The Christmas Pig: A Very Kinky Christmas (2 page)

W
ITH A GREAT CLATTER
of hooves and the blare of trumpets, three knights rode out of the castle that afternoon on commission from the king. The gravity of their task did not evade them. King Jonjo was a stickler on matters of tradition. If the magical boy did not exist, for example, or if they couldn’t find him and fetch him to the court in a timely fashion, there could be hell to pay.

“I could strangle Feinberg with my own hands,” said the Black Knight, as he rode through the drizzle toward the northern coastline.

“He has the auditory prowess of a blind man,” said the White Knight. “He hears every whisper in the court.”

“Aye,” said the Gray Knight, as he reined his horse away from another large puddle of muddy water. “But this grand experiment may yet come to be known as Feinberg’s Folly. Commissioning a mere child to create a work of such import and magnitude could well serve to humiliate the royal court. If ill-conceived or biblically inaccurate it could make King Jonjo the laughingstock of all Christendom.”

“One never wishes ill to the king, of course,” said the White Knight, “but at least it would put an end to Feinberg and his bloody shoes.”

“Hear! Hear!” shouted the Black Knight, as he inadvertently galloped through a large puddle, splashing all three well-turned-out riders with muddy, freezing water.

The journey took the better part of the day and some of the night and it was pissing down rain by the time they arrived at their destination. The place was called Long Lama, a small, desolate farming and fishing community that had been slowly dying for more than a hundred years. Long Lama was quite off the beaten path and none of the three had ever been there before. Their fervent hope was that they would never be there again.

They put up for the night at the only place they could find, a dreary-looking little affair named The Mermaid. Deep inside the storm and the darkness they could hear the fateful, foreboding sounds of the sea crashing, unfriendly and unbidden, close within the narrow crawl space of their aristocratic souls. They no longer looked like royal messengers for the king as they handed over the reins of their horses to a big fellow with an unkempt red beard who gave every appearance of being a Viking just off the ship.

“We’re on commission from the king,” said the White Knight to the Viking.

“Right ye are, my lord,” said the big man winking broadly. “And I was just having tea with the Duchess of Shitesbury.”

“Ever hear of a magical boy who lives around here?” asked the Black Knight. “Some consider him to be quite the artist?”

“Hear of him?” said the Viking indignantly. “Found the little bugger myself! Found him in a wee basket on me doorstep on a stormy night like this some ten years back it was. Some say a mermaid brought him in from the sea.”

“And some say the boy has never spoken,” said the White Knight. “Is that correct?”

“I have never heard him speak as you and I speak, my lord.”

“So the boy is retarded?”

The Viking laughed heartily as he finished putting the horses up for the night. He continued to chuckle to himself as he led the noblemen to their quarters.

“There are two kinds of sailors,” said the Viking at last. “The sailor who fights the sea, and the sailor who loves the sea. The lad is retarded only to them who do not realize he is a genius.”

“I see,” said the White Knight, which, of course, was unlikely. That was because he was a nobleman and not a Viking.

The three travelers weathered a drafty, rather sleepless night, with the raw power of the sea pounding relentlessly into their waking and sleeping senses. During the long course of the night they each experienced strange and strikingly similar dreams, which, being bound by aristocratic bloodlines, they did not choose to share with one another in the morning. The dream was of a lighthouse-keeper and an extremely vivid, passionate union he once consummated with a mermaid.

B
EING A KNIGHT
is not all it’s sometimes cracked up to be. From cradle to grave they see nothing but the dank, barren insides of castle walls, empty suits of armor, the wrong end of catapults, and walk-in closets filled with uncomfortable, ridiculous wardrobes they are compelled to wear. Born into the aristocracy, they become the most culture-bound of all human beings and then suddenly, without merit or crime, real people in the real world are thrust with careless abandon upon their delicate sensitivities and misguided value systems. And, to add to that, no one had seen a dragon in several centuries.

Thus it was that the three emissaries from the king, in all their mud-splattered royal finery, after a fine breakfast of kippers, rode out of The Mermaid the next morning in search of a child who could not speak. Conversing amongst themselves, they were beginning to wonder if the journey was going to be worth it. Accustomed as they were to doing the bidding of the king, they were, nonetheless, highly doubtful that this little adventure would ever, indeed, bring glory to the court or to themselves.

“What balderdash!” muttered the Black Knight. “A
child
painting a
child.”

“Maybe that is the method in the madness,” reasoned the Gray Knight.

