The Christmas Pig: A Very Kinky Christmas (8 page)

T
HE HARDEST PART
about being an artist, thought Benjamin the following morning, was not drawing a horse or a cow. The hardest part was being true to yourself. Benjamin, for the first time, felt a new sensation. He felt a little sad. He didn’t cry, of course. He’d never cried in his life. He was just a little sad that his new friend, with whom he so enjoyed conversing and being with, appeared to want so badly to be included in the painting. He wasn’t excluding her, he told himself; the ancient Hebrews were excluding her.

He also knew that one false note in a work of art could ruin everything. In this case, it could have the effect of the king retracting the promised commission and the family farm being lost. Even if he didn’t think of it as home, Valerie did. What would become of her if the farm were to be taken away? Having heard the vengeful pronouncements by the king, he did not look forward to feeling his royal wrath. If he were to include Valerie in the manger scene, he would probably never work in the kingdom again.

After he’d eaten his oatmeal, he felt a bit better about things. Maybe Valerie would understand after all. Yet, somehow it didn’t seem quite fair. Of all the animals in the barnyard, she was the only one he really cared about. And yet all of them would probably end up in the painting except her. He scoured the Old Testament in a feverish effort to find something nice someone had said about pigs, but there was nothing. Nothing at all.

After dark, he walked purposefully into the dusky old barn, lit the lanterns, settled himself into his chair, and reexamined the horse and the cow on the canvas. He was a modest young man but even to his highly critical eyes they looked good. Now where was that little lamb hiding? He took one of the lanterns and began poking around the barn.

“Looking for a lost lamb?” said a friendly, familiar voice. “That could be anybody, dear Benjamin.”

“Hey, Valerie,” said Benjamin. “It so happens that I am looking for that lost lamb. He’s probably asleep.”

“Most normal people are, Benjamin dear. But who wants to be normal.”

“I quite agree,” he said.

“If we were normal,” said Valerie, sidling out into the circle of light, “we wouldn’t be talking like this. And you wouldn’t be painting such a beautiful masterpiece.”

“You really think the painting could be a masterpiece?”

“Benjamin, it
will
be a masterpiece. You are a genius, Benjamin dear! How could it be anything other than a masterpiece if it’s painted by your fine and talented hand?”

“That’s so nice of you to tell me that, Valerie,” said the boy, practically blushing.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” said Valerie.

Benjamin found the lamb asleep in the hay. He set down the lantern and gently carried the little fellow to a location closer to the light. Soon the artist was back at his easel and his favorite art critic was standing beside him watching him work.

“His fleece is definitely not white as snow,” Valerie observed.

“It will be when I get through,” said Benjamin.

Sure enough, not only was the painted lamb an almost incandescent white, but his eyes, which looked slightly dull and glazed, had also been rendered quite differently on the canvas. Benjamin had duly provided the painted lamb with a suitably adoring gaze.

“You’re not just a genius,” said Valerie, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “You’re a miracle worker.”

“Valerie, you’re too kind.”

“Don’t think I’m trying to flatter you, Benjamin, because I’m not. I’m merely stating that your work thus far is quite remarkable. Far from sanitizing these animals or covering up their faults, you’ve brought out the best in them. You’ve transformed them with an artist’s eye and a Christian heart into how God intended them to be.”

“Valerie, I don’t think I could get through these long nights without your help and encouragement. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Good,” said the pig. “Then remember, when you paint me, my left profile is my best.”

“I’ll remember,” said Benjamin, as he put away his paints.

“So tomorrow it’s my turn?” asked Valerie hopefully.

“We’ll see,” said Benjamin.

T
HE FOLLOWING NIGHT
things finally came to a head. Perhaps all the nocturnal work had put a strain on both of them. The dreaded deadline had been foremost in Benjamin’s mind but in Valerie’s heart there had begun to form a definite feeling that she was being left out. Indeed, the boy felt sad to see her preening herself in the lantern light. She was a very beautiful pig, Benjamin had to admit. And he told her so. But the knife went in deeper and deeper when she saw that he was painting the rooster. At last, Valerie could no longer restrain her true feelings.

“I can’t believe you’d do this, Benjamin,” she said, in a voice filled with hurt. “Picking that scraggly, annoying rooster over me.”

The rooster’s name was Hitchcock and he had to be painted. Time, Benjamin well knew, was running out. Nonetheless, the boy set down his brush. Hitchcock remained where he was, asleep on a rafter. At least he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Valerie,” said Benjamin, in a voice he’d intended to sound grown-up but had come out seemingly tinged with guilt. “Valerie, you’re my friend. You’re the last pig in the world I’d want to hurt. The last person, too.”

