The Christmas Pig: A Very Kinky Christmas (5 page)

M
AGICAL BOY
! Magical boy!” shouted the king, after downing another hefty swig of absinthe. “Your only effect is to annoy!”

“Now, now, your majesty,” said Feinberg. “The couriers have informed the castle that the boy is inside our gates within five or six hours. His name, by the way, is Benjamin.”

“Ben! Ben! Ben! Ben!” sang the king. “You’re the reason we practice zen.”

It would be funny, Feinberg reflected, if it wasn’t so pathetic. With all the kingly pursuits that the king could and should be pursuing, he invariably managed to obsess upon matters most trivial. Once, his majesty had spent many months poring over the plans for the new croquet court, which, as things had transpired, was never built. Another time, the king had spent countless days coordinating campaign colors with the White Knight, who, incidentally, according to courier dispatches, had recently been vanquished on the road to the court. Easy come, easy go, thought Feinberg, who was not a great devotee of knights in general. Where were they when you really needed them? And now the king had focused entirely, to the exclusion of all other royal affairs, on the rapid creation of the nativity art for the Christmas mass by a young idiot savant whom Feinberg prayed was more savant than he was idiot. If that were not the case, Feinberg feared, he himself would be rapidly regarded as an idiot. And in the court of King Jonjo, that could mean death or worse.

“Ben-jamin! Ben-jamin!” sang the king, helping himself to another adult portion of absinthe. “When, oh, when, will you begin?”

“Really, your majesty,” appealed Feinberg. “When the boy gets here he must rest. Then we must clean him up a bit from his long journey before we can properly present him to the court. After all, your worship, the lad is only ten.”

“Ten! Ten! Ten! Ten!” intoned the king, now up and marching around his private quarters. “The bloody childhood’s got to end! If indeed the child can’t draw,” the monarch continued merrily, “I’ll cut his body with a saw.”

“Your majesty!” cried Feinberg, feigning dismay. Feinberg had become quite adept at feigning dismay over the years. He’d become quite adept at feigning practically everything else as well. That, indeed, was how he’d first gained the confidence of the king. Now, if he could just make it through Christmas Eve with his head still attached to his shoulders. No doubt about it, there was more than just the royal vanity riding on young Benjamin Welch. If the boy were to fail, the entire realm would shudder in the storm of King Jonjo’s royal wrath. At the moment, the king was humming to himself what sounded like a little sea chantey.

“If Ben is slow I shall enjoy,” sang the king, “having the chance to stab the boy.”

“Your majesty!” cried Feinberg, feigning a somewhat subdued state of shock.

One would think a young boy’s eyes would pop right out of his head upon hearing the welcoming trumpets and entering a castle gate for the first time in his life. This, of course, was not the case with Benjamin. Nor was he busily sketching the moat, the castle walls, or the many banners fluttering freely in the breeze. He was merely ending the journey much the way he’d started, sitting stock-still in the seat of the wagon next to his Uncle Floyd. Whatever he was thinking, whatever journeys his mind was traveling, belonged to him and him alone. Benjamin was seemingly unimpressed with what he saw. After all, Benjamin knew all there was to know about moats and castle walls. They’d surrounded and protected his mind, heart, and soul since the day he was born.

“So this is the young gentleman,” said Feinberg, extending a hand of welcome, “who’s going to make the king very proud.”

Benjamin looked at the man’s hand as if it were a chafing dish. Feinberg, after a short hesitation, returned the hand to his side.

“And who would this be?” he asked of the farmer, his ingrained unctuous spirit reviving.

“I’m Benjamin’s uncle, Floyd Welch,” he said, as he shook hands with Feinberg.

“Well, Benjamin’s uncle,” said Feinberg exuberantly. “Welcome to Eddystone Castle! Let’s get the two of you washed up and fed and ready to be presented at the court of King Jonjo first thing in the morning. Several of the king’s servants are on hand to extend special care in helping to bathe and clothe our young artist here. A sumptuous feast has been prepared for both of you, as well. We hope you’ll enjoy the accommodations.”

“There are a few little problems,” said Uncle Floyd politely.

“And these few little problems are?” said Feinberg.

“Benjamin will bathe and clothe himself. If the servants will prepare the washtub and lay out his wardrobe, the lad will be fine. They are not to touch him or wash him, or watch him. Is that clear?”

“Very clear, sir,” said Feinberg grimly. “Is there more?”

