The Christmas Pig: A Very Kinky Christmas (7 page)

H
IS
A
UNT
J
OAN
had been right, thought Benjamin. The old barn
was
cold and drafty. Even under the quilt, Benjamin shivered. But it was a good shiver. It was the shiver of the artist preparing to pour his passion into his work, to infuse a blank canvas with the colors of his soul. He lit the candles in the lanterns on either side of the easel, causing dark shadows to dance around the barn. This was decidedly not the perfect “studio” in which an artist might choose to work, but it suited Benjamin just fine. After all, he’d already seen the finished canvas in his mind. All that remained was to merely paint it. This, of course, was easier said than done. It was the devil that had haunted the true artist down through eternity. How to transfer the vision from the spiritual studio of the artist’s mind to the actual canvas without losing or gaining or changing or explaining? This was the hard part because, indeed, it was so simple.

Benjamin’s mind, however, was uniquely up to the task at hand. He did not waste his time with frivolous conversation or extraneous emotion. The boy had a warm heart but his mind was like that cold, spartan attic from which has forever emanated the great art of mankind.

“A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!” was what the child was thinking. He was, of course, well read in the classics. Also the horse, who was called Jezebel, happened to be the nearest animal to his easel.

Jezebel, indubitably, was not the perfect subject an artist would wish to sit for a painting commissioned by a king. She was old, swaybacked, so thin that her ribs were clearly discernible, and of an off-white color that might best be described as pale. This appealed to the boy, nevertheless, because she reminded him of Don Quixote’s horse, Rocinante. Don Quixote was the only person who thought that Rocinante was young and beautiful and noble. “I see a pale horse,” Don Quixote had opined on his deathbed. The man had never lived, of course, but Benjamin did not know this. He dealt equally well in the casinos of fiction and nonfiction; he had no use for reality.

Thus it was that old, flea-bitten, battle-scarred Jezebel became the most beautiful horse in the world. And this was accomplished largely because Benjamin was beautiful.

He was in the midst of painting the old horse in the flickering candlelight when he heard a voice which he at first thought was in his head. No, it was not in his head. It was a woman’s voice, a young woman’s voice. It was coming from somewhere nearby in the dark shadows of the old barn.

“I’d say old Jezebel never looked so good,” said the voice.

Perhaps it was an angel, thought Benjamin. He looked around but there was no one in the barn. He went back to painting the horse.

“It really is quite excellent work, Benjamin,” said the voice.

A normal ten-year-old, even someone much older, would’ve probably flown out of the barn like a bat out of hell. But not Benjamin. He had heard voices and sounds his whole life, some having been attached to things and people and some had not. Nevertheless, it did unnerve the boy quite enough to pick up one of the lanterns and walk toward the direction from whence he’d heard the young woman’s voice.

He took a few more tentative steps, and shone the lantern around. All he saw was the sleeping brown dog and the bright-eyed runty little brown and white pig. He turned around, walked back to his old easel and chair, replaced the lantern on the easel, and picked up his brush.

“Can you speak, Benjamin?” asked the voice, clear and soft in the winter night.

A normal child alone in the barn would have dropped the brush and run for his life. But not Benjamin. He was a little afraid. But he was more curious.

As he watched in disbelief, the little brown and white pig stepped forward into the circle of light. The pig gazed admiringly at the canvas, then looked directly at Benjamin, the admiration still in her eyes.

“My name is Valerie,” she said.

Though Benjamin had never associated with people much and had no involvement with children his age as friends, he knew instinctively that he was different. Nonetheless, he reflected, he wasn’t
this
different. He’d never read or heard about a pig who could speak. It just wasn’t done. Yet here, right before his own eyes and ears was a pig addressing him by name, speaking to him in a voice more sweet and comforting than the nighttime murmurings of Uncle Floyd and Aunt Joan. And she’d said her name was Valerie.

“Can you speak, Benjamin?” she asked again.

They looked at each other across thousands of years of evolution and ignorance, of love and hate, of life and death. It was not a dream. It was not a fairy tale. It was only what it was.

