At last he stopped—and could go no farther. He looked all about him, but there was nothing resembling a path to be seen. At once he was certain of just what he’d feared—that the road no longer lay under his feet. Somewhere it had escaped him under the snow; he’d simply been dodging between trees for the last hour. And now he was lost, with night coming on.
Quick as a squirrel, Aaron climbed up a tree and snapped off a few dead, dry branches and kindled a fire. He melted snow in his pot and poured in some barley, rolled a rotten log from its place and stretched out on the dry ground beneath it.
The snow had stopped falling and the wind had died down, and he lay there staring into the flames, wondering what he would do in the morning. He could always head into the rising sun and eventually get back to the sea. But he made up his mind to find his way into Craftsbury and to get help for his mother there if he’d not found her first.
Night had arrived, and he devoured the barley and drank the water he’d cooked it in. Then he warmed himself by the fire, wrapped himself up in the two winter coats and lay back on the ground.
He listened for the sound of wolves approaching, or robbers returning to their lair, but heard nothing but the soft rustle of branches. Slowly the clouds began to break up, revealing behind them the endless heavens, and the moon in the west. The night air was chill and edged with ice, and Aaron lay there in the stillness, watching the stars go sleepwalking across the sky, before he slipped at last into sleep.
All the next day Aaron wandered through the woods, guiding his aching feet among boulders and brambles, searching for a road that would take him to Craftsbury. From sunrise to dusk he trudged through the snow, without a sign of his mother, or anyone else. At night he built a fire and cooked himself dinner and slept out under the shivering stars.
On the third day of his journey he tramped until noon, and slowly became aware of a strange scent in the air. He sat himself down on a log to rest, sniffed at the breeze—then jumped to his feet.
Of course, it was smoke! Smoke from a fire—there had to be someone nearby.
He followed the smell as best he could, and suddenly spotted a passage through the trees. Finally he’d found his way to a road—perhaps he could reach Craftsbury this very day!
He charged through the snow and struck out up the road, the smell of smoke growing stronger with every step. All of a sudden the scent of food filled the air, Aaron rounded a bend—and there, up ahead, with two wheels sunk in the snow, stood a wagon full of rags and a man cooking beside it.
At last he’d found help! The man was squatting, stirring a pot over a fire, with his back turned to Aaron. Burly and dressed as raggedly as a scarecrow, he appeared to be a ragman who’d become stuck in the snow. Aaron was filled with hunger by the smell of the food, and was eagerly making his way up the road, when he stepped on a twig. The man’s horse raised its ears, the ragman whirled about and aimed a pistol straight at Aaron’s heart.
“Keep where you be, me suckling cutthroat!” The ragman’s eyes bulged wide and afraid, moving quickly over Aaron and scanning the trees behind him.
“And tell the rest of your band of marauders that I’ll be glad to give the lot of ’em free passage to hades—if they care to come get it!”
Aaron stood perfectly still, his heart pounding madly, while the ragman nervously eyed the trees again, his gun following along with his glance. The two of them faced each other in silence for several moments, the ragman’s ears alert and his eyes darting about. Then he looked once again at Aaron’s frightened appearance and at last seemed satisfied that the boy was harmless and alone and cautiously lowered his pistol.
“Can’t a man be too careful, lad—not in the woods. More thieves than trees in a place like this. A fearsome bunch of scoundrels, they are, and generous with their shot. Command the very bees to stand and deliver their honey.”
He ran his eyes over the forest once again. “But what might such a one as you be doing here, me boy?”
Aaron pulled out the pen and ink from his sack, took off his mittens and rubbed his hands. On a white sheet of paper he wrote: “Have you seen my mother, Mrs. Amelia Patrick, the weaver, of Hifton Head? I can’t speak.”
He stepped forward and handed the note to the ragman, who opened his eyes in utter amazement.
“Bless me bats,” he muttered. “I can see I judged you wrong, me lad, and that you been well brought up to read and write, and not such a boy as would steal.” He tucked his pistol away with an air of apology and stared at the paper again.
