The Christmas Pig: A Very Kinky Christmas (6 page)

“It shall be done,” said King Jonjo, pointing his royal scepter directly at Benjamin.

The boy did not flinch. He liked the royal scepter. It looked like it was covered with fireflies.

E
ARLY THE NEXT MORNING
the little wagon with its entourage departed from the gates of Eddystone Castle. There were no trumpets this time, for which Benjamin was eternally grateful, though, of course, he didn’t show it. The caravan consisted of different personnel for the return trip. Instead of the White, Black, and Gray Knights, there was the Blue Knight and the Green Knight and a nobleman whose title was Sir Myers of Keswick. Feinberg had vouchsafed to Uncle Floyd prior to departure that Sir Myers was one of the highest-ranking noblemen in the realm. This was a good sign, Feinberg had stated, because it indicated that the king had confidence in the boy’s abilities. Uncle Floyd had confidence in the boy as well. He just wasn’t sure if any artist on earth, much less a child, could create a masterpiece in three weeks’ time.

Feinberg, in spite of the ebullient send-off he’d given to Benjamin and his uncle, had his doubts as well. He’d personally destroyed the crude, offending, stick-figure canvas the boy had left in his quarters. He did not want even a servant to see the monstrous thing. Feinberg had had a night to sleep on it and now he prayed that it was a childish prank and did not represent the high-water mark of the lad’s abilities. The boy’s uncle had shown Feinberg an excellent drawing of an inn called the Pregnant Sweetheart complete with ducks on a lake that he purported to be the work of the child. He’d also made the rather outlandish assertion that the boy had drawn it many miles before he’d, indeed, arrived within sight of the place.

The two surviving knights—the White and Black—no, no, it was the
Gray
and the Black, the White Knight had been vanquished. Feinberg never could keep the knights straight. Anyway, several of them had reported witnessing the boy scribbling in his drawing pad along the journey but that alone did not totally corroborate that the Pregnant Sweetheart was his work. Regrettably, Feinberg had no firsthand evidence that the boy had ever painted anything of merit. Feinberg was going by his gut and just at the moment his gut was upset.

Uncle Floyd had packed the paints and brushes and the new canvas into the wagon and thanked Feinberg profusely. The old farmer was tired of traveling and tired of the court and he knew that Benjamin was, too. If they could just get back to the farm without more death and destruction the boy could rest up and then do a masterful job of fulfilling the trust the king had placed in him. And how happy his wife would be, thought Uncle Floyd, to see the two of them arriving safely home.

“You should be very proud of your nephew,” said Sir Myers of Keswick, riding alongside the wagon. “I believe he’s the youngest person in my memory to ever receive a royal commission from the king.”

“I am proud of him,” said Uncle Floyd to the kind nobleman. “He’s not really my nephew, though. He’s not really even my son. He’s more than a son.”

“More than a son?” said Sir Myers. “That’s a wonderful thing to be.”

Once Sir Myers of Keswick rode on up ahead a bit, Uncle Floyd found an old cigar in his overalls, inspected it thoroughly, and lit it up. He settled back in the seat, next to but not quite touching Benjamin. Since the child had been three or four years old, the farmer had never remembered having any physical contact with the boy. He had always not quite touched him. That was how Benjamin wanted it to be and that was how it was. And yet it could not be said that he was a cold child. He was warm and loving if you knew how to read him. The boy, in fact, was an open book. Now Uncle Floyd found himself talking to Benjamin at the same time as he was thinking to himself.

“You are more than a son, Benjamin,” he said. “Like your Aunt Joan says, you are a gift from heaven to both of us. We were sent here to look after you and you were sent here to look after us. It is your talent, Benjamin, yours and yours alone, that may well serve to get us out of debt and save the farm. I never intended it to be that way. I intended to take care of you but now it seems that you are the breadwinner in the family. You are in a position to take care of us.”

If the boy heard the old man, it was impossible to know. He looked straight ahead as the wagon jolted along the dusty, rutted road in the brittle sunlight of a chill December. Though the boy did not respond, had never responded as most boys do, Uncle Floyd was aware of feeling something good and decent emanating from the heart of the child. Something was there. Something was being communicated. Something.

“I wish we could have done better for you, son,” he said. “More important than anything we’ve ever done is the challenge before you now. If your work pleases the king, you will soon be hailed as the great artist that your Aunt Joan and I already know you are. The world will know your talents, Benjamin. The world.”

The red-haired boy heard every word his uncle had said. Every syllable had been processed somewhere deep in his soul. He liked the way the wagon rocked gently and ever so often slightly jolted him. He did not like the trumpets.

“We love you very much, son,” his uncle was saying. “We love you more than any king’s commission. And so we always shall.”

Angels were whispering to Benjamin. Or was it merely the murmuring of the wind?

When the royal entourage finally rolled into the little hamlet of Long Lama, it was three days later. Almost as if he’d sensed their arrival, the Viking was standing out in front of The Mermaid scouring the road. It would be difficult to assess what the boy felt when he saw the Viking. Certainly no joyful emotion leapt across his countenance. In fact, his expression, his demeanor, registered virtually no change at all. Yet the Viking knew. The Viking was a sailor who loved the sea.