“Can you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

That was how it had all started, and whether the boy or the pig knew it or not, it was to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. In the morning, the boy woke up in his bed and walked over to the window. He looked down into the barnyard and there was Valerie. He rushed down the stairs and ran out into the bright morning sunlight of the barnyard. The animals were milling about in the chilly early hours of the day. Valerie was there, too. But so was Will Wallace, the farmhand. And Uncle Floyd was close by chopping wood. Benjamin looked at Valerie, but she did not return his gaze. Now she was what she’d always been, it seemed. A pig in the barnyard. Benjamin went back into the house where his Aunt Joan was preparing his oatmeal for breakfast.

That afternoon Benjamin spent his time reading in his room. This was not unusual for the boy. Like many great artists, the boy did his best work late at night. His uncle and aunt were well aware of his proclivity for nocturnal painting and had no problem with it. Nor did they like to in any way intrude upon a work in progress. And this, of course, was the most important work in progress the lad had ever tackled.

This night Benjamin was happy to note that Jezebel was cooperating. The night before she’d refused to sit patiently for the painting, moving around repeatedly inside the barn and finally retreating into her stall and refusing to come out again. Tonight she was enjoying a bucket of oats and being the perfect model. Benjamin was making good progress when he heard a familiar voice from the nearby darkness.

“Sorry I couldn’t talk to you this morning,” said Valerie. “Will was there. And your Uncle Floyd. It wouldn’t feel right for them to know. Ours, it seems, dear Benjamin, is a friendship that cannot speak its name.”

“How did you know my name was Benjamin?” asked the boy, a bit warily, as he continued to paint the horse.

“I get around a bit,” she said. “I’ve heard lots of conversations in the barnyard. Just because I’m a pig doesn’t mean I can’t hear.”

“I’m sorry,” said Benjamin. “I didn’t mean to insult you. People are always asking about me, too. They’re always saying, ‘Can the lad hear me?’ ”

“That’s because you don’t talk,” said Valerie.

“Just because I don’t talk,” said Benjamin, “doesn’t mean I can’t hear.”

“You’re making my argument for me, dear Benjamin. Anyway, what does it matter what most people think. It’s like what your Aunt Joan says to you, ‘You listen with your heart, dear Benjamin.’ ”

“How do you know what my Aunt Joan says to me?”

“I listen with my heart.”

By the time the horse was at last finished, Benjamin had carried on with Valerie the longest and the only conversation of his life. It felt liberating and wonderful and natural, almost like his own heart was talking to his mind.

“It’s almost dawn,” said Valerie. “You’d better get some rest.”

“Will I see you tomorrow night?”

“Of course you will. Good night, dear Benjamin.”

“Good night, dear Valerie.”

N
ELL WAS A VERY THIN
, nondescript, brown cow who had definitely seen greener pastures. Like Jezebel the horse, however, Nell was all Benjamin had to work with. Right now she was standing outside her stall eating some hay and the artist was beginning to place her in the portrait. As the boy started to sketch Nell, he found himself wondering when Valerie would make her appearance. All day he’d been looking forward to seeing her. Not just seeing her,
talking
to her.

“Dear Benjamin,” she said, walking into the circle of light surrounding the easel. “I’ve missed you, dear Benjamin.”

“I’ve been thinking of you as well,” said the boy, with one eye on the canvas and one eye on the pig.

“But you didn’t miss me, did you? You’ve never missed anybody, have you, Benjamin dear?”

“I guess not.”

“Cheer up! You will.”

“I hope not,” said the boy, continuing to sketch the cow.

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” said Valerie, as she walked around to the other side of the easel. “But what’s this all
for?
Is it for the king? I know you went to meet the king, I saw the knights here on the farm coming to take you away and bring you back. Come on. Stop painting for a minute, Benjamin dear. Tell me what it’s all about. A girl gets curious sometimes.”

Benjamin put down his brush and turned toward Valerie. Somehow it did not seem so unusual anymore to be carrying on a conversation with a pig. Even the fact that he was having a conversation in the first place no longer seemed so strange.

“Well, it’s like this, Valerie,” he said, in his charming if somewhat precocious manner. “Believe it or not, the king has given me a royal commission to paint a portrait of the manger scene, the birth of Christ, to be unveiled at the close of the Christmas Eve midnight mass. All the court and the townspeople will gather for the mass and the unveiling at Eddystone Castle. That gives me about two and a half weeks to finish the whole painting, allowing for time to have it delivered to the castle.”