“Aye, it’s a fine hand you’ve got, lad, it is indeed. But tell me now—what does it say?”
Aaron looked back at the ragman in disbelief. Having spent his life with his mother and rarely having left the house, Aaron had always assumed that everyone was able to read and write. How could he explain himself if the man couldn’t read?
Quickly he took another sheet of paper from his sack, sketched a portrait of his mother as best he could, and next to it the cathedral in Craftsbury. The ragman watched with the greatest of interest as he drew. Aaron handed him the paper and looked into his eyes, hoping for a spark of recognition.
“Aye, lad, you’ve got talent,” said the ragman, gazing down at the drawing. He shook his head admiringly, glanced again at the note, and handed them both back to Aaron.
“Handy with a quill, you are, that’s easy to see. And just as quiet and polite as you please—aye, I can see you’re a boy that’s been raised up right, and taught to behave proper before his elders.”
Quiet? Polite? The man refused to understand that he was unable to speak!
“And now forgive me own manners for waiting to ask—but are you hungry, me lad?”
Aaron forgot his troubles for the moment and nodded his head.
“Well then!” The ragman gave the pot another stir, filled up two wooden bowls with stew, and the two of them sat by the fire and ate.
“Glad for the company, boy, I don’t mind telling you. Been marooned here since morning. The ditch over there was filled up with snow, looked just like the road—till we sunk into it clear to the axle.”
Aaron looked at the wagon, leaning down off the road and into the snow.
“Can’t seem to get free, between the horse and meself. But maybe you wouldn’t mind giving us a hand—and coming along for the ride if you be going our way.”
Aaron’s ears perked up. Even if he couldn’t be sure they were heading toward Craftsbury, anything would be faster than wandering on foot—and they were bound to strike a town soon enough where he could straighten his bearings. Aaron looked up at the ragman and nodded his head, gulped down his food and hopped to his feet.
“Well then!” bellowed the ragman, wiping his mouth with his arm. “Climb up on the wagon then, and take up the whip—and put it to use when I give out a yell.”
Aaron scrambled onto the wagon. He watched as the ragman plodded around to its sunken side, took hold between the wheels and shouted out, “Now!” A mighty groan came from the ragman, and suddenly Aaron felt the whole right side of the wagon swing up in the air. Frantically he snapped the whip, the horse burst forward, the wagon creaked—and at last it jerked ahead onto the road.
“Well done, me boy!” the ragman called, as he loaded his things into the wagon. “Well done, indeed, and me thanks to you, lad. Now it’s homeward to Williford, if that be agreeable to you.”
Aaron had never heard of the place, but he nodded his head just the same.
“And with company besides—all the better, me boy!” The ragman took hold of the reins, gave them a shake—and they were off down the road.
4
All afternoon they drove through the woods. Occasionally they crossed another road along the way, but never once did they come to a house or a town. Aaron nervously wondered just where on the face of the earth he was, and thought of getting off at the next road they came to. But it might take him days before he met another person, someone who could point him to Craftsbury. He’d do bett
er to stay with the ragman.
When it grew too dim to see, they stopped for the night, and set off once again in the morning. The snow had melted away in patches, and they plied the road more easily now, the miles piling up behind them. Slowly the trees became fewer and fewer, and suddenly they were out of the forest entirely and rolling along among open meadows. Aaron looked about him in search of a landmark, but the land was new to his eyes.
After several hours the trees gradually closed in upon the road, the light grew dim and they were in among woods once again. Still they’d passed no other traveler, come to no other town—and Aaron began to grow worried. The trees seemed to be different from those he’d first wandered through. Odd-sounding bird calls, such as he’d never before heard on the journey to Craftsbury, rang out through the woods. The very clouds in the sky looked foreign and strange, and an uneasy feeling crept over him.
Night came on, but the ragman kept driving, finding his way by the light of the moon.
“Ought to make home before morning,” he spoke up cheerfully. “And you’re welcome to stay, me boy, welcome indeed.”
