A Fairy Tale by Jonas Bengtsson

shoot a snake through its heart. I’m not really sure where a snake’s heart is, so I guess.
    At noon my dad emerges from the bushes. He has leaves in his hair, aphids in his beard, and small scratches on his neck.
    â€œI look like a troll, don’t I?”
    Together we walk up to the house. The old lady has set out food for us on a small, white metal table on the terrace. Fabric napkins have been slipped under the plates. The bread we eat isn’t rye or white bread, it’s dark and sweet. The egg salad tastes fantastic. My dad says the lemonade is made with fresh lemons. Apart from that he doesn’t say much, but he smiles while he chews. The chainsaw lies so close that he can reach out and stroke the metal with his hand.
    I listen to noises from the house and keep my eyes glued to the front door. The house creaks, but the old lady doesn’t appear. She must know that it would be impossible to swallow a single bite if she were standing in front of us.
    After lunch I follow my dad to the first row of bushes and find my sketchbook in the grass.
    I’m drawing when a young man comes cycling down the path and out between the trees. His bicycle is like my dad’s, a butcher’s bike. He swings his leg over the crossbar and jumps off while it’s still moving. He grabs the large wicker basket from the front; he has to lean to the side to haul it up to the terrace. There, another basket is waiting for him. He picks up an envelope, puts it in his inside pocket, and takes the basket. It looks lighter; perhaps it’s empty. He walks back to the bicycle, slowly, like someone who has promised himself not to run. His lips are moving slightly, I think he’s talking to himself. Then he stops, he has seen me on the grass. He stares at me as if I don’t fit in, as if I shouldn’t be sitting here, drawing. He takes a few steps towards me. Then he turns around again. As he leaves the garden, he stands upright on the pedals.
    The midges buzz around our heads; my dad has just come out from between the trees. He gives me a quick kiss on my forehead.
    â€œWe’re going home shortly.”
    He goes to the car in the shed. I hear the sound of tools, hear him talk in there, but I can’t make out the words.
    I’m waiting on the furthest board on the terrace. I let my legs dangle over the edge. If shadows from the trees reach my feet, the old lady will come and get me. The shadows look like fat fingers, they point at me as they slowly creep up on me. When they’re less than half a metre from the toes of my shoes, my dad reappears. He has dark spots on his face, and his teeth glow yellow in the dark.

I follow my dad’s finger with my eyes. Two men are standing in the archway leading to the courtyard of the building where we live. They’re both wearing jeans and windbreakers over their shirts. I nearly fall off when my dad slams on the bike’s brakes.
    â€œLook how they stand,” he whispers into my ear. “Notice how hard they try to look as if they just happen to be there. Far too relaxed. Smoking casually.”
    I narrow my eyes, but struggle to see anything other than two men in an archway.
    â€œDo you remember what I told you about the White Men?”
    â€œThe Queen’s helpers?”
    â€œYes, them.”
    â€œAre they the White Men?”
    â€œI don’t know. But I don’t think we should try to find out.”
    We get back on the bicycle. We ride out of city until the tarmac turns into gravel, which later turns into hardened earth. When we can no longer see the city lights, my dad pulls over. He paces up and down, then he sits down against a tree and smokes. I try to be quiet. I don’t want to disturb him while he’s thinking.
    Two cigarettes later he gets up.
    â€œI think we might have to move again.”
    We cycle down the path to the old lady’s house. The colours are smudged. Dark branches reach out for us, like the