Free A Fairy Tale by Jonas Bengtsson

says.
    My dad and I are standing in the yard outside the workshop.
    â€œListen, I’ve got something to tell you,” the boss says. “We’ve got a big order from Germany. The Germans can’t get enough of all the old crap we make.”
    An hour later a van arrives, crammed with furniture for us to distress. Anything we can’t find room for in the workshop we leave in the yard and cover with tarpaulin. Then we run out of tarpaulin and the boss goes off to get some more.
    When he returns it has started to snow, and we have to wipe down the furniture before we can cover it.
    In the afternoon we’re still working on the first lot of chairs and tables. We’ve moved inside the workshop; it smells of wet wood, of varnish and coffee grounds. The boss looks over my shoulder while I use a file to scratch the legs of an armchair.
    â€œNot bad at all,” he says.
    On his way out he slaps my dad on the shoulder, chuckles to himself, and mutters something about “child labour.” Then he laughs even louder.
    We don’t leave the workshop until late that evening. I sit in the bicycle’s basket; there are no stars in the sky. I recognize the soreness in my feet like when we’ve walked all day, but it’s the first time I’ve experienced my whole body aching. I like the feeling of having worked hard.
    My dad brings in the chair from the kitchen. His eyes are heavy, but he says we can’t let the King and the Prince sit on the frog all night. Their lips are dry and their stomachs groan with hunger pains. They still can’t see the far shore. The frog starts to tread water again.
    â€œI really am terribly hungry,” it says. “A king and a prince would taste very nice right now.”
    â€œWouldn’t you rather have the meat we packed?” the King asks.
    â€œI thought I ate your packed lunches yesterday.”
    â€œYes, but you didn’t get the meat we intend to sell when we get across.”
    â€œGive it here,” the frog says.
    The King takes off his shoes, very quietly so the frog won’t hear. The Prince does the same. They tie their shoes together by the laces, then they throw them into the frog’s open mouth. The frog munches the leather.
    â€œIt tastes funny,” it says. “And it’s very tough.”
    â€œReal meat is always very tough,” the Prince says. “So that you can chew on it for much longer.”
    the Next morning a van picks up the furniture we’ve finished. The wood is now darker than when it arrived, the seats have been distressed with a steel brush. We need to get it all out of the workshop quickly to make room for the next lot.
    After lunch the boss says he’s had an idea and disappears through the archway. An hour later he returns with thirty brand new alarm clocks. They’re metal and have to be wound up, but the varnish is still shiny and the price tags are still on.
    â€œFor the Germans,” he says, and explains that every time we send off a van full of furniture, we’ll throw in a handful of clocks. “They’re gonna love them.”
    We take the clocks apart and put the hands and the clock faces in a bucket with water and acid.
    I’m quickly given responsibility for the clocks. Once the clock faces are immersed in acid, the varnish starts to bubble up and the clocks look like they’ve been lying in an attic for many years under a leaking roof. The metal casing also needs to be aged. When I’m not busy varnishing an armchair or drilling woodworm holes, I take a new clock from the pile. I smear black shoe polish into the cracks and rub them with sandpaper before putting them outside in the rain.
    The frog is still swimming across the lake. The fog grows so dense that the King and the Prince can no longer see each other. Nor can they see the frog beneath them; they can only feel its slimy skin and hear its stomach rumble. It starts treading water again, but