But Valerie had already gone back to the pigpen and Benjamin could only hear muffled snuffling noises in the darkness. Benjamin pulled the quilt around him in the cold night, grabbed a lantern, and headed in the direction of the sound. At first, he could not quite identify the rather subdued snuffling noises. He had, of course, never heard a pig cry.

In the lives of all pigs and all ten-year-old boys, there comes a day of reckoning, even if that day is in the middle of the night. As gently as possible, in his innate analytical fashion, the boy with the unvarnished eyes told his friend the unvarnished truth. Placing the lantern on the railing, he leaned against the pigsty and spoke softly but clearly.

“The painting the king has commissioned me to create must be a traditional nativity scene, artistically excellent, historically correct, and biblically accurate down to the last brushstroke. The painting is to be unveiled after the midnight mass at Eddystone Castle in the presence of King Jonjo, the entire royal court, the priests, and all the townspeople. If I were to include you in the painting, they would all be horrified and the king would very likely retract his commission and the painting would be considered a failure and we would lose the farm and you and I would have no place to live.”

“But, dear Benjamin, it’s so unfair. Why can’t a pig be in the manger scene with all the other animals?”

“Because the Ancient Hebrews considered the pig to be unclean.”

“Where are the Ancient Hebrews now?” said Valerie, sniffling a bit.

“They’re all dead,” said Benjamin.

“Good,” said Valerie.

There was no reason for Benjamin to be feeling guilty but he did. He didn’t like the feeling but he just couldn’t seem to shake it. He’d never felt guilty before. That was probably because he’d never had a friend before.

“But Benjamin dear, it’s so
dreadfully
unfair. You see how clean I am. If you place any animal or any person inside a pen and keep them locked up inside, they will become dirty, too. Surely you see that, dear Benjamin.”

“Valerie, as a friend I would put you in the nativity scene. As an artist, I cannot.”

“Oh, Benjamin,” cried Valerie, “my mind understands but my heart does not. I thought we were friends.”

At this point, she turned away from the boy and broke down into deep, uncontrollable sobbing. Benjamin did not know what to do or say. For the first time in his life he felt something break inside his heart.

“Please stop crying, dear Valerie,” he said.

But the pig did not stop crying. And Benjamin felt very sad, indeed.

“Valerie, dear,” he said at last. “No friend is worth your tears except the one who never makes you cry.”

H
ITCHCOCK THE ROOSTER
found his place on the canvas and the days and nights went by, but things did not feel quite the same to Benjamin. Valerie pretended like nothing had happened but she seemed colder and older and she wasn’t eating very well. She would occasionally offer a supportive comment here and there to the young artist, but you could tell her heart wasn’t really in it. Her mind was still as sharp as ever, for instance, when she pointed out to Benjamin that the dog and the cat were not true barnyard animals and hence should not be included in a traditional portrayal of the manger. But Benjamin was rushing now and felt limited as to what he had to work with, and he plowed right ahead placing Sambo the dog and Cuddles the cat into the adoring circle of animals surrounding the Baby Jesus.

The work itself was really starting to take shape. Even Valerie had to admit that. All that was left were the three wise men and Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, of course, and there was still one week to go, always allowing for the time it’d take to deliver the finished art to Eddystone Castle.

Benjamin felt many new emotions coursing through his young soul, feelings he never remembered feeling before. He felt good, he felt tired, he felt exhilarated, and he felt kind of sad about Valerie. But Valerie, true to her strong feminine nature, put up a brave front. She was determined not to let any man, even a ten-year-old, get the best of her. Inside, however, her heart had yet not come to terms with being excluded from Benjamin’s art. There was still hope, of course. It was a work in progress. There was yet a little time for a friend to change his mind.

“It feels like a very cold night,” said Benjamin, looking around for Valerie, as he pulled the quilt a bit tighter around his shoulders. But Valerie didn’t answer. Benjamin was having a minor technical problem fitting the three wise men into the entrance to the manger. He had a fairly good idea what they would look like if he could just get them there.

“Valerie dear,” he called again. Still, there was no answer.

Benjamin took the lantern and walked over to the pigpen. There was Valerie sound asleep in the hay and the dirt of the cold floor of the barn. The door to the pen was closed and he wondered if she’d closed it herself because she wanted to be alone. This worried Benjamin. Valerie had previously taken such a great pride and interest in his work. Surely she knew by now that he would have put her in the manger if he could.

Valerie stirred slightly and Benjamin noticed that she was shivering. When she opened her eyes to look at him, there was a certain sadness there he hadn’t seen before.

