Like Salt

Once upon a time, there was an old king, and he had three daughters, all of them exceedingly beautiful. The king was wealthy, and of course he spoiled his daughters. He gave them fine dresses and precious jewels. A whole host of servants watched for their every wish. Though the youngest often lingered in the kitchens, and more than once soiled her expensive clothes as she went about her tasks.

But the king always forgave her, for he loved all three of his daughters equally. They brought him what little joy remained in his old days. And also his greatest sorrow. For he had no son at all. No one to become king after him, no one to whom he could leave the kingdom. So his daughters would have to be married. At least one of them.

Suitors came from far beyond seven kingdoms. Word of the daughters’ beauty had travelled far and wide. The king did not wish to decide which daughter should marry first, which one should become queen. He would rather have divided his kingdom into three parts so that each might have her share. But then, with which daughter would he himself live?

And so he decided to give the whole kingdom to the one who loved him the most.

He pondered long on how this might be discovered. At last he resolved to ask them outright. He summoned his daughters before him.

“Now then, my daughters,” he said, “tell me how much you love me.”

“I love you, dear Father, as much as the purest gold and the noblest jewels,” said the eldest, who even then was adorned from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet with the ornaments the king had given her.

“You have answered well, my daughter. And you?” he turned to the middle one.

“I love you, dear Father, as much as the most beautiful garment ever made by human hands,” said the middle daughter, who, as always, was dressed as though she were about to step into the spring ball.

“You too have answered well, my daughter. And you, my youngest?”

“I love you, dear Father, as people love salt,” said the princess, who wore no jewels at all, and had tied a stained apron over her dress so as not to soil it further.

For a moment the king thought he had misheard.

“What did you say, my dear child?” he raised his voice. But the youngest was not frightened. She repeated her answer.

“I love you as people love salt.”

The old king flew into a terrible rage.

“How dare you speak to me with such insolence? I have loved you no less than your sisters. You have received everything, even without asking. And this is the gratitude I am given? Begone from my palace! From my court, from my kingdom itself!”

The young princess tried in vain to explain that people loved salt, that everyone used it, that without it food was inedible. Even the food served at the king’s own table.

The old king was unmoved. He was deeply offended that he had been compared to something so common and worthless as salt. Something that could be found in any peasant’s pantry. The youngest princess had to go. If she loved such peasant things so dearly, then she might as well live among peasants.

Her fine clothes and jewels were taken from her, and she was dressed in a servant’s garments. Soldiers escorted her from the palace. The king declared that she was never to return.

And so the princess went into exile. She truly loved her father, and from his anger she knew how deeply she had disappointed him. She left the palace and walked wherever her feet carried her. She did not look back. In truth, she did not miss anything she had left behind — except her father’s love.

She walked and walked, wandered on, over the highest mountains and beyond. Perhaps she would have walked out of the world itself, when at last the ground truly ended beneath her feet. Before her lay an immense body of water. The great ocean.

But even this did not stop her. She crossed the ocean as well. She did not know that it was not endless, nor that on the other side there was another land.

There were rocks, and fields, and forests. Like her father’s kingdom, and yet it was not home.

She was passing through the edgeless forest when a prince happened to be riding there on a hunt. The prince nearly fell from his horse when he saw the princess’s beauty. He leapt down at once, took her by the hand, and questioned her about who she was and where she came from, for he wished to marry her.

The princess told him who she truly was, and why she had wandered so far from home. The prince’s heart was filled with pity for her. Poor girl, to have answered so foolishly — he thought, yet he only smiled.

“Come with me to my court,” he said. “You will see, you shall lack for nothing. And perhaps your father will soften, when he learns that your husband will one day be king.”

The princess went with him. At the edge of the forest a carriage awaited them, bearing a lion upon its crest. Soon they arrived in a strange city. In the narrow streets most of the houses were built of brick. They were unpainted, as though they were never quite finished. Yet this seemed to trouble the inhabitants not at all. They stepped aside for the carriage and bowed as it passed.

At last they turned into a vast courtyard. The palace was perhaps even larger than her father’s. Only it had no pointed towers, and no curtains at its windows.

The servants bathed the princess and gave her new clothes. Only then did the prince present her to his parents as his future wife. All were pleased with her and showered her with kindness. The king praised his son’s taste, for having found such a beautiful bride.

They held a wedding spoken of far beyond seven kingdoms. It lasted seven days and seven nights. Servants and courtiers bustled everywhere. Even the princess’s father was invited.

When they sat down to dine, and the princess tasted the first bite, her gaze wandered across the laden table.

“What are you looking for, my dear?” asked the prince.

“Only the salt.”

“We English do not use salt.”