The Half-a-Moon Inn

by Paul Fleischman

Sometimes, when he was sent up to sleep in the afternoons, Aaron would sit by the window, gazing out at the snow lying thick on the ground, waiting for his mother to come into view. Would she never come looking for him? Had she given up searching the woods for a sign of him? Was she combing the coastline instead? Or had she never made her way home?

  He kept his ears cocked to every word spoken by the guests, always listening for the sound of her name. At night he picked through their dreams with care, studying every figure in every crowd, searching not for men of noble blood, but only for a glimpse of her face.

  He looked longingly into the eyes of the guests when he served them, but none of them paid him any mind. He wanted to jump up and down and wave his arms about madly, but Miss Grackle would no doubt explain it as a case of brain fever, lock him in his room—and whip him for it later. His pen and ink had been in the sack that had disappeared, so there was no way of writing—until he realized one morning how his hands got so black while building the fires. From the charcoal, of course!

  Quickly, he stuck a piece in his pocket while Miss Grackle’s head was turned. And when she went to the shed to bring in more wood, he feverishly tore off a piece of wallpaper from behind a bureau, wrote out a plea for help and hid it in his shirt. When Miss Grackle returned and the callers came down, Aaron deftly stuck the note into one of their coat pockets and hoped for the best. But before the man managed to slip out the door, Miss Grackle had snatched up his coin purse—and Aaron’s note along with it.

  “Oh, but you’ll have to be quicker than that,” she snarled, when the last of the guests had left. She waved the note tauntingly in his face and threw it in the fire.

  “Me ignorant eyes may not be able to read, but they seen what you were about, me sparrow. Putting things into their pockets rather than taking ’em out.”

  She took up her switch, yanked him over to a table and brought it humming down through the air and across his fingers.

  “Taken a fancy to scribbling, have you? Well then, put your talents to good use, boy, and give the sign a new coat of paint, lest any royalty mistake us for no more than a house—and be quick with it!”

  She smacked his hands with the switch once again and set him free. “And if there be so much as a line that’s not straight or a brush hair out of place, why I’ll whip your fingers again till they do the job right.”

  She stormed out the door, took the sign off its hooks, and brought him paint and a brush. Aaron’s fingers throbbed and stung as he scraped off the old paint and laboriously began painting the sign anew. He could barely manage to hold the brush, much less guide it precisely, and it seemed like hours before the sign was completed.

  “That’ll do,” snapped Miss Grackle, running her eyes over it quickly. “Now hop to the potatoes, boy, quick now. And feed the blaze there some wood, before I serve you up to it for lunch meself.”

  “The fool!” Aaron thought to himself, and secretly smiled through the rest of his chores. He could barely keep himself from bursting out laughing when Miss Grackle found the sign to be dry and hung it back up on its hooks. The moon in the corner was there as before, but the words now read: HELP! AARON PATRICK HERE! MISS GRACKLE A PICKPOCKET!

  Oh, but he’d be rid of her soon enough now. This very evening, if not before!

  Aaron was too restless to sleep when he climbed upstairs for his nap, and he trembled with excitement when Miss Grackle brought him down once again and set him to warming the house for the arrival of the guests. All afternoon he’d listened for horses, and when the callers finally began to arrive, Aaron ran to the window and watched them approach.

  One after another, they tied up their horses, walked up the steps—and strode past the sign as though it didn’t exist. Aaron searched their faces in desperation when they came through the door, but the travelers ignored him as usual. He looked into their eyes when he served them their soup and watched in amazement as they devoured their dinners, gathered by the fire and trooped up to bed just as always—and realized it at last. They identified the inn by the moon on the sign. None of the guests could read.

  That night a furious snowstorm blew out of the sky. The wind whipped madly about the house, pouncing on the roof and flinging snow against the shutters. At dawn Aaron awoke and looked out his window—and there, riding on horseback, a caped figure with long brown hair approached.

  Aaron’s eyes froze wide open, gaping in disbelief. It was his mother.

  At last, she’d come to fetch him home again! He jumped to his feet and scrambled into his clothes. His door had already been unlocked and Aaron dashed across the room, flew down the stairs—and was snatched up at the door by Miss Grackle herself.

