The Half-a-Moon Inn

by Paul Fleischman

  All of a sudden he stopped and stared. His two winter coats were gone, and so was his sack. He glanced about the room for them—and saw that his stockings were missing, and his boots as well. He clearly remembered taking them off the night before and setting them by the fire. He searched for them everywhere, hopping from one foot to the other on the icy floor, but they seemed to have vanished completely.

  Down the stairs he scurried, flushed with anger. He hunted up Miss Grackle, tugged on her arm and pointed to his bare feet.

  “Misplaced your boots, did you?” She tied on her apron, with its pocket as big as a flour sack. “Well then, let it be an inspiration to you to keep the floor as warm as griddles. Now give us a blaze, boy, and be quick about it!”

  Misplaced, indeed! They might be tight on his feet, but how would he escape through the snow without them?

  “And when the flames are climbing the chimney like ivy you can set your fingers to these,” she said, and thrust a basket of vegetables into his arms. Aaron wanted to heave it back at her and make a dash for the door—but he remembered his feet. He needed time to think. He decided to do as she said, building a fire and peeling potatoes for the evening’s soup, all the while searching for his boots out the corner of his eye.

  Suddenly he heard a clumping of feet down the stairs. The callers, of course! Surely one of them would rescue him from Miss Grackle, and mounted on a horse he could get by without boots. He burst up from his bench and made a run for the stairs, but Miss Grackle got there before him and lashed at his feet with her willow switch.

  “Back to your work, boy—quick now!” She chased him hopping back to his seat, his feet stinging as though they’d been stuck into a beehive.

  “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to obey? Aye, I can see I’m going to have to put some manners in you meself, and teach you to be grateful for me hospitality.” She whipped the switch across his toes one more time, and returned to warming herself by the fire.

  One by one the callers descended the stairs, yawning and grumbling and still groggy with sleep. There were a half dozen of them, all men, and a rough and ragged lot at that. Quickly, Miss Grackle warmed up some gruel and set Aaron to serving it to the guests, keeping a sharp eye over him all the while. The food smelled awful to Aaron, and he watched in amazement as the guests ate it up briskly. But before the first one to finish had a chance to step out the door, Miss Grackle placed herself in the doorway and cleared her throat conspicuously.

  “Much as I hate to offend your innocent hearts,” she began, “’twould weigh down me conscience if I weren’t to warn you before you set out that there’s been a right lot of thieves about lately.”

  One man’s hand reached instantly for his breast pocket, another man’s darted to his cap.

  “Thick as rats in a cellar, they are, and pleased to pick you clean as a coat stand. ’Twould be worse than sending a baby into a bear’s den not to tell you so, and a burden on me soul as well. So take heed in the woods, me worthy gentlemen, and keep your eyes open. And godspeed to you.”

  One by one they finished their breakfasts and filed past her. When the last one had mounted his horse and set off, she turned to Aaron and burst out laughing.

  “Oh, but it’s nice to have me a boy such as you, one who’ll keep me secrets locked up tight as artichokes.” Aaron watched as she pulled two money pouches out of her great apron pocket and emptied out a trickle of coppers.

  “Aye, Sam, I’m one of the villains you heard me speaking of, and all I do is sing out the word ‘thief’ and every one of ’em points me straight to his money, sure as a compass points north.” She laughed again and flung the emptied purses into the fire.

  “Aye, and it’s only after they’ve reached for ’em that I finger their pouches. Let ’em discover it when they stop for a meal, and blame the man next to ’em. Or when they pull in somewhere else for the night. But they’ll remember it clear that they checked their purses before leaving The Half-a-Moon Inn, and still had ’em with ’em.”

  She counted the money in her hand once again, and stood warming herself by the fire.

  “Oh, me hands move fast, lad, quick as swifts and swallows. But they’re dishonest hands, you understand, and me great-great-grandfather who built this house was a worthy judge and an honest man—may his soul rot in heaven! Oh, he laid up these chimneys with his own honest hands—and built a curse into ’em as well, lest any of his thieving brothers should snatch the house for himself when he died. Aye, for it’s only honest hands that can get the wood to catch in the grates. Your hands, lad!”