Aaron was untouched by the ragman’s good spirits, wondering whether his mother had ever made her way home, or whether the blood in her veins had already chilled to ice—when all of a sudden he glimpsed a light up ahead.
He jumped to his feet and nearly fell out of the wagon. Tugging anxiously at the ragman’s arm, he pointed up the road.
“Aye, lad, it’s an inn,” said the ragman, and all at once it came into sight, a ramshackle, three-story house, lit up bone-white in the moonlight. Suddenly the idea of traveling another mile without knowing where he was seemed unbearable to Aaron. He had to get off while there was a chance—and surely an innkeeper could direct him to Craftsbury.
He motioned frantically to stop when they drew up to the inn, and the ragman tugged at the reins, bringing the wagon to a halt.
“Got the urge to sleep in a proper bed, have you, lad?”
Aaron nodded his head, gathered up his belongings and climbed down to the ground. Then he lifted his cap in thanks to the ragman.
“Never seen such a quiet boy before. But I’m grateful for the company, lad—grateful indeed.” And he shook on the reins and was off down the road.
Aaron listened to the wagon fading into the night, then turned toward the inn. Several horses stood hitched out in front, and high up in a window shone a light. A peeling sign by the door read: THE HALF-A-MOON INN. MISS GRACKLE, PROPRIETOR, with a milk-white moon painted in the corner.
Cautiously Aaron walked onto the porch, put down his sack and knocked at the door.
Instantly the light drew in from the window. There came a tremendous clumping of feet down a stairway, the door jerked open and there, with an oil lamp hoisted over her head, stood a bear-sized woman wrapped in shawls like a mummy.
“Inside, and out of the shivery air with you! Quick, boy!” She yanked Aaron in by the wrist and slammed the door shut. He found himself standing in a room cluttered with tables and benches, felt an unexpected chill in the air and realized it was no warmer inside than out.
“State your business, me little dormouse.” Her teeth chattered furiously, her words making clouds in the air. “If it’s Miss Grackle you come looking for—well then, you’ve found her.”
Aaron pulled out the note he’d shown the ragman and handed it to her. Miss Grackle held it before her face and squinted her eyes at it upside down, then right side up, then upside down again.
“Well now, that is interesting. Thank you, boy.” She crumpled it up and tucked it into her huge apron pocket. “Now what do you want with me?”
Aaron looked up at her blankly, unsure what to do.
“Well, what are you doing here all by yourself, and in a coat trailing behind you like the robe of a king? Are you lost, boy?”
Aaron excitedly nodded his head, and suddenly Miss Grackle’s eyes lit up.
“Well now,” she muttered, “you come to the right place, lad—that you have indeed.” She circled about him like a vulture, sizing him up.
“Only answer me this—and mind you keep to the truth.” She bent down before him and shone the lamp in his face. “Be you an honest lad?” she whispered.
Aaron nodded his head.
“And can you kindle a fire, boy, and raise up the flames till they crack like whips?”
Aaron nodded again.
“Well now!” Miss Grackle hauled him up a flight of stairs and marched him into a bedroom. She disappeared for a moment, then returned with a mountain of wood in her arms, which she let fall to the floor with a crash.
“Don’t mind the callers—they’re sound asleep up above us. Just conjure up a blaze, me chipmunk, and I’ll consider it the price of a bed for you.”
Aaron put down his sack, got down on his knees, and carefully arranged the wood in the grate.
“I’d build it meself, mind you, but for all the bending over, with me back so delicate.”
Aaron struck a spark from the flint and watched as the flames sprang up quickly, snapping like flags in the wind.
“Aye, you’ve got the knack of it, boy, that’s sure.” She shook with the chills and thrust her outstretched hands nearly into the blaze itself. “And how is it that such a talented child should be out wandering the woods all alone?”
Full of hope, Aaron handed her the drawing of his mother. Miss Grackle gazed at it sweetly a moment, then thrust it into her pocket.
“Well now, that’s nice of you, boy. I’m grateful to have that.” Suddenly her smile vanished. “Now, tell me how you got here!”
