The Half-a-Moon Inn (5 page)

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.

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?

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.”