  “Company’s coming, me little titmouse, and a familiar face at that, though we ain’t never been properly introduced.” She grabbed hold of Aaron and hauled him back upstairs, kicking and squirming. “And there’s nothing company hates worse than a pesky boy hanging about.”

  She threw him in a closet, locked the door and bustled back downstairs.

  Aaron crouched down on his knees and put his ear to the floor. He could make out the sound of approaching hooves, then steps on the porch, then a knock at the door. Miss Grackle’s steps boomed across the floor, the door creaked open and slammed shut with a bang.

  “Pardon me, madam, but could it be you’ve caught sight of a boy in a plaid wool coat a-wandering out this way? A mute boy he is, that and my own dear son.”

  It was his mother’s voice for certain—Aaron knew it at once. But why had she bothered to ask? She could read the sign out front, she knew he was here!

  “A mute boy, you say?” Miss Grackle replied, musing. “Well now, let me consider the matter a moment.”

  There was a pause.

  “A plaid coat, you say?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said his mother.

  “Well now. Then it’s a mute boy with a plaid coat we be looking for, isn’t it now?”

  “Exactly.”

  There was another pause.

  “Well now, come to think of it, I don’t believe I’ve come across any such article. I do have a boy here that helps with the chores, but he just jabbers away all the day long like a finch. Couldn’t say he’s mute, in the proper sense of the word.”

  “I see,” said his mother. What was she waiting for? Wasn’t she going to demand that Miss Grackle hand him over at once? Aaron jumped up and down on the floor as hard as he could and Miss Grackle began sneezing—he must have shaken the dust loose from the ceiling.

  “Aye, he’s upstairs right now, tacking down a new carpet for me. Handy with the tools, he is.”

  “I see,” said his mother.

  “But I’ll keep me eyes sharp for him, madam. Scamper off from home, did he now? Oh, but just let him get a taste of the cold and he’ll be back soon enough, believe me he will.”

  There was a pause.

  “Well now,” said his mother, “I suppose it isn’t likely I’d turn him up out in this direction anyway. But if you should come by him, I’d be greatly obliged if you’d send him toward Hifton Head with one of your travelers. Most humbly obliged indeed.”

  Was she actually going to leave, then? Aaron jumped on the floor with all his might and pounded on the walls with his fists.

  “Without a moment’s delay,” Miss Grackle replied. “You can depend on it.”

  He could hear steps moving across the floor, felt the front door close and heard the neigh of a horse. Hadn’t she heard him? Why was she leaving him? He pounded against the door until he was exhausted. What was the matter with her?

  He stopped to listen, and caught the sound of hooves fading away. He pounded at the door one last time and crumpled down on the floor, tears silently moving down his cheeks. A half hour later Miss Grackle unlocked the door and fetched him downstairs.

  “Strike flint, boy, and hoist the flames up high!” She flung a shawl over her shoulders and clutched it tight. “Take the ice out of this chillful air, Sam, and then hop to the pota
toes.”

  Miss Grackle bustled about the room, stepped out onto the porch for a minute and returned with a shiver.

  “Curse the wind!” she hissed. “Could have just cost us some royal company.”

  Aaron looked up at her quizzically.

  “Hurry up with the blaze, boy—it’s nothing. Just the sign out front. Wind blew it down during the night.”

  Aaron stopped what he was doing, and suddenly knew what had happened. The sign must have fallen facedown on the ground—his mother had never seen it.

  8

  All day long Aaron wandered sullenly about the house like a homeless spirit. He looked out the window while he tended to his chores, watching the wind drive the clouds across the sky.

  Would his mother ever bother to search this road again? Was that the last look he’d ever get of her, the last time he’d ever hear the sound of her voice? Somehow he had to slip out of Miss Grackle’s grasp, or she’d have him striking flint to her fires for the rest of his days.

  That evening, while Aaron was serving the guests, wagon wheels creaked to a halt outside, footsteps thumped heavily up onto the porch, Aaron turned to look as the door swung open—and there stood the ragman.

