The Christmas Pig: A Very Kinky Christmas (4 page)

I
T WASN
’
T THAT
the boy had no emotions. He had them, all right. He just couldn’t quite connect with them in order to express them so others could see. Benjamin was happy and Benjamin was sad, only his moods got all mixed up inside him and resulted in a state of even-mindedness that appeared cold to the conventional eye. Right at the moment, however, he was just a small boy on a seemingly interminable road trip. More than anything else, Benjamin felt tired.

Meanwhile, back on the farm, Aunt Joan was sitting at the little window in her kitchen watching the road, waiting for Benjamin to return. She was well aware that he’d only set out on the journey that very morning, but nonetheless, she found herself already anticipating his arrival back at the farm. She thought with a wry wistfulness of the only time she’d ever really seen the boy laugh. It was a healthy, hearty laugh, just like the fun-loving laughter of other boys his age. Unfortunately, the timing of Benjamin’s laughter had proved to be hideously inappropriate. She remembered the episode quite well.

It had been on a freezing morning perhaps four years ago when Benjamin had been six years old. Joan had been returning from the barn where she’d milked the cow. Suddenly, she’d stepped on a frozen puddle and her feet had gone completely out from under her. She went flying and the milk pail went flying and the next thing she knew she’d hit the ground very hard, certain that she’d broken her back. Standing over her and laughing like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen in his life was Benjamin.

She smiled as she sat in the kitchen thinking about it. After all, she hadn’t been hurt. At least not as much hurt as she felt now. How could she have permitted them to take the child so far away?

“Time is running out!” shouted King Jonjo, as he strode about his royal chambers in his royal underwear. “Where is this magical boy you promised me?”

“The journey may take a week, your majesty,” said Feinberg, pacing along behind the king. “The knights have only been out for four days. Or have the days only been out for four knights?”

“I warn you, Feinberg. No games. Now where are your shoes?”

“I hate to report this, your majesty, but they appear to have run off with your pants.”

The king laughed heartily, perhaps in much the same manner as had the small boy seeing his aunt lying flat and still on the cold, hard ground. The truth was that kings rarely if ever got the opportunity to banter with anyone. To properly banter, the humor ball had to go back and forth from one court to the other, which, of course, was impossible when there was only one court and it belonged to the king. Bantering with King Jonjo was second nature to Feinberg, however. He’d lived on the edge most of his life and he saw no real advantage to his being cautious now. Nonetheless, the thing with the kid was one of the riskiest endeavors he’d ever undertaken. To champion a ten-year-old idiot savant he’d never even met in the hope that the child would please the king, well, this made mere royal bantering look easy. But this was exactly how Feinberg had survived as advisor to the king for all these many years. He knew King Jonjo better than King Jonjo knew himself.

“I want to see the boy!” shouted the king. “I want to look him in the eye!”

“You will, my liege,” said Feinberg soothingly, as if speaking to a child and not a king. “Very soon you will.”

“What if the boy is an imposter?” persisted King Jonjo. “What if he makes a fool of the court?”

“Never happen,” said Feinberg. “This child, your majesty, will become an artist known and appreciated throughout the civilized world. And you, my liege, will be his patron.”

“I’m already his patron,” hissed the king. “I’m everybody’s patron. This is
my
kingdom, in case you have forgotten.”

“Your majesty, the world of art and the world of power are two separate worlds and neither is a respecter of the other. If you are courageous enough to take this chance, you will have the chance to become king of them both.”

“Ahhh,” said the king, as he put on his trousers.

Darkness was falling as the little caravan plodded along down the dusty road. The miles and the hours had taken their toll upon all of them, although Benjamin looked precisely as he had as they’d pulled out of The Mermaid. The boy felt a little different, however, whether or not he showed it. It is difficult enough to be disconnected from the world. That was how he always felt. Now he was also disconnected from the world he knew. Now, like a great spirit in a new universe, totally unsmudged by life, he knew everything he needed to ride into the unknown. Benjamin had never been afraid of the dark. Benjamin had never been afraid of anything. Indeed, he felt at the moment what any little boy would feel, tired.

At last, the party turned off the main road following a sign directing them to lodgings for the night. Soon they noticed fir trees on either side of the road. Then they saw a big lake. Next to the lake was an inn called the Pregnant Sweetheart. The knights took the horses to the stables while Uncle Floyd took the boy to his quarters for the night. The boy was sound asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Uncle Floyd quietly took the little drawing pad and headed down to the pub for a pint.

The place was not crowded and he quickly spotted the three knights at a small table by the bar. They motioned for him to join them and this he did, after signaling the barkeep for a pint.

“The young lad’s a good traveler,” said the White Knight. “Not any trouble at all.”

“He’s never any trouble,” said Uncle Floyd.

“The only trouble he’ll have,” laughed the Black Knight, “is if his work displeases the king.”

“I don’t believe that will be a problem,” said Uncle Floyd confidently. “He paints it as he sees it and there’s nothing worth painting that Benjamin doesn’t see.”

“He didn’t seem to see much today,” offered the Gray Knight. “Head down scribbling all the time or else looking straight ahead at the road.”

“We come to see what we want to see,” said the old farmer. “What the boy misses isn’t worth having.”

“He’ll have his chance soon enough,” said the White Knight. “I figure we’re halfway to the court.” With that, he ordered another round for the table.