“Yes, sire. This feast you have planned—”

“It is to be a very spectacular affair. The royal chefs have outdone themselves.”

“The boy would like oatmeal.”

“Oatmeal?”

“Oatmeal. That’s all he eats.”

“Then oatmeal it is!” said Feinberg with a flourish. “Benjamin will have the finest oatmeal in the kingdom! How does that sound, young man?”

The boy stood still as a rock, his expression changing not a whit, his eyes uncipherable, his soul unknowable. Feinberg observed the child in an attitude of dismay that may not have been entirely feigned. Then he turned back to the boy’s uncle.

“Can the boy hear me?” he asked.

“Of course, sire,” said the farmer. “He is not deaf.”

“Then Benjamin,” said Feinberg glowingly, “you will discover in your chambers the finest easel in the kingdom, made of rare koa wood, a gift from the court to you. Also for you, my lad, a beautiful brand-new canvas and all the paints and brushes you can imagine. While you’re here at Eddystone Castle, feel free to paint to your heart’s content!”

Benjamin showed no reaction whatsoever to this news. Not a muscle in his body twitched, not a flicker could be seen in those odd, robin’s-egg-blue eyes.

“So if there’s nothing else,” said Feinberg, feigning the role of hospitable host, “welcome again to the court of King Jonjo the First. The servants will show you to your quarters. In the morning you shall be presented to the court.”

As the old farmer and the strange young child were being shown to their quarters, Feinberg wondered once again if it all was worth it. His job as advisor to the king for many years had necessitated that he sail as close to the truth as he could without sinking the ship. The truth was an iceberg around which no monarch had ever been able to navigate. The truth was he didn’t know if this kid could do it. He was weird-looking enough to be an artist. But could he even understand the gravity of a commission from the king? Could he complete the work in time for the Christmas midnight mass? And the most troublesome question of all: What was the art going to look like when this child completed it?

Feinberg had virtually everything riding on this. He himself, having overheard comments in court, had first brought the magical boy’s existence to the king. For all he knew the kid’s reputation might be bogus. It might also be likely that the kid might be as uncooperative as he was unresponsive.

For once, Feinberg did not have to feign an attitude. Feinberg was worried. Very worried, indeed.

I
N THE MORNING
, when the servants entered Benjamin’s quarters with yet another bowl of oatmeal, they found the bed unslept in, the easel turned to the wall, and the magical boy nowhere to be seen. They quickly alerted Feinberg and then woke the boy’s uncle, who’d been sleeping in the next room. An all-points bulletin was put out amongst the royal servants and they scattered all about the castle searching for the wayward lad. Hither and thither scurried the servants but they found no sign of Benjamin.

“I can’t understand it,” said Uncle Floyd. “He’s never done this before.”

“He’ll never do it again,” said Feinberg grimly. “I’m to bring him before the king in one hour’s time.”

“It’s so unlike Benjamin to wander off like this,” said Uncle Floyd.

“The king musn’t hear of it,” Feinberg confided. “He’ll think the boy ungrateful.”

“Benjamin is very appreciative of the king’s commission for the painting. He knows it could help us save the farm.”

“How do you know this?” Feinberg pounced. “Did he tell you this?”

“I know Benjamin,” said Uncle Floyd.

As the frenzied minutes ticked away, the two men joined the royal servants in the search for the missing boy. In very different ways, and for very different reasons, both the king’s advisor and the old farmer were deeply troubled by the boy’s disappearance. Uncle Floyd remembered Aunt Joan’s dire warnings about removing the boy from the farm and taking him to the court. He could see his wife crying as she waved goodbye. He could hear her scolding him for doing this to Benjamin.

Feinberg was equally unsettled by the whole experience. He had heard the scuttlebutt around the court even before the boy went missing. He had listened as the knights and noblemen and courtiers whispered and sniggered amongst themselves, referring to the affair as “Feinberg’s Folly.” Now he could hear that phrase ringing in his ears. The boy must be found immediately, he thought.

“The boy could not have left the castle,” said Feinberg, with more confidence than he felt. “We’ll start at the top and work our way down.”

Feinberg was no slouch when it came to divining the future, either. By sheer luck and native instinct, he and the farmer had not searched the perimeter for more than ten minutes when they located the magical boy. He was sound asleep between two turrets, looking for all the world like any other tired ten-year-old. The boy, having no apparent knowledge that the entire royal staff had been furiously searching for him, merely opened his eyes and fixed Feinberg with an eerie blue gaze that cut through his soul like a carving knife. Nevertheless, it was arguable as to which of the two men was most relieved.