Aaron was at a loss at what to do. She took out his note and puzzled over it some more.
“Me reading’s rusted up, boy—can’t find time to keep in practice the way I’d like. Be a good lad now and recite it to me.”
Aaron shook his head.
“Read it out, I say!”
He shook his head again.
“Disobedient, are you?”
He shook his head.
“Didn’t you never learn to use your tongue, boy?”
Aaron paused, and shook his head.
Suddenly she stooped down and peered into his face. “What are you telling me, lad—that you be mute-born?”
Aaron nodded.
Instantly her eyes opened wide as an owl’s. “Well now, you turn up right handy, me little inchworm. But tell me, where is it you’ve wandered from—ah, but you can’t tell me that, can you? Oh, but you will, boy, and right soon at that.”
She tramped downstairs and brought him up a bowl of cold soup with dumplings. “Eat, boy, till the bowl shines clean, and then shake off your clothes and into the bed with you.”
Aaron was hungry and gladly gulped down the soup. When he was through, Miss Grackle swept out of the room with his dishes, and Aaron undressed by the fire and climbed under the covers.
Surely Miss Grackle could point him to Craftsbury, if he could only make her understand. Perhaps one of the guests was even heading there tomorrow! He’d go straight to Mr. Bumby, the miller, when he got there. He would help him find her.
Aaron gazed at the fire as it slowly burned down, and in the midst of imagining himself home with his mother, he fell into dreaming.
5
“Rise up, boy—up sharp and to work with you!” Miss Grackle bustled across the room in the dawn light, whacked Aaron’s legs with a willow switch and shook him till his teeth rattled.
“Hop to the hearths now, quick, and raise the flames up tall. Let me see ’em hiss like snakes and snap their jaws like wolves!” She clutched a shawl around her shoulders and glared down at him, her teeth chattering wildly with the cold. “Quick, boy—or are you deaf as well!”
Aaron rubbed his legs and squinted up at her. He’d get up sure enough, but not to be nursing fires all morning. He had to get to Craftsbury—and in a galloping hurry. He heard footsteps creaking on the floor above him—the guests were awakening. Surely one of them would be heading in the right di
rection and would offer to take him along.
Miss Grackle reined in her voice to a whisper. “You were dreaming of home last night, weren’t you, boy? Sitting about the table, you were, just you and your mother with her long brown hair, color of molasses, sipping soup out of those pretty blue bowls.”
Aaron stared up at her in disbelief. It was just as she said.
“Aye, I peeked into your dreams, I did, and inspected ’em close. Oh, you were dreaming of speaking, you were, just laughing and shouting and chattering on like a chipmunk. And while I was watching you, I caught me a glimpse out one of your windows—and what do I see but gulls sailing through the air and blue water clear to the horizon. Aye, lad, and no doubt about it—’twas the sea.”
She bore down on Aaron like a bird of prey. “And the sea’s practically ’round the other side of the globe from here, boy—that far and then some! Oh, you come a long way from home, me cricket—and too long a way to be found again! Why, you’d just as likely catch a June bug in December as find your dear mother sniffing around here after you, if she ain’t clicking her heels to be rid of you.”
She smiled down at Aaron like a jack-o’-lantern. “But I’ll be generous with you, boy, more than it pays me, and give you a fine roof over your head and your meals as well, all for the price of your minding the fires and doing your chores. Now what’s your name, boy?”
Aaron wouldn’t have told her even if he were able, and he shook his head.
“Well, you’ll come running to ‘Sam’ from now on, same as the last one. Makes it easy on me memory that way. Now into your clothes, Sam—and to the grates with you!”
Miss Grackle rushed out of the room and Aaron scampered over to the fireplace and climbed into his clothes. Why was it that she couldn’t light the fires herself? She’d said it was her back, but she looked strong enough to him to fire up a volcano. Either way, he had more important things to do than to stay on here as an errand boy—and Miss Grackle would find that out in a hurry. Why, he’d be up and out the door quick as a cat—and let her try and catch him!
The Half-a-Moon Inn Page 2