A Fairy Tale by Jonas Bengtsson Read Free Book Online

don’t care, either.”
    The sound of people disappears behind us. The professor opens a door and we enter a small office. Every wall is lined with bookcases; below a high window, an old desk is completely covered with papers and books. The professor pulls out a brown leather office chair that’s worn through in many places. He pats the back of the chair.
    â€œYou should’ve been sitting here,” he says. “You should’ve been sitting here now.”
    My dad makes no reply and the professor starts riffling through the papers on the desk. He moves books and puts them down on the seat of the chair. A bunch of keys appears and the professor hands them to my dad.
    â€œI won’t be needing these after today.”
    We follow the professor out of the office and down several other corridors. Then he stops. He leans against the wall and wheezes.
    â€œI can’t go on. You know the way.”
    My dad pulls him into an embrace. The professor’s eyes are wet and he kisses my dad’s cheek.
    Then I’m dragged along again. Several times I’m close to stumbling; the toes of my shoes scrape across the floor.
    On our way down the stairs my dad picks me up and throws me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
    We walk through a small room filled with books and dust, through a large room with a blackboard and lots of benches, through a big closet with brooms, and a kitchen with tiles and steel sinks. My dad uses every single key. We emerge into a courtyard.
    My dad glances up at the small windows that look like eyes. Then he pulls the cap over my ears and we walk out through the archway. We walk as fast as we can without running. My dad keeps looking over his shoulder.
    â€œYou must always keep an eye out for the White Men,” he says.
    When I lie in my bed that night, I ask my dad how I’ll know the White Men.
    He has told me about them before; I know that they’re the Queen’s helpers, and the King and the Prince are always in danger of being captured by them.
    â€œIt’s difficult,” he says. “There are lots of little things you need to look out for. The expression in their eyes. Most of the time they look like ordinary people. They seldom transform themselves, and only when they think they’re alone with their victim. Then their heads become those of eagles, lions, or wolves. That’s when they’ll bite and tear you apart.”
    I ask my dad if the White Men are evil; I’m almost sure he’ll say yes. But he shakes his head.
    â€œThey’re only doing what the White Queen tells them to. They don’t know the difference between right and wrong.”
    I lie awake thinking about the White Men that night. I hope I’ll be able to recognize them.

I ’ m drawing a dragon. I practice in the sketchbook before copying it out on a piece of cardboard. The dragon has snake eyes, its brows point downwards like a V, it’s angry. Its tongue is forked and its teeth are very sharp.
    I colour in the neck. I use greens and blues. The dragon should look as if it lives in a lake or a bog, perhaps. It has just poked its head out of the water because it can smell people or animals it can eat.
    I’ve been drawing the dragon since I got up. I don’t hear the sounds from the courtyard or the ticking of the clock. My only thought is to make the dragon as scary as possible. Right now it’s harmless. Its head is bigger than its body. Its claws look small and ridiculous. The sun is high in the sky and I know that the boy’s waiting for me downstairs. I’ve decided I don’t want to see him again. I colour in the tail of the dragon. I wonder if the boy is busy feeding cheese to the rats in the courtyard. I pick up the dark green colouring pencil in order to draw the scales on the dragon’s body. My pencil stops drawing.
    The boy is grinning as I step out of the main door. He looks as if he knew all along that I would