“Benjamin!” said Uncle Floyd. “Thank God you’re all right.”

“There you are, my lad!” said Feinberg, with as much joviality as he’d ever felt in his life. “We must not keep the king waiting now, must we?”

The boy looked disreputable, almost as if he’d slept in his clothes, which, of course, he had. It would take a good half hour to get him clean enough to present to the king, thought Feinberg. Maybe longer because the servants could not wash him or even supervise the exercise. Feinberg would have to rely upon the old peasant to make the lad presentable. This being the case, he did his best to hustle both of them back to the boy’s quarters as quickly as he could.

Like most ten-year-olds, Benjamin did not especially like to bathe. Interestingly enough, he did not dislike Feinberg. The cold gaze that had so unnerved the court advisor actually contained no degree of malice whatsoever. It was, instead, the mirror opposite of what one observed in the practiced, cunning, duplicitous gaze of Feinberg himself, and most other humans for that matter. It was the open, trusting unvarnished gaze of a babe, a Christ on the cross, or a ten-year-old magical boy who didn’t know how to miss anyone, but wondered vaguely how his Aunt Joan was doing back on the farm. Feinberg had never seen a person look at him before with a countenance containing no bullshit whatsoever. Pure intellect, pure truth, pure humanity, are qualities that people are not very adept at dealing with, Feinberg being no exception. Feinberg was only different in that he did not show his feelings. In this respect, he was more similar to the boy than he ever could have imagined.

Back in the boy’s room, it was determined that the lad would bathe himself in his uncle’s quarters whilst the servants would provide an appropriate wardrobe for the lad to meet the king. As these royal ablutions were taking place, Feinberg paced back and forth in Benjamin’s empty suite. A strange boy, he reflected, to wander at night through a strange castle to fall asleep in its parapets.

Feinberg noticed the easel in its new position turned facing the wall. He walked over to it and turned it around so he could see the canvas. It was only then that true terror struck deep into his heart. It had not crossed his mind that the magical boy might, indeed, have a sense of humor. He hadn’t figured into the equation the possibility that this odd little genius or idiot savant or whatever the hell he was might be capable of something called ten-year-old mischief.

The painting on the canvas, if one wished to call it that, depicted three stick figures, possibly standing in front of what could be construed as the castle. They might conceivably have represented the boy, the uncle, and Feinberg himself, although they were so ill-fashioned and drawn so crudely it was virtually impossible to determine whom they were actually intended to represent. The painting, indeed, thought Feinberg, looked very much like the work of—well—a ten-year-old.

“If there’s a God in heaven,” said Feinberg to himself, “the king will never see this.”

The trumpets sounded. Benjamin Welch and Floyd Welch were announced to the court of King Jonjo the First and marched in across the blood-red carpet with Feinberg right behind them. On either side of the boy and his uncle, the court was crowded with curious noblemen, knights, and various and sundry members of the royal court all decked out in finery fitting for the occasion. Benjamin entered rather awkwardly, his hands still tightly clapped over his ears. He did not like the sound of trumpets.

“Your royal highness,” said Feinberg reverentially. “I have the unique pleasure and honor of introducing to your majesty one of the greatest young undiscovered talents in the kingdom. May I present Benjamin Welch and his uncle, Floyd Welch.”

The trumpets sounded again. Uncle Floyd bowed deeply to the king, but Benjamin, who’d only moments earlier placed his hands down by his sides, now covered his ears once again, standing almost blasphemously erect in front of the king, and fixing him with his patented robin’s-egg-blue stare. Benjamin liked the sparkle on King Jonjo’s crown. It reminded him of snowflakes on the windowsill.

“Welcome to Eddystone Castle, young Benjamin,” said the king, “and welcome to my court.”

In response, Benjamin brought his hands down slowly to his sides and remained standing mute as a statue before the king. This produced a mild titter amongst some of the courtiers, which King Jonjo silenced immediately by raising his scepter approximately a quarter of an inch.

“Your majesty,” interjected Feinberg, “the boy does not speak.”

“Very wise,” said the king. “If only the rest of my subjects could follow his lead.”

The silent court grew silenter still. The curious contented themselves with gawking at the little boy, obviously uncomfortable in his courtly apparel, and his uncle, for whom no proper wardrobe had been prepared, standing in the midst of all the royal finery in the overalls and boots of a simple farmer.