  Miss Grackle cackled like a hen. “The last of me boys ran off quick as a ghost at sunrise, he did—and froze to death in the bargain. So ever since the air’s turned cold I’ve been having to rely on the guests to build fires. But here you blow in with the first of the snow—aye, you turn up handy as a thimble, boy. Now, pitch another load of logs on the grate and then back to sleep with you. You’ll need it for tonight, lad, believe me.”

  Aaron built up the blaze and climbed upstairs, his feet still stinging and sore. He searched for his boots without success, sat by the window and stared outside. It was snowing again.

  How had he gotten himself into such a fix? Could his mother truly have abandoned him, as Miss Grackle had suggested? Or was she waiting for him at home right now, wondering what in the world had become of him? He’d been so certain he’d find her that he hadn’t thought to leave a note in the house. Yet surely she’d be out hunting for him at this very moment. But was she searching the wrong road, or combing the wrong town?

  Anxiously Aaron peered out at the road, following it with his eyes until it vanished among the trees. Somehow he had to get free of Miss Grackle—and suddenly he spotted her, walking out toward a little shed set apart from the house. Aaron saw she was carrying the empty woodbox, to refill it no doubt—and knew that he hadn’t a moment to spare.

  He ripped the covers off his bed, and wrapped each of his feet in a blanket. If only he could get away from the inn, he could climb up a tree out of the snow, and wait for a traveler to come down the road. Quick as he could, Aaron scurried down the stairs, poked his head out from the stairway and saw that the coast was clear. With his heart beating furiously, he dashed to the door, threw it open—and stood face to face with Miss Grackle.

  “Well now—what have we here!” She hoisted him up by the shirt collar, walked inside with him and slammed the door shut.

  “Still got a mind to run off, have you, me ungrateful scamp?” She dropped him down on the floor and picked up her switch off the mantel. “Aye, I knew what you’d be up to, me minnow. All me boys try it—once.”

  She pinned him to the floor, unwrapped the blankets and brought the willow down on his feet with all her might. Aaron jerked with the pain, desperately trying to get free.

  “Aye, Sam, I’ll whip some manners into you yet. Believe me I will.” Time after time the switch hummed through the air and stung at his feet. Aaron squirmed like a fish and soon grew too exhausted to struggle against her. At last she was satisfied.

  “Now up on your feet, boy, and hop to your room! Quick now!”

  Aaron picked himself up onto his knees, and painfully rose to his feet. They had already begun to swell, and they felt as tender as ripe tomatoes. Slowly, laboriously, he made his way toward the stairs, wincing with every step.

  “And if you’ve still got a mind to run off down the road, I’ll whip you again till it’ll be all you can do to crawl like a baby. Now begone with you!”

  It seemed like ages to Aaron before he finished climbing the stairs. At last he entered his room, Miss Grackle charging upstairs behind him, slamming the door shut and turning a key in the lock. His feet throbbing, Aaron shuffled weakly across the floor, collapsed on his bed and fell thankfully to sleep.

  6

  It was late afternoon when Aaron awoke. Hooves clattered outside, and he pricked up his ears at the sound of voices below. The guests had begun to arrive.

  I
mmediately, he thought of dashing outside and taking off on a horse—and then he remembered his feet. They were puffy and red and striped from the lashing, and they felt swollen to twice their size. Gently, he placed them on the floor, gradually shifted his weight onto them and slowly hobbled toward the window. All of a sudden there came a booming up the stairs and Miss Grackle burst in through the door.

  “Back to your chores now—quick, boy!” She grabbed hold of his wrist and yanked him down the long flight of stairs, Aaron howling inside with pain.

  “To the fire with you, boy, and put some more blood in its veins! Let me hear it spit like a cat and curse like a drunkard—and be brisk about it!”

  She hauled him, stumbling behind her, across the room, threw him down before the hearth and stirred the pot of soup hanging over the grate. “And if you still be having trouble remembering your manners, why I’ll be happy to remind ’em to you,” she said with a smile, and picked up the willow switch off the mantel and put it down once again.