The little group stopped briefly at The Mermaid. Uncle Floyd conferred with Sir Myers and the two decided that a rest might be in order, still allowing time to reach the farm before dark. While the horseswere being attended to and the other travelers having lunch, the farmer went out to the wagon and retrieved the drawing pad that the Viking had given to Benjamin. He brought it back inside the pub and handed it to the big man.

“Benjamin wanted you to see this,” he said.

“Aye,” said the Viking, gazing at the child’s drawing. “The ol’ Sweetheart. There’s beauty.”

“Have you stayed there before?” asked Uncle Floyd.

“Let’s just say,” said the Viking, “I’ve seen the ducks.”

It was getting toward dusk by the time they reached the little wooden bridge between the town and the farm. Sir Myers of Keswick crossed it first and noticed an old man working the fields with a scythe. Sir Myers waved to the old man and the man waved back but his eyes were fixed upon the small redheaded boy seated in the front of the wagon. Benjamin looked briefly at the man, then returned to busily drawing on his sketchpad.

Aunt Joan was overjoyed to see the wagon with its royal escort rolling onto the farm. She rushed out into the front yard of the old farmhouse and embraced Uncle Floyd. Benjamin walked up to her, handed her the sketchbook, and continued his way into the house. He had almost hugged her this time, she felt. She had almost run her fingers through his hair.

She opened the sketchbook later that evening after the king’s men had gone and Benjamin was asleep. By lantern light she gazed with admiration at the child’s depiction of the Pregnant Sweetheart. Then she turned the page and saw a drawing of a desolate shoreline. A lighthouse rose from the sea, its light shining evanescently over the waves. In the near distance, a red-haired little boy and an older woman wearing an apron were walking hand in hand on the beach.

E
VERY CHILD AT ONE
time or another hears the conversations of adults as the child is falling asleep. The adults often say things they normally would not say if the child were around. Benjamin did not like to eavesdrop but the condition with which he was afflicted had made his auditory abilities exceedingly keen. That was one reason he hadn’t liked the trumpets.

The walls of the old farmhouse, as well, were of very thin construction and his room was located right next door to that of his uncle and aunt. Thus, it was virtually impossible for him not to hear their conversations at night. While he felt bad about the eavesdropping part, it made him feel good and comfortable to hear their voices softly speaking to each other in the darkness of the world. To Benjamin it sounded like the murmuring of the wheat in the field, the waves in the ocean, the stars swirling around in the sky, and the angels on his pillow.

“And what if Benjamin doesn’t understand this royal commission that’s been thrust upon him?” said Aunt Joan, in a voice louder than usual.

“He understands,” said Uncle Floyd. “You of all people know that he understands things well beyond his years.”

“And what if the child—he
is
still a child—can’t finish the painting before the deadline of Christmas Eve? That’s less than three weeks from now.”

“He’ll finish.”

The murmuring ceased for a moment. In the ensuing silence, the boy heard the unhappiness and uncertainty of his uncle and aunt. He wanted them to be happy, whatever that was. The books he had read had not explained the definition of happiness nor how it could be obtained. At the moment he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or awake and all he wanted was to listen to Uncle Floyd and Aunt Joan murmuring again.

“The court has provided a nice new canvas, and paints and brushes of the finest quality,” Uncle Floyd was saying. “Benjamin doesn’t sleep much and he can work in his little studio in the barn—”

“It gets cold at night in the barn.”

“He’ll wrap a quilt around himself. The point is he’s got all the animals right there in the barn to use for subjects as he paints the babe in the manger.”

“That’s true. I just worry about all this deadline business putting too much pressure on the child. He
is
only ten.”

“But Benjamin’s a veteran soul. He’s wise beyond anything he’s read in books. He knows how important this could be for us all.”

“Are you
sure
he knows?”

“Sure I’m sure. I told him. The king told him. Besides, he just knows.”

“I hope you’re right, Floyd. For all of our sakes.”

“Don’t fret yourself, darling.”

Benjamin was dreaming now but, in truth, it was not that different from his waking state. His life was a dream into which ripples of reality occasionally intruded. These he always filed away for possible use in a future that only he could see. It did not trouble him that he did not speak, he did not touch, he would only let himself love in the abstract. He was not alone in his aloneness. Many people were very similar to him only they didn’t realize it. There were many others who had nothing to say, yet they shouted that nothing to the world. Benjamin knew he had much to say. He just couldn’t say it. He couldn’t express how he felt except through his art. He would’ve liked things to be different but they weren’t. He was different.

Just now he was tired. He was tired of being Benjamin. He was tired of being a dreamer who never sleeps. He was tired and needed rest but he knew that time was short and most important of all, he could see the finished canvas. All his life he had woken from dreams and still been dreaming. His Aunt Joan had been right. He could not love. He was love. He was a ten-year-old boy but he was also an artist.

He got up and dressed, wrapped a quilt around himself, and walked to the barn. Thus it was that the final adventure began.