wrapped once again for travel, and, on that lonely easel in that creaky old barn, stood waiting for destiny. Benjamin blew out the lanterns and, with the warm quilt around his body, walked to the door of the barn. As he opened the door he noticed that the weather had gone from bad to worse. The snow was piling up on the ground in large drifts and in many places seemed to be turning to ice. And still it kept falling from the gray, oblivious sky.
“Good night, dear Benjamin,” said Valerie.
“You’re coming with me,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Forest
D AWN NEVER CAME that morning. Instead, the canvas of the world was permeated with an aching off-whiteness that smothered the senses and dulled the spirit. It was a rather unique and isolated weather pattern, however. The four royal couriers from Eddystone Castle did not encounter the icy weather until they’d crossed the little wooden bridge on the way to the farm.
When the king’s men reached the Welches’ farmhouse that morning, Aunt Joan was waiting with hot tea for them all. Afterward, Uncle Floyd went with them to the barn and formally turned over to them the painting, which they promptly loaded onto the covered cart.
When the men returned to the barn to collect the pig, they were rather surprised to find that the pen was empty. With Uncle Floyd and Will Wallace leading the way, every nook and cranny of the old building was searched and scrutinized but the pig was not found. Uncle Floyd was baffled and a bit disappointed by the experience, but when he told his wife about the disappearance later that morning, she said, “Good for the pig.” Benjamin, it was assumed, was still asleep in his bedroom. He was not.
As the artist’s rendering of the babe in the manger rolled inexorably toward Eddystone Castle, the couriers remarked on how the weather had improved. This was not the case, however, in the northern portion of the kingdom. Here, the wind shrieked, the snow kept coming, and everything on the ground turned almost instantly to ice. Some would later claim that it was the worst blizzard to hit the north in over a hundred years.
In the middle of this terrible storm, a small boy and a pig walked blameless into a snowbound forest primeval where day was night and night was cold and the angry wind whistled through the branches in the dense canopy of trees that hid the gray cathedral sky. Benjamin liked the dark and gray colors all around him but he had not been prepared for a storm of this magnitude. Valerie, who was better suited for the cold than the boy, worried about him with nothing but the quilt and the clothes on his back. It had been the boy’s plan to get as far away from the farm as possible, but soon they were lost amidst the drifts of swirling snow.
They walked for many hours through the forest with wolves howling in the distance, and then seemingly closer and closer. Predatory fingers of ice dripped from branches and pointed in every direction but home. That was fine with Benjamin. He was not going home.
After several more hours of wandering, they stopped in a small clearing and Benjamin tried to build a fire with some matches he’d brought. This was not an easy task in the cold and wet forest, but at last he succeeded. The two of them talked quietly and tried to warm themselves by the small campfire.
Other voices, by now, were calling as well. Uncle Floyd and Aunt Joan and Will Wallace had been scouring the woods, calling for Benjamin. These cries, however, had been deadened by the deep, still falling snow, and the wind and the wolves. The boy, both freezing and exhausted, began to shiver violently.
“Oh, dear Benjamin,” said Valerie at last, “we must go back.”
“If we go back, dear Valerie,” he said, “they will kill you.”
“But you’ve already saved me,” she said. “You’ve put me in the painting. For that, I will be eternally grateful. Eternally grateful, oh, dear, dear Benjamin.”
Hearing her words, Benjamin
“Good night, dear Benjamin,” said Valerie.
“You’re coming with me,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Forest
D AWN NEVER CAME that morning. Instead, the canvas of the world was permeated with an aching off-whiteness that smothered the senses and dulled the spirit. It was a rather unique and isolated weather pattern, however. The four royal couriers from Eddystone Castle did not encounter the icy weather until they’d crossed the little wooden bridge on the way to the farm.
When the king’s men reached the Welches’ farmhouse that morning, Aunt Joan was waiting with hot tea for them all. Afterward, Uncle Floyd went with them to the barn and formally turned over to them the painting, which they promptly loaded onto the covered cart.
When the men returned to the barn to collect the pig, they were rather surprised to find that the pen was empty. With Uncle Floyd and Will Wallace leading the way, every nook and cranny of the old building was searched and scrutinized but the pig was not found. Uncle Floyd was baffled and a bit disappointed by the experience, but when he told his wife about the disappearance later that morning, she said, “Good for the pig.” Benjamin, it was assumed, was still asleep in his bedroom. He was not.
As the artist’s rendering of the babe in the manger rolled inexorably toward Eddystone Castle, the couriers remarked on how the weather had improved. This was not the case, however, in the northern portion of the kingdom. Here, the wind shrieked, the snow kept coming, and everything on the ground turned almost instantly to ice. Some would later claim that it was the worst blizzard to hit the north in over a hundred years.
In the middle of this terrible storm, a small boy and a pig walked blameless into a snowbound forest primeval where day was night and night was cold and the angry wind whistled through the branches in the dense canopy of trees that hid the gray cathedral sky. Benjamin liked the dark and gray colors all around him but he had not been prepared for a storm of this magnitude. Valerie, who was better suited for the cold than the boy, worried about him with nothing but the quilt and the clothes on his back. It had been the boy’s plan to get as far away from the farm as possible, but soon they were lost amidst the drifts of swirling snow.
They walked for many hours through the forest with wolves howling in the distance, and then seemingly closer and closer. Predatory fingers of ice dripped from branches and pointed in every direction but home. That was fine with Benjamin. He was not going home.
After several more hours of wandering, they stopped in a small clearing and Benjamin tried to build a fire with some matches he’d brought. This was not an easy task in the cold and wet forest, but at last he succeeded. The two of them talked quietly and tried to warm themselves by the small campfire.
Other voices, by now, were calling as well. Uncle Floyd and Aunt Joan and Will Wallace had been scouring the woods, calling for Benjamin. These cries, however, had been deadened by the deep, still falling snow, and the wind and the wolves. The boy, both freezing and exhausted, began to shiver violently.
“Oh, dear Benjamin,” said Valerie at last, “we must go back.”
“If we go back, dear Valerie,” he said, “they will kill you.”
“But you’ve already saved me,” she said. “You’ve put me in the painting. For that, I will be eternally grateful. Eternally grateful, oh, dear, dear Benjamin.”
Hearing her words, Benjamin
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