  Slowly, Aaron built up the fire. He listened for the sound of horses and watched the callers stride in through the door and stamp the snow off their feet.

  “Welcome, me fine gentlemen,” Miss Grackle called out. “Inside with you, me worthies, and thaw out your bones—and there’s hot soup and dumplings waiting for you as well.” She brought out six loaves of bread she’d baked while Aaron was asleep, distributed them around the tables and continued bustling about, collecting her fees, bringing out the dishes, stirring the soup.

  “Up now, boy,” she hissed into Aaron’s ear, “and serve the gentlemen their soup.”

  Aaron rose slowly to his feet, ladled out the soup and painfully made his way about the room, setting the bowls in front of the guests. He looked into their faces but recognized no one, and when all the callers had received their soup, Miss Grackle sat him down beside her, apart from the others.

  “Just look at ’em,” she muttered, indicating the guests. “A pack of beggars and rascals, wouldn’t you say, Sam?”

  Aaron nodded his head.

  “Aye, lad, that’s the most of ’em for certain, and too poor to be worth the bother of plucking their purses. But that ain’t the whole of ’em, lad. Nay, boy, there’s more to ’em than that. And I’ll take you into me confidence, I will, and tell you a secret.”

  Her eyes grew wide and excited, her voice dropped down to a whisper. “There’s men of wealth sitting before us, Sam, men that live in great manors with more rooms than you could count, with flocks of servants scurrying about ’em like mice. Aye, lad, could be there’s noble blood among ’em tonight, lords and earls, and dukes as well!”

  Aaron peered at the guests in amazement. They dribbled soup down their chins and onto their chests, each man guarding his bowl like a dog with a bone. Could these be the manners of dukes and earls?

  “Naturally, they’re dressed up like kings when they’re home in their castles. But when they have to go traveling from one place to another, why they get up in rags like these ones here, lest the thieves and scoundrels cluster about ’em like flies. Me own sharp-witted mother reasoned it out herself, and spent the whole of her life just waiting to snare such a one. Oh, they’re a crafty lot, they are, but I’ve got me a trick for sniffing ’em out, and you can help me with it, too, me little nuthatch. Now get some food into you, boy—and mind you stay clear of the dumplings.”

  Aaron moved his feet slowly across the room to the fireplace, ladled out a bowlful of soup and sat down by himself near the fire. He wondered why she’d ordered him to keep away from the dumplings, but before he could begin eating, one of the guests called out for more, and Miss Grackle commanded him to fill the man’s bowl.

  “Me compliments on the soup,” the man said to Miss Grackle. “Sturdiest soup I ever come across.”

  Miss Grackle put a dainty smile on her face. “Too kind, sir, too kind. And to give you the truth of the matter, any praise for the food belongs to the boy there.”

  Aaron turned and looked at her in surprise. What had he done besides peel the potatoes? He brought the man his steaming bowl and sat himself down to his own, stirring it slowly to let it cool, puzzling over Miss Grackle’s remark.

  “Me compliments to the both of ye, then,” the man continued. “But have you heard the news of Lord Tom, good madam?”

  Instantly, Aaron’s ears pricked up.

  “Escaped out of prison he did, so they say. Burst the chains round his arms as though they were thread, and gnawed through the chains on his feet with his teeth. Run off back to the woods, they say, and a tidy reward waiting for any that knows where he is.”

  Aaron’s eyes bulged with terror, but Miss Grackle looked perfectly calm.

  “And who,” she asked, “is Lord Tom?”

  Aaron gaped in amazement. Surely Miss Grackle of all people would have heard of him—and suddenly he began trembling inside at the thought that he’d strayed so far from home as to find himself in a land where Lord Tom’s terrible deeds were unknown.

  “The fellow’s a highwayman, madam,” the caller replied. “Hunts his prey down in Bingham Woods, with a long-barreled pistol and a temper as short as your little finger.”

