The Sack of Truth
It makes many years in Spain since there was a king who had only one daughter. Since the Infanta was born she had been
sickly. Years passed. As she grew older she grew no better; the royal doctors oculd find no cure for her malady.
“If the doctors of Spain are know-nothings, we will send for those of other countries,” said the King.
That brought doctors from everywhere, and only one of them could mention a cure. He was a small Arabian doctor and he said:
Send for the finest pears in Spain. Enough of them will cure her.”
So the King ordered pears – baskets of them. Whoever should bring in the best ones and cure the Infanta should have the wish
of his heart granted. The King swore it by the good Santiago, patron saint of all Spain.
Many came bringing good pears and bad pears, yellow and green pears, juicy and withered pears; and the Infanta would eat none
of them.
Outside a small village there lived a peasant with three sons. Close to their hut grew a pear tree that every summer was covered
with heart-shaped, fragrant pears, the color of gold.
One day thepeasant said to the oldest son: “Take a basket, fill it with pears, take it to the King’s palace andsee can you not dure
the INfanta.”
The oldest set out with his basket, covered to keep the insects off. On the road he came up with a sad-faced woman carrying a
little child. She stopped him and asked: “Boy, where are you going?”
“That isn’t your business.”
“What does your basket hold?”
“Horns!”
“Then let them be horns!”
Sure enough. When the oldest son reached the palace and uncovered his basket, it was filled with horns. So angry was the King
that he ordered him thrown into the dungeon.
After a bit, when the oldest son did not return, the peasant said to the second son: “Something has happened to your brother. Go
you, fill a basket with pears and try your luck.”
The second son set out. On the road he came up with the sad-faced woman carrying the little child. She stopped him and asked:
“Boy, where are you going?”
“That isn’t your business.”
“What does your basket hold?”
“Stones.”
“Then let them be stones!”
Sure enough. When the second son reached the palace and uncovered his basket, it was filled with stones. If the King had been
angry before, now he was purple and bursting. He ordered the second son thrown into the dungeon with his brother.
After a bit, when neither son returned, the peasant caught the youngest, whose name was Pedro, filling a basket under the pear
tree. He was sad, frightened. “What are you doing?” You cannot go. How shall I run the farm with no sons? Why should you be
thinking hat the youngest will succeed where the oldest has failed?”
The youngest shook his head. No one had ever thought him very clever, only kind and willing and cheerful. “There is the old
saying, you know,” he said at last – “’The fingers of one hand are never equal.’ I may find luck where my brothers missed it.”
So Pedro set out with his basket of pears. ON the road he came up with the sad-faced woman carrying a little child. She stopped
him and asked: “Boy, where are you going?”
“Mother, I am going to the King’s palace>”
“What does your basket hold?”
“Pears, to cure the Infanta of her long sickness.”
And he thought to himself: “I must not be greedy with those pears. There is the old saying – ‘He who plays the fox for a day,
pays for a year.’” So he uncovered the basket quickly, took out a pear and held it towards the child, saying: “Nene, would you
like it? It is for you.”
The woman took it for the child, smiling, and said: “Then let them be pears to cure! And for the one you have given away, ask
what you will in return.”
Pedro thought hard: “I would like a whistle which will call to me any animal I choose when I blow it.”
“Here it is,” said the woman, and she drew out of her kerchief a silver whistle strung on a cord so that Pedro could hang it
around his neck.
When he arrived at the palace and uncovered his basket before the King, there were the pears, heart-shaped, fragrant, the color
of gold. The King was overcome with joy when he saw them. “They are the best pears in the world!” he cried. “We will take
them to the INfanta and see will she eat one.”
The Infanta ate one – two – three. She would have eaten them all if the corut doctore would have let her. Already there was a
faint health showing in her cheeks.
“What do you want?” asked the King.
“My brothers.”
The King had them released. Pedro was grateful. He thought of the old saying: ‘Gratitude is better scattered than kept in one’s
pocket.’ So he climbed the nearest mountain, blew on his whistle and called to him a wild hare. This he carried to the King.
“Mark him, he is yours. Then free him. When I come back I will call him to you again. It shall be a sign between us of two men
of honor.”
But the King was astonished. “That is beyond you power to call back a wild hare. Nevertheless, if you do it, you shall marry the
Infanta.”
Over the world went Pedro with his silver whistle; calling to him creatures of all kinds, great and small, fierce and gentle. These
he used in good service to others, and you can see how that might be.
At the end of a year he returned to Spain and the King’s palace. But while he was still a long way off he blew for the hare and it
came running to him, the King’s mark still on him. The King saw them approaching from the balcony, the hare under Pedro’s
arm. He called fro his prime minister. “There is that boy back again and with him the wild hare. You must bargain the creature
away or I shall have to let him marry the Infanta.”
Pedro sold the hare to the minister for a pound of gold. And when he had gone he whistled the hare back to him.
From his balcony the King watched. He saw what had happened. He was frantic – frantic. He called the under-minister. “Go
bargain for that hare; and after you have paid for it, see that you don’t lose it as the prime minister did. Hurry, hurry.”
The underminister had to pay two pounds of gold for the hare; and before he had reached the palace gates with it, Pedro had
whistled it back again. “This is terrible – terrible!” said the King when he saw what had happened. This time he sent the Infanta,
who returned saying that Pedro would only bargain with the King.
So the King went. Pedro drew him into the shadow of a plane tree. “You may have the hare for nothing, Your Majesty, if – you
will kiss him.”
The King was outraged. But what could he do? “Look carefully about. Is there anyone looking?” he asked.
“No one.”
The King kissed the hare, just where Pedro’s finger pointed. He followed the King back to the palace. Inside, in the Hall of
Justice, before the entire court, Pedro asked: “You will keep your promise, yes? I marry the Infanta?”
But the King did not want that. Who ever heard of an Infanta of Spain marrying the son of a peasant? It was abominable. He
must think a way out. The prime minister thought of it and whispered in the King’s ear: “Tell him he must take a sack, travel the
world over and fill it with truth.”
The King told Pedro what he must do first if he was to marry the Infanta.
“Good. Fetch me a sack.”
The King sent for a large sack.
Pedro took it. He opened the mouth of it until it gaped wide. He said: “I have no need to travel to find truth enough to fill it. King,
answer me: Is it not the truth that I brought a basket of the best pears to the palace?”
“It is.”
“Truth, go into the sack,” and he made a motion as if flinging it inside. “King, is it not the truth that those pears cured the
Infanta?”
“It is.”
“Truth, go into the sack. King, is it not true that I gave the wild hare t oyou as a sign between us of two men of honor?”
“It is.”
“Truth, go into the sack. King is it not the truth that you put your mark upon that hare, freed it; and that I brought it back to you
again?”
“It is.”
“Truth, go into the sack. King, is it not the truth that in order to escape your promise and get the hare from me you kissed …”
“Stop!” said the King. “The sack is full of truth.”
“And I marry the Infanta?”
“Agreed.”
In a day they were married; in a year they had a son; in another year, a daughter. But it took a lifetime for them to get to the end
of their happiness.
from Picture Tales from Spain by Ruth Sawyer