toward him. And the gold seemed but a thin veil, that you couldn’t blame anyone for believing that maybe, by some triumph of the imagination or sheer force of love…that maybe if he just cried or cursed hard enough, or just waited long enough, that maybe she could simply continue her leap out of the statue into his arms (and not be turned into gold a second time).

But days turned into weeks. Nothing happened.

The King went mad. He tore out his hair. He beat his chest. He regretted everything he had done. Not just turning his daughter into gold, but also turning pianos and pina coladas into gold. He regretted having the party. He regretted having the palace in which he could have the party. He even regretted having the friends he could invite to the party. He ate regret and breathed regret. He screamed regret, but Regret stayed inside his head. He slammed regret, the regret inside his head, hard against the wall. But regret did not budge. The thing is, Regret had no legs. It could go nowhere. The King blamed himself. He hated himself. And that’s where he was chained.

It was only when he thought of how much he had loved his daughter that the chain was broken. He wept. Now Sorrow was a country. It had rivers; it had deserts. It had trees, some dead some living. Sorrow took the King’s hand. The King started walking. He added his tears to the rivers; he added them to the deserts. He watered the living trees; and he watered the dead ones too. The main thing was to keep on weeping. And to keep on was to have faith, faith that somehow what he was going through was part of a story that was worth telling. The King walked and walked, through the country of Sorrow, looking for the story, listening for the teller.

Meanwhile inside the statue, the little girl was far from dead.

“Hi there,” she said to Gold.

Upon being addressed by her, the almost-dead Gold came to life. Here’s one daughter of men who did not worship it, who simply said hi, a beautiful stranger who wanted to be a friend. Gone were all the willies. In an instant Gold was free. And it acquired a voice. 

“And hi there to you,” said Gold. It could barely see her through the tears of joy in its eyes.

“What’s your name? And why are you crying?”

“My name is Gold, and I have been looking all over for you for – let’s see – ten thousand years, at least.” 

“I’ve been skipping in the meadow. I’ll take you.”

Gold could not believe its eyes and ears. “It’s you. It’s really you,” it kept saying. It was all Gold could do to keep from falling on its knees and kissing the ground she stood on. Outside, the mountains looked up; the old trees shook; the quiet animals froze in their tracks.

“But I don’t know how to skip,” said Gold.

“Here, I’ll show you.”

The girl reached out her hand, and Gold acquired a hand for her to take. As the two touched, the girl who had set Gold free was herself set free.

“You swing one leg, and then you sorta jump.”

As if time had not passed, the girl who had begun a leap toward her father simply continued the leap through the gold into her father’s arms.

Now the father, who had been wandering in the country of sorrow for what seemed like years, looking for the story whose telling he was, had been listening so hard that he was hearing voices in everything. The sand spoke of thirst, but also of journey, and vision. Many a camel who entered the desert came out a lion. The Trees spoke of people; they grew in proportion to the thoughts of people. When people thought sturdy thoughts, Trees grew deep into the earth and high into the sky. When people thought flimsy thoughts, Trees withered and died. Poetry could not take away the King’s pain, but it did transform his weeping. He wanted to give away his wealth. He wanted to listen to peasant protests. With or without his daughter, he wanted to live.

He sat by a river and listened. The river spoke to him of time, how time can go quickly or slowly, and how one can stand aside or jump in. “Give me your hands,” said the river. “I want in,” said the King.

As he stretched out his arms, as he said yes to life, the river took him, across mind and space back to his palace, back to the golden piano, the golden pina coladas, and the golden statue. And there’s his daughter leaping with perfect ease, out of the statue into his open arms. (And was not turned into gold a second time.)

King Midas became not only a powerful king, but also a wise one who gave away gold, and listened to protests. His story spread all over the world.

~

Time went on by the thousands and tens of thousands. The tale of King Midas and the Talking River faded from memory. People did not believe in it because it wasn’t literal. And the worship of gold resumed in earnest.