It was the most he’d said to anybody ever about anything. Valerie looked duly impressed. She came over a little closer to his chair.

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” she said again, “but you’re a really talented kid and you’re busting your hump to finish this project on time. What’s the king paying you for all this work?”

“I’m not sure. But according to Uncle Floyd, it’s enough to just possibly keep the farm from being taken away from us.”

“That would be terrible, dear Benjamin. This place is my home.”

“I wish I had a home.”

“You do, darling. It’s your home, too.”

“But I never thought of it as a home.”

“Benjamin. Dear Benjamin. You’ve never believed you had a home. You’ve never missed anyone. It seems so sad.”

“I’ve never been sad, either.”

That night, as Benjamin painted Nell, he continued talking to the pig as he painted. He told Valerie things that he’d never told anyone before. That wasn’t terribly surprising, of course, because he’d never told anyone anything before. Nevertheless, he kept talking. And Valerie seemed to be quite appreciative. She was, he thought, an excellent conversationalist.

“You see, Benjamin dear,” she’d said at one point late in the night, “pigs do not think of themselves as pigs. And you do not see us that way either. Maybe that’s one reason why we get along so well.”

“Maybe,” said Benjamin.

They talked long into the night and Benjamin found, to his pleasant surprise, that Valerie was not a distraction to his work at all. Not only was she a supportive voice but she proved to occasionally be a pretty fair art critic as well. Like most great artists, he didn’t really believe he was a great artist. Also like most great artists, he preferred to paint alone. That, of course, was before he’d met Valerie.

“Now that’s what I call talent!” said Valerie. “Making Nell the cow look like she’s interested in something.”

“Most people think I’m not interested in anything either. I know how it feels.”

“Ah, but I know different, Benjamin dear. To be a great artist you have to be interested in everything and everybody. You have to be naturally curious. You have to listen with your heart. You have all those qualities, dear Benjamin. That’s how I know you’re a great artist.”

“Thank you, Valerie.”

“Of course, I have those same qualities as well. I just can’t hold a brush in my hoof.”

“You’re more than a great artist, Valerie. You’re a great pig.”

“Well, thank you, Benjamin dear. I think you meant that as a compliment.”

“Of course I did, Valerie. I would never insult you.”

“No one should ever be insulted by the truth, dear Benjamin.”

A great, closed door in Benjamin’s life seemed to be opening up for him. A week ago he had no friends and was all alone in the world. Now he was painting a royal commission from the king and talking to his new best friend. Why should it matter that Valerie was a pig? He loved just sitting in the quiet darkness of the barn and painting and chatting with her. He liked the words they said. He liked the way their voices sounded, starting small, then booming around the big old barn. He couldn’t decide if it was stranger to hear her voice or his own.

“Valerie, do you think the other animals can speak?”

“They never said a word to me.”

“Do you think other pigs can speak?”

“Don’t know. Never met one.”

“I wonder.”

“What’s important, dear Benjamin, is that you and I can speak to each other.”

Benjamin put the final touches on Nell the cow and Valerie nodded her head several times in thoughtful approval. Benjamin had been careful to leave plenty of blank canvas to fill in the other animals, the three wise men, and, of course, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. It was easy to paint a bad manger scene, Benjamin thought. To paint a really good one took not only talent but time. God had given him the talent, Benjamin figured, but apparently, He’d neglected to give him the time.

“Who’s next?” asked Valerie.

“Who’s next for what?”

“For the painting, dear Benjamin. The horse and the cow are beautiful, but who’s next? Is it the lamb? Is it the rooster? Is it me?”

Now, for the first time in his life, Benjamin realized that friendship, along with its comforts and joys, also has its burdens and responsibilities. Both the king and his uncle had made it very clear to him that the painting must be very traditional, historically correct, and biblically accurate. In all the religious literature he’d ever read, there’d been no account of Jesus’ people tending pigs. The Old Testament, he knew, forbade eating pork. How in the world, he wondered, could he ever explain this to such a trusting and sensitive friend as Valerie? He’d have to think of how to most gently break the news to her. It was the truth, wasn’t it? She’d said herself that no one should ever be insulted by the truth. But there were still two weeks until the deadline. No reason to upset her now. He’d explain it to her later.

“I think I’ll paint the lamb next,” he said at last.

“No worries, dear Benjamin,” she said. “I can wait.”