“Of course, one hates to wish ill upon the king,” offered the White Knight.

“That, my friend, is exactly what I fear shall happen,” said the Black Knight. “The king will be made to look the fool. Then he will seek vengeance upon those closest to his majesty.”

“And that, unfortunately,” concluded the White Knight, “appears to be us.”

With a sense of almost palpable foreboding hanging over their noble heads, a situation that was not alleviated by the gloomy and threatening heavens above, the three chanced upon a small wooden bridge over a shallow ravine. Crossing the bridge in single file, they came upon a dark, hooded figure standing in their path. The spectral being appeared to be that of an old man holding a scythe.

“What riders are ye?” he shrieked in an eerie, birdlike voice.

The noblemen glanced nervously at one another. This was a character they had never encountered in their fortunate and somewhat shallow lives.

“We come from the king,” shouted the White Knight at last.

“There is no king,” said the wizened old man. “There is only the imagination of a child.”

“He is a blasphemous old fool,” said the Black Knight to the others. “Still, he may be able to help us.”

But before he could address the old man further, the ghostly creature advanced upon them. He came very close indeed but they still could not discern his face.

“What do you want with the magical boy?” said the man on the bridge.

The riders exchanged startled glances. Could this faceless old codger read their minds?

“We want to bring the magical boy to the king,” said the White Knight.

“There is no king,” said the man on the bridge. “There is only the love of a friend.”

“Maybe there is no magical boy,” said the Gray Knight.

“The magical boy lives,” said the wraithlike figure.

“He may live,” said the Black Knight, “but you will die now, old man.”

With that, the three riders spurred their steeds directly toward the man on the bridge. Suddenly, the air became very cold and the daylight around them vanished into darkness. Oddly enough, the horse-men could not seem to make physical contact with the man on the bridge. They had seemingly ridden right through the ancient fellow, and yet, there he was, still standing on the bridge.

“Why didn’t he die?” the Gray Knight asked aloud.

“I am Death,” said the man on the bridge.

L
IFE ALWAYS SEEMS
full of promise after a brush with Death and so the three emissaries now redoubled their efforts to find the magical boy. Indeed, following the Viking’s simple directions, it was not long before they came upon the small, rather dilapidated farm they took to be their destination. They were greeted by a skinny farmhand and a skinny dog. The farmhand, who resembled a young Don Quixote, introduced himself as Will Wallace.

“We are sent from the king,” said the White Knight, “to find the magical boy.”

“You have come to the right place,” said Will Wallace. “Just now, unfortunately, the lad is eating his oatmeal and cannot be disturbed.”

The knights exchanged quizzical glances as the farmhand then proceeded to usher them into a clean, if rather humble, living room. They could hear the voices of a man and a woman murmuring in the nearby little kitchen.

“Just what is so magical about this magical lad?” the Black Knight inquired of the farmhand.

“He can paint your dreams,” said the farmhand.

“I see,” said the Black Knight, but, of course, he did not.

A few moments later, as the farmhand was bowing his way out, an elderly couple entered the room and introduced themselves. The farmer and his wife were understandably curious as to why three men garbed in such mud-splattered refinement were currently gracing their living room.

“Welcome to our little farm,” said Uncle Floyd Welch, the farmer.

“Is there anything we can get you?” asked his wife, Aunt Joan.

“We have come to see the magical boy,” said the White Knight. “We are here to take him to the court of King Jonjo the First.”

“Benjamin cannot travel, your lordships,” said the wife, casting a worried look into the kitchen and moving slightly closer to her husband. “We are not his true parents but we took him in as a babe and since then he has never set foot outside our little farm.”

“Benjamin thinks of us as his Aunt Joan and Uncle Floyd,” said the farmer, “but the truth is he has no known blood relatives. He was a gift to us and, as you may know, he has a great gift as an artist. That, I presume, is how his majesty became aware of Benjamin.”

“That is correct, sir,” said the Black Knight. “The king is desirous of paying Benjamin a very substantial commission to paint the traditional nativity scene to be formally unveiled at the conclusion of the midnight mass on Christmas Eve.”

“Well,” said Uncle Floyd, “I won’t say we couldn’t use the money. We’re deeply in debt and could well run the risk of losing our little farm.”

“Dear,” said Aunt Joan firmly to her husband, “I won’t allow this to happen. The boy is unable to travel and even if he could make the trip, he is unable to speak to the king.”