Uncle Floyd bore no ill will toward the three gentlemen from the court. They were, he felt, just doing their jobs. Indeed, he saw their intrusion into his family’s life as potentially a great opportunity. It bothered him a bit that his wife did not see it that way, but Joan had always been a worrier. If the lad could successfully complete his commission, his career as an artist would be assured and the farm would be saved. That, to Uncle Floyd, seemed to be worth whatever the risks that might be incurred. He had brought Benjamin’s drawing pad down to the pub to peruse himself. Now he decided to share the boy’s work with his drinking partners. Let them see the true talents of the young lad currently in their charge.

“My lords,” he said, “here is the sketch that Benjamin completed before the noonday sun passed over us in the sky. He had put the sketchbook away entirely many hours before we even so much as turned off the road to this place.”

“Mother of God,” said the White Knight, in a state of genuine shock.

“It’s a perfect representation of this place,” said the Black Knight. “And he’s never been off the farm?”

“Never,” said the farmer.

“He’s not only a great artist,” exclaimed the Gray Knight. “He’s a bloody fortune-teller.”

“Art is a strange thing,” said Uncle Floyd. “Benjamin has a real opportunity here, I believe. Sometimes it takes a century or more for a great artist to be recognized.”

“And who’s got the time for that?” said the Black Knight.

“Wait a minute!” shouted the White Knight. “I’ve found the flaw in the lad’s work. He’s drawn ducks all over the lake but there are no ducks. Where are the ducks?”

The barman, who’d been casually listening to the conversation, now came out from around the bar. He took off his apron, walked over to the table, and craned his neck to see the masterpiece in question.

“Where are the ducks?” repeated the White Knight.

“They were here, all right, your lordship,” said the barman. “Looked just like this picture. Hundreds of ’em. Then the hunters came and killed most of ’em and the rest never came back. Nary a one.”

“Can’t blame ’em,” said the Black Knight. “When was this bloody massacre when the hunters killed the ducks?”

“Ten years ago, your worship.”

“Now, how, in the sacred name of the Lord,” said the Gray Knight, “did this young lad know about the ducks?”

“Benjamin appears to know the past quite well,” said Uncle Floyd. “He also seems to be spot-on when it comes to relating to the future. His only problem is dealing with the present.”

“Join the club,” said the Black Knight.

Uncle Floyd stared thoughtfully into his pint. He really didn’t know how the boy so accurately portrayed the future and the past. He hadn’t a clue as to the source of his wondrous artistic talents. Possibly, only the lad himself knew the answer.

If Benjamin knew, however, he wasn’t talking.

T
HE LITTLE CARAVAN
was halfway through the second day of travel when the highwaymen attacked seemingly out of nowhere. Two of them swept in from the left side of the nearby hedgerow and two more from the back right flank. By the time the White Knight turned around, the Gray Knight had been knocked off his horse and was lying on the ground. One of the highwaymen tried to grab the reins of the horses carrying Uncle Floyd and Benjamin but the White Knight came charging toward him with sword drawn. The White Knight and the highwayman were soon taking broad swipes at each other’s heads with gleaming swords as Uncle Floyd endeavored as best he could to protect the young boy from an errant swing of the steel blades.

Throughout this ordeal, Benjamin expressed almost no emotion. This was partly because of the fact that Benjamin always expressed almost no emotion. It was possible that Benjamin had already witnessed the outcome of this event the day before when he’d seen the White Knight with blood on his hands and Jesus with the ducks.

Suddenly, the sounds of muskets being fired could be heard at close range. The Black Knight shot one of the intruders and the man fell from his horse. Another highwayman pulled out his pistol and took aim at the White Knight, who was still locked in battle with the sword-flailing assailant. The shot went wide, hitting the side of the cart, further spooking the horses and causing Benjamin to place his hands over his ears. The child did not perform this action in a hurried or traumatized fashion but rather in a calm, almost robotic manner. The sound of the pistols, evidently, was irritating his ears. This was, indeed, a distraction because, in the midst of the carnage, the boy had begun to start sketching again. He was drawing the sword fight that was occurring right before his eyes and putting his hands to his ears had caused him to miss the White Knight shoving his sword clear through the gut of his erstwhile opponent. Upon witnessing this, the lad, quite naturally, began sketching again.

These behaviors did not indicate that the young artist was cold or uncaring. It meant merely that he did not express what emotions he felt in a manner that others could see or understand. Some might interpret his attitude as fatalistic to the extreme but this would not necessarily be correct either. A fatalistic attitude would be a rather redundant armament to one who already knew the outcome of any given event. Not that Benjamin could totally predict the future with any more clarity than anyone else. He simply had dreams. He sometimes saw, in waking hours, pictures in his head. He was no different, he felt, from Don Quixote or Joan of Arc, both of whom he’d read about and both of whom he admired, notwithstanding, of course, the fact that one of them, in the purely literal sense, never lived.

Now, as Benjamin looked up briefly from his sketching, he saw the White Knight extracting his blood-red sword from the body of his adversary and he heard yet another musket shot ring out. He watched as the White Knight’s body stiffened rather strangely and his hands went to his heart almost as if he were saying a prayer, which, quite possibly, he was. The White Knight held his blood-covered hands to the sky, and then he dropped to the dust from which all knights are born.

The remaining two highwaymen rode off into the hills. The Gray Knight got up from the ground shaking his head as if to clear the cobwebs and got back on his horse. The White Knight was buried by the side of the road, and a simple wooden cross adorned with his colors was left to commemorate his existence. He had finally met the man on the bridge.

The caravan moved onward toward the court of King Jonjo, with the Black Knight riding on one side and the Gray Knight riding on the other. For his part, Benjamin was currently absorbed in busily, blithely, obliviously sketching in his little art portfolio. Benjamin did not really miss the White Knight. Benjamin had never missed anyone at all.