“Dear Valerie,” he said. “You’re shivering. Take my quilt. It’ll help keep you warm.”

“Dear Benjamin,” she said. “There’s only so much warmth and love in this world and there’s never enough to go around. Pigs don’t need quilts. Pigs need people to understand them.”

“I understand you, dear Valerie.”

“I know you do, Benjamin dear,” she said, as she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

Benjamin went back to his easel and went back to work on the wise men. After a while, he’d sketched them in to his satisfaction but he found he missed Valerie’s little nods of approval and the twinkle of encouragement for a job well done that now and then he could see in her eyes. Ah well, he thought, an artist’s life is often meant to be a lonely one. He’d never minded before working alone in his room or working alone in the barn by lantern light. But then he’d never had a friend before. And he’d never missed a friend before.

In a strange way, he thought, Valerie had not only helped him perfect his art, she’d also helped him discover himself.

Dawn was but a few hours away when the boy put his brush down and stood back to take a critical look at his rendering of the three wise men bearing their gifts for the babe in the manger. Benjamin had drawn them from memory. The first wise man was Will Wallace, the farmhand. The second wise man was the Viking. The third wise man was a little memorial from the artist to the now deceased White Knight. The work was nearing completion, Benjamin figured. All that was lacking was Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, give or take a few shepherds, if needed for balance and composition. All in all, the artist felt quite satisfied with the quality of the work. He also felt confident that he would have the commission completed on time.

But as talented an artist as Benjamin may have been, he was still a ten-year-old boy, and ten-year-
old boys are not always the most accurate barometers of life. The lad was far more exhausted than, indeed, he realized. He sat down in the chair and leaned back to rest for a moment and the next thing he knew he was sound asleep.

Benjamin was dreaming that he and Valerie were aboard a ship at the wheel of which was the Viking. They were sailing in peaceful aquamarine waters enjoying the warm sunshine on the deck. He and Valerie were happy and smiling and discussing Leonardo Da Vinci’s painting of
The Last Supper
.

“You may not be aware of this, dear Benjamin,” Valerie was saying, “but it took Da Vinci almost as long as Jesus lived for him to complete
The Last Supper
.”

“He obviously wasn’t working for the king,” said Benjamin.

Valerie laughed. It felt nice to see her laughing again.

“Da Vinci used his friends as models for the disciples,” Valerie continued. “But Jesus and Judas were the two centerpieces of the work and he could not readily find suitable models for them. So one day he saw a young man at the university who had quite a beatific face and Da Vinci thought he’d be perfect for the face of Jesus. He asked the young man if he would sit for him and the man said yes and so he did.

“Da Vinci, much like you, dear Benjamin, did not realize that his work would become a great masterpiece. So he put it away for almost thirty years because he couldn’t find the perfect face for Judas. He
was
working on other things, of course.”

“Of course,” said Benjamin. Valerie was probably the smartest pig in the world, thought Benjamin. It felt so peaceful and comforting to be gently rocking on the waves and listening to her talk about Da Vinci.

“Anyway,” continued Valerie, “now it’s thirty years later and he’s on the street in Rome and he sees a guy with the perfect face for Judas. Not evil or ugly, but kind of seductive and soft. So he catches up with the guy and asks the fellow if he’ll sit for him. The man says yes, but then he says, ‘You don’t remember me, but I sat for you thirty years ago. I was the face of Jesus.’ ”

“That was a wonderful story, dear Valerie,” said Benjamin, as he lay back on the gently rolling deck of the ship and let the golden rays of the sun warm his very being. “But is the story true?”

“Oh, yes, dear Benjamin,” said Valerie. “The part about Da Vinci is true. The application of the story to the lives of all of us is, sadly, even truer.”

“Valerie, dear,” said Benjamin. “I think you must be the smartest pig in the world.”

“Of course I am, dear Benjamin,” she said. “I chose you to be my friend.”

A man who looked very much like Feinberg, the king’s advisor, came out on deck with a tray of cold drinks for Valerie and Benjamin. “For madame and monsieur,” he said. Then the Viking shouted: “Land ho! Off the starboard bow!” And they saw a lovely tropical island with sand and thatched huts and palm trees and beautiful birds of all the colors of the rainbow. The boy wished the voyage could go on forever. It was very much like life itself, he thought. Beautiful, a bit rough sometimes, and interesting.

A volcano erupted on the island sending shimmering sparks into the sky. Benjamin could see the sparks reflecting in Valerie’s eyes. It was so nice to be with someone you wanted to be with.

And still the boy slept. And still the boy dreamed. And the barn was on fire.