“Your majesty,” said Feinberg, “the boy can hear you well and understands implicitly what you say. May I suggest your highness explain to Benjamin what is required of him and direct any questions to his uncle or to myself.”

“Very well,” said the king. “Benjamin, it has long been my policy to treat children like adults and adults like children. In other words, I shall not patronize or beat around the bush with you because of your young years. Do you understand me, lad?”

The boy looked at the king as if he were watching the rear end of a horse as it flicked its tail. He did not so much as nod or blink an eye. King Jonjo continued undeterred.

“Before I give you your instructions, there is another matter I wish to address. It has been brought to my attention by persons close to the court that through your art you are able to predict the future. Is it true, my lad?”

Benjamin, of course, said nothing. The king matched him stare for stare. The court held its collective breath to see which of the two would first blink. At last, Feinberg jumped in between them, in a gallant effort to save the pride of the king.

“Your majesty has inquired whether or not this young child can predict the future,” he said. “Perhaps the question could be best answered by the lad’s uncle.”

“Very well,” said the king, turning slightly on his royal throne toward Uncle Floyd. “Can this lad of yours, sir, predict the future?”

“Sometimes he can, your majesty,” he said, with a little bow, “and sometimes he can’t.”

“What good is that?” shouted the king.

The assembled members of the court voiced their approval of the sentiment, nodding their heads and shouting, “Hear! Hear!” Again Feinberg, sensing the situation was spinning out of control, insinuated himself into the proceedings.

“Your worship,” he said, “perhaps we are getting a bit far afield from our purposes here today. Whether or not the boy can speak, whether or not he can predict the future, whether or not, indeed, he is truly a magical boy, these matters can be pursued at our leisure. We stand here less than two fortnights away from the traditional royal Christmas midnight mass, an event of great gravity and significance not only to the court but to all the subjects of the realm. The question is, can the child standing mutely before your majesty and the court create a work of art depicting the traditional nativity scene, the birth of our Savior, that shall engender joy and inspiration to all the people of the kingdom? And can he do it very quickly?”

King Jonjo paused to puff on his pipe and to absorb the words of the royal advisor. To the members of the court it seemed unclear if the odd young lad standing in front of him had indeed heard or understood anything that had transpired. Who could safely place such an august assignment in the hands of such a boy? Was it wise for the king to grant a royal commission to one so young, so inscrutable, and so unknown to the court? Only King Jonjo could make this fateful decision from which the entire kingdom might well reap a bitter harvest.

The king seemed to be taking his time. The boy might as well have been made out of marble. The court whispered and twittered with doubt and uncertainty. Feinberg privately feared that this time he might have overstepped himself. He’d made a career out of betting on the long shot and watching it come through. This time, however, he wasn’t so sure. Nevertheless, his future was irretrievably intertwined with the success of this peculiar endeavor. He was the one in the first place who’d introduced the king to the notion of the magical boy. He was the one who’d seduced the king into believing in the lad’s prowess. Sometimes, thought Feinberg, you’ve just got to play it as it lays.

“Benjamin Welch,” the king intoned in a deep, stern voice, almost as if he were pronouncing a death sentence, “I hereby entrust you with the royal task of delivering a finished and satisfactory piece of art before midnight on the Eve of December 25, the birthday of our Lord. The art must be pleasing to the eyes of the king. Mr. Floyd Welch?”

“Yes, your majesty,” said Uncle Floyd, stepping forward and bowing once again.

“Does this young man, Benjamin Welch, understand the terms of the royal commission I am about to entrust to him? Does he fully realize that, if completed successfully, it will surely bring him great riches? But if he fails to deliver the work of art in timely fashion, or if his creation displeases the royal court, I will take it not only as an insult to my royal throne but also as an offense to the child who was born on that day.”

“He understands, your majesty,” said the farmer in a clear voice.

“If Benjamin Welch completes the royal commission successfully, the entire kingdom shall rejoice!” said the king. The gathered court greeted this pronouncement with an encouraging display of light applause. Feinberg allowed himself to beam beatifically upon Benjamin. Benjamin, of course, showed no reaction whatsoever to the proceedings.

“If he fails,” said the king, “those responsible shall suffer the fate of a thousand scoundrels.” The assembled court shuddered as one at the dark thought. Feinberg’s face became suddenly almost as void of emotion as Benjamin’s.