  “Bless me bats!” he burst out. “It’s me quiet little friend.”

  Aaron’s eyes lit up and suddenly he felt weightless with joy and relief. At last he’d been rescued! Why, he’d be home straightaway—in a few days at the most!

  He trembled with excitement, and in his haste to run to the ragman he spilled a bowl of hot soup and dumplings down the front of a guest, a huge man who promptly let out a cry.

  “Curse you, you clumsy scamp!” he shouted. He wore a leather eye patch and focused all his anger into a fearsome one-eyed glare.

  “On purpose, was it?” he snarled, staring straight at Aaron. “I ought to have your head for it, boy—and maybe I will!”

  “Quick, boy!” barked Miss Grackle. “Fetch a rag and clean the worthy gentleman’s clothes.” He did as she said while the man muttered ominously to himself. Then Aaron brought him another bowl of soup and fled to the ragman.

  “Well met, me lad,” said the ragman with a smile. “Well met indeed.” He sat himself down at a table and Aaron served him his dinner.

  “Decided to stay on as an errand boy, have you? Fine choice, me lad. Excellent choice.” Aaron strenuously shook his head no, but the ragman seemed not to notice.

  “Fine training, it is. Good experience for a boy—aye, and I’m sure your mistress is grateful indeed to have a polite and well-mannered lad such as yourself. One that knows how to hold his tongue before his elders.”

  Hold his tongue? Would the man never understand that Aaron was mute, and that he was trying to escape from the inn? Aaron tugged on the ragman’s sleeve, desperate to get the truth into his head before Miss Grackle should intervene, but the man’s mind was as impenetrable as stone.

  “Aye, I worked at an inn once meself, as a boy. That I did, with the travelers always coming and going, and the stories of all the places they’ve seen. No better place for a boy to learn about life.”

  Aaron struggled to make himself understood by the ragman, shaking his head back and forth, making faces of pain, pointing fearfully toward Miss Grackle. But before he could get his point across, Miss Grackle called him away and set him to clearing the tables. Somehow he had to get back to the ragman, but the moment Aaron finished one chore Miss Grackle gave him another, and he watched in dismay as the first of the guests began tramping upstairs—the ragman among them.

  Aaron worked his mind feverishly, determined not to let the chance slip through his fingers. Yet Miss Grackle seemed suspicious, never letting him out of her sight, and when they entered the guests’ room to sift through their dreams, it was Miss Grackle who pulled up next to the ragman, sitting Aaron down by the man who’d cursed him earlier.

  He felt restless and jumpy, with no patience for searching for silks and jewels, but he tried to pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary. He pulled the lid back from the man’s uncovered eye—and instantly a chill shot up his spine like lightning. The man was dreaming of creeping slowly down a hall, entering a room where a boy slept in a bed, and with a vengeful smile, driving a knife into his back. And the boy was none other than Aaron himself!

  Aaron looked closer, trembling with fear, and saw that the man had no patch over his eye in the dream, and sported a wild red beard, just like Lord Tom’s. Aaron looked again, and gaped in horror. It was Lord Tom he was dreaming of—and suddenly Aaron began to shake. The eye he was looking at was brown. Carefully he lifted up the patch over the other eye, and let it down again in a hurry. The eye behind it was perfectly normal—and as blue as the sea. Lord Tom himself was lying before him!

  Aaron’s heart began racing like a runaway horse. Of all the people to spill a bowl of soup onto, why had he picked Lord Tom? He must have shaved off his beard and strapped on an eye patch so as not to be spotted, and left Bingham Woods for lands where he wasn’t yet known. Aaron stared at his face, imagining it with a beard, and recognized it as the face that had haunted him so.

  Was he planning to put an end to Aaron for his clumsiness this very night? He’d killed men for less, Aaron was certain of that. Or since he’d know just where to find him, would he save Aaron for the future, and murder him at his leisure? Somehow he had to see that the man was locked up, and in a desperate hurry.

  There was no hope of getting the guests to understand. And Miss Grackle herself had never heard of the man. Suddenly an idea burst into his head.

  He shot up from his chair, ran to Miss Grackle and tugged on her arm, pointing excitedly toward Lord Tom.