Somewhere on this good earth, there was a young man who slept with his gold. During the day he worked with numbers. When gold was one-one-zero he would play hard to get. But when gold flipped its number to zero-zero-one he would pursue it shamelessly. He would beg and howl and get down on one knee. But then after he got that gold in the bag, he would lose all feeling for it and move on to the next gold. That was his work. He was good at it. At the end of the day he would go home to sleep. On his bed were two pillows: one for his head and one for his gold.

And then one night he dreamed of a woman. He was in a high-powered place up on the one‑percent‑ieth floor. There was a gathering of sorts. Everybody sported a number. When a higher-numbered person met a lower-numbered person, the higher-numbered person must greet the lower-numbered person first. Only a lower-numbered person could tell a joke. And the higher-numbered person must laugh whether or not the joke was funny.

Then a woman with flowers in her hair came skippingly through the room. She sported no number, and said hi to whomever she pleased. She laughed out of place – and thus restored laughter to its rightful place. Her name was Thief. Thief sat in front of the young man and stole his number. She took his hand in hers. And he, who for the first time in his life was addressed without regard to his number, felt a comfort such as he had never felt before. He wept and never wanted to let her go.

They walked outside with his hand still in hers. The whole city went hush for them. The sidewalk unrolled; the alleys told them stories; other people came smilingly into being like blossoms in the spring. When they got to his place they stood in silence and stared at their feet. He didn’t know whether he should invite her up.

But he knew that if he did, he would not be the one to say, “Let me show you my numbers.” He knew that it would be her who could show him the true nature of numbers. It would be her who could show him that one was more than two, and that zero, far from being nothing, was egg and mother to all the other numbers. She was out of his league.

Maybe one day he could disagree with her. He could tell her that two was more than one, and zero was a man-made hat that the right magician could pull a rabbit out of, or a dove, or a handkerchief, or a rose. At which point she would counter, “A rabbit maybe, but a rose, definitely not.” They would argue and they would laugh. They could be equal, his Thief and him. But that day was not yet.

He invited her up anyway. That was the second step. She said “no.” And this woke him up.

In morning’s first light he saw that the gold on his pillow was gone. The young man felt  vivified as if he had drank the water of life. This was the first step.

~

Now somewhere in a park, upon a time not far from our own, a family had gathered as if for a picnic. They had spread a blanket under a tree, and placed their pile of gold on it. Then they sat around the gold, and said nothing and looked at nothing. They were down-to-earth folks who simply wanted a better life. They worked hard, and work meant trade. First they traded in their time. One week of father for one carat of gold; one day of mother for one ounce; and a whole lifetime for one bar. Next they traded in their gaze. The better the life they wanted, the more they had to look down. With discipline they formed a habit of never looking up. They did not look up at mountains; they did not look up at each other. In time it became the most natural of things that they did not even look out of windows. When that wasn’t enough, they began trading in their words. They still said “mother,” “father,” but they would not say “neighbour” or “stranger.” They still said “give,” but never next to “free.” And laughter – that most magical of words – they traded that away. 

They still loved one another. Every year they had their picnic. No one ever missed it. And there they sat, with no words to say, and no gaze to look at one another with. Time passed with excruciating slowness. (And that they would sit through the excruciation was the only show of love they had left.) A little bird took pity on them. It twittered over their heads. But they did not hear it. Bird was stranger, and stranger was zero.

Until one time during their picnic a girl came skippingly by. “Hi Gold,” she said to the pile of gold.

“There you are,” said Gold. “I have been looking all over for you.”

“I know,” said the girl. “Want to go skipping?”

“I have been dying to.”

“I know, for ten thousand years at least, right?”

The girl took Gold by the hand, and they were gone. On the spot where the gold had been was left a pile of words.

“Father,” somebody said. “Daughter,” came the answer. “Brother”… “sister.” And everybody looked up. “Mountain,” somebody said. “Tree” …  “squirrel.”

It’s true, the gold they had worked so hard for was all gone. When they got home, they were poor and cold. But now they could say “huddle,” they could say “neighbour,” and they could say “help.” They could say “stranger.” “Stranger” gained a special place in their hearts and in their homes. It was Stranger who took their gold, Stranger who was their zero, their egg, their mother, their child.

To this day word still spreads that a Gold Thief is going around.

~