The Christmas Pig: A Very Kinky Christmas by Kinky Friedman Read Free Book Online Page B

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