  “What is it, me little bedbug? Did you see something, Sam?”

  Aaron nodded his head wildly, and pantomimed a man admiring rings on his fingers.

  “Well, what is it then, lad—have you struck noble blood?”

  Aaron nodded his head, and Miss Grackle jumped to her feet in a flash.

  “Quick, Sam, what manner of man have you found us? A duke, is it, boy?”

  Aaron shook his head no, and quickly imitated a man walking with a great full-length robe trailing behind him.

  “By the gods!” Miss Grackle exclaimed, her eyes bulging with greedy excitement. “Can it be you’ve uncovered a prince?”

  Aaron shook his head again, and pretended to place a glittering crown on his head.

  “Great heavens, boy—is it a king, then?”

  Frantically Aaron nodded his head yes.

  “A king under me own roof?” Miss Grackle burst out. “Impossible!” She scrambled madly across the room, bent over Lord Tom a moment and straightened up again.

  “It’s gone, boy—the dream’s changed.” She grabbed Aaron by the shoulders and scrutinized his face.

  “But you say you saw it for yourself?” she asked, her eyes wide and alert.

  Aaron nodded wildly, straining to look as excited as he could.

  “And you’re certain he had a crown, are you, Sam?”

  He nodded again.

  “Well now, maybe you’ve struck something after all, boy.” Her eyes sparkled hungrily, and a calculating smile spread over her face. “What did I tell you, lad, but there’s all manner of royalty just waiting to be found. And a king at that!”

  She hovered over the man like a hawk, trembling with visions of wagons full of gold. “Oh, you’ve done well, you have, and I’m right proud of you, Sam. And I’ll see to it that you get a wing all to yourself when we get us a castle. You can depend on it, lad.”

  Aaron tried to look as greedy and pleased as she, and watched as she pawed through the man’s possessions, picked out his pistol and stuck it in her apron pocket.

  “We’ll lead him down in the cellar tomorrow morning, give him a shove and lock the door behind him. And you, Sam, can write out some proper ransom notes. Then it’s just a matter of passing the time till the gold arrives and His Majesty goes free—and we begin living like kings ourselves!”
>
  Aaron sighed with relief inside at the thought of Lord Tom locked safely away in the cellar, and hoped for once that her scheme went as planned. Now all he need do was to figure a way to escape before Miss Grackle discovered that it was a rogue she was boarding, rather than royalty. He worked his mind desperately while he was led to his room, and lay awake through the night, too restless to sleep.

  Slowly the sky began to lighten in the east, and soon Miss Grackle marched down the hallway, unlocked his door and stuck her head inside.

  “Into your clothes, and to the grates with you, Sam!” Aaron dressed in a hurry, hopping from one bare foot to the other on the icy floor. Suddenly he began to question his plan, wondering how long Lord Tom would stay cooped up in the cellar. There’d be no queens or princes to bail him out! Why, he’d be mad as fifty hornets and likely burst down the door himself—and leave knives in both their backs as payment for his keep.

  Quickly Aaron scurried downstairs and set about kindling a fire, knowing he had to get free of the inn without a moment to spare.

  “Give us a blaze now, Sam, and one fit for a king!” Miss Grackle whispered hoarsely. “Our guest of honor isn’t used to waking up to a chill in the air—so raise up the flames and make him feel right at home.”

  Aaron finished arranging the logs on the grate, struck a spark from the flint—but couldn’t get the wood shavings to catch.

  “Quick, Sam, a fire—I can already hear feet stirring above.”

  Aaron struck at the flint time and again, but the tinder refused to burn.

  “What is it now, me little termite?” Miss Grackle hissed with impatience. She stood over him clutching a shawl around her shoulders, her teeth chattering furiously. “The flames always come when you call ’em. Now bring ’em up, boy!”

  Nervously, Aaron arranged the tinder anew, shifted the wood about and struck the flint again. The spark jumped forward into the wood shavings—and immediately died out.

  “How can it be?” asked Miss Grackle in puzzlement. Then all of a sudden she swooped down upon him and yanked him up by the wrist.