“The boy does not speak,” Uncle Floyd confided to the knights.

“The boy does not have to speak to the king,” the Black Knight intoned. “The king, however, has commanded that the boy appear before him. And so it shall be.”

Aunt Joan took out a small handkerchief and began to quietly weep. Uncle Floyd put his arm around her shoulders protectively. The knights retired to a corner and conferred amongst themselves. In the kitchen, the magical boy continued to eat his oatmeal. Unlike most small boys, Benjamin liked oatmeal. He did not like small boys, however. This, very possibly, was because of the fact that he had never met one.

Indeed, the only three human beings the little lad had interacted with in the course of his young life had been Uncle Floyd, Aunt Joan, and Will Wallace, the farmhand. He spent his time reading, walking alone in the nearby woods, or painting in the old barn, which Aunt Joan liked to refer to as his studio. He did not even feel any particular closeness to the dog or the cat or the other animals on the little farm. He was a magical boy all alone in his lonely, magical world. And now he had finished his oatmeal.

“Well, well,” said the White Knight, as Benjamin unwittingly walked into the room, “here’s the young lad now.”

Benjamin stopped and rocked slightly as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff. He had not seen men like these before and now one of them was holding out his hand to him. Benjamin had witnessed his Uncle Floyd occasionally shaking hands with other men, but he had never willingly touched another person in his life. He did not do so now. In fact, he stood perfectly still, listening to the rain begin to fall on the straw roof.

The Knight withdrew his proffered hand and observed the young lad more closely. He was small for his age. Red hair. Eyes blue as a robin’s egg. And those unearthly blue eyes were staring right at him. Nay, they were staring right
through
him. They were staring into the very depths of his soul, which, in this case, amounted to a fairly short journey. Nonetheless, it served to make the courtier mildly uncomfortable.

“Why is he just standing there?” said the knight. “Can he hear me?”

“Of course he hears you,” said Aunt Joan. “He is not deaf.”

“Then why does he keep staring at me?”

“Maybe he wants to paint your dreams,” she said.

Moments later, the strange redheaded lad had disappeared as abruptly as he had arrived. The three gentlemen from the court had been conferring again in the corner of the room and when they looked up, he was gone.

“The kid appears and vanishes almost as quickly as Feinberg’s shoes,” said the White Knight.

“The kid gives me the creeps,” said the Black Knight.

“Get used to it,” said the Gray Knight. “We’re taking him back to the court with us.”

It was beginning to rain a little harder now, but Uncle Floyd seemed determined to show his courtly visitors the lad’s work. When his guests discovered that the piece of art in question resided in the nearby barn, they at first balked at the idea. Finally, reasoning among themselves, they decided that their elegant plumage was already a drooping mess and a short dash to the barn would have little effect upon their wounded vanities. They also felt, quite logically, that before they proceeded to drag this odd lad halfway across the kingdom, they ought to at least discover for themselves some evidence that he could actually paint.

They navigated their way through the rain to the old barn, the White Knight helping the old farmer, the Black Knight cursing every puddle he stepped in, and the Gray Knight seemingly becoming one with the color of the rain. At last they came to the old decrepit barn, which felt as damp and dank as a lighthouse except there was no light. The old structure creaked and howled with every gust of wind and the musty smells of the barnyard animals were somewhat stifling. Finally, Uncle Floyd lighted a lantern and they saw a skinny brown cow, an old white, swaybacked horse, a dirty lost-looking little lamb, a balding old rooster, a thin, lazy-looking brown dog, an angry-looking black cat, and a runty little brown and white pig.

“Fine menagerie you have here,” said the White Knight.

“They look like rejects from Noah’s Ark,” muttered the Black Knight.

“Where’s the kid’s painting?” said the Gray Knight.

Uncle Floyd led the three knights deeper into the gloomy old barn where they saw a small easel and a little wooden chair. As the farmer held the lantern up to Benjamin’s most recent work, the three intrepid travelers peered intensely at it with an equal mixture of horror and disbelief.

“And you say the lad has never been off the farm?” asked the White Knight incredulously.

“That’s why I worry about the journey to the court,” said Uncle Floyd. “Benjamin’s never set foot off this place in his life.”

The painting was a precise replication of the little wooden bridge near the town of Long Lama. The same bridge the riders had traversed earlier that morning. Standing on the bridge was a hooded figure holding a scythe. Under the hood, the figure had no face. Only a skull.