  Miss Grackle remained unimpressed. “The woods are plenty full of brigands as it is,” she declared. “Can’t see that one more’s worth troubling about.” She walked to the hearth, and ladled herself out a bowlful of soup. “Aye, he’ll have plenty of company among the trees, I warrant, and ought to feel himself right at home.” She gave the soup a stir, picked up her bowl and carried it over to the far end of the room.

  Aaron looked at her in wonderment, pondering her ignorance of Lord Tom. At last his soup had cooled and Aaron sampled a mouthful—and spit it back out as quick as he could. Scraps of cowhide floated about in it! The broth tasted of leather, and he found a tack among the vegetables—Miss Grackle must have sliced up his boots and thrown them in the soup!

  He reached for a loaf of bread, broke off a piece—and found that it tasted of wool. His stockings!

  Now he knew perfectly well what she’d meant when she’d given him credit for the meal. He shot her a furious glance and caught her dabbing her lips with his very own handkerchief, the one his mother herself had embroidered for him. The light-fingered scoundrel had snatched that from him as well, and had decided to keep it for herself! She returned Aaron’s stare with a knowing smile, and he angrily dumped his soup back in the pot and remained by the fire, jabbing at the logs with the poker.

  One by one the callers finished their dinners, and Miss Grackle set Aaron to clearing the tables and washing the dishes. He kept his ears cocked to their conversation, straining for any information he might pick up. At last they began to grow sleepy and yawn, and gradually they trooped up to bed.

  “Now we wait a bit,” said Miss Grackle when the last one had gone, and she sat him down next to her, listening to every sound from above. When the ceiling had long since ceased to creak from the guests’ footsteps, and long after Miss Grackle poked her head out the door and saw that the third-story window was dark, she cautiously led Aaron up the stairs and into the callers’ room.

  She stood in the doorway awhile, making sure all were asleep. Then she stepped inside, pulling Aaron behind her, and drew a chair up to one of the beds. He watched in amazement as she bent over the face of the man who’d so enjoyed the soup, carefully took hold of his eyelid, slowly peeled it back—and there, lit up in the darkness, was the man’s dream!

  “Aye, Sam, it’s the dumplings that put the light in their visions and keep ’em sleeping deep as dead men as well. Me own special recipe, it is, and a handy one at that. Oh, for they may look like beggars when they walk through the door, but when a duke dreams of home, lad, he’ll be wearing silken robes and rubies on his fingers, and eating roast goose and not gruel.”

  Aaron peered in astonishment at the dream dancing across the man’s eye—and realized Miss Grackle had looked into his own the same way.

  “And if you find us any
royalty,” Miss Grackle continued, “we won’t even bother with lifting his purse, but take him prisoner instead, and ransom him back for a wagonload of gold. Aye, and move into a manor ourselves. Now pull up a chair to that one yonder—and keep your eyeballs sharp for silks and jewels!”

  Aaron did as she said, pulled back the man’s lid and watched the fantasies float across his eye like clouds through the sky. Perhaps one of the guests had seen his mother in Craftsbury, or passed her somewhere along the road—perhaps she’d turn up in the background of a dream.

  For hours Aaron combed through the callers’ visions, carefully searching for just a glimpse of his mother, or their horse, or merely the sea. He saw pigs with wings and wagons that sped along without horses, but nothing of what he was looking for, and no sign of lords or ladies.

  Far into the night they looked into dreams, Aaron’s stomach rumbling with hunger and his eyes growing heavy as gold doubloons. When Miss Grackle herself began to yawn, she led him to her bedroom and had him build her a fire. Then she marched him down the hall to his own room, where he dropped straight into sleep before she could turn the key in the lock.

  7

  Day after day Aaron tended the fires at The Half-a-Moon Inn, penned up inside for the lack of his boots, longing to be home. He’d searched the house from top to bottom, but there wasn’t a spare pair of shoes to be found. And even if there were, Miss Grackle rarely let him out of her sight, except when she locked him in his room to nap in the afternoon and when she slept a few hours before dawn. And if he did spot a chance to make his escape, how could he be sure she wasn’t waiting just out the door, with her willow switch raised at hand?