The Half-a-Moon Inn

by Paul Fleischman

  “Unless it be the case that you’ve done something dishonest!”

  She shook him by the arm and peered into his face. “Quick now, boy—explain yourself!”

  Aaron squirmed in her grasp like a snake, his mind whirling in confusion—and then he remembered. The lie that he’d told her about Lord Tom’s dream—that’s why the wood wouldn’t catch! There was no turning back now—he had to escape!

  “Out with it, boy—before I squeeze it out of you meself!” She tightened her grip on his wrist till the bones were ready to snap.

  “Stolen something, is it? Put poison in me food? Is it lies ye be telling, me ungrateful scamp?”

  Aaron writhed in desperation, feverishly working his brain for an excuse—when the sound of footsteps on stairs echoed down from above.

  “Enough—” whispered Miss Grackle, and she threw him down on the floor. “Quick now, to the potatoes with you, and keep still and out of the way. I’ll finish with you in a moment!”

  One by one the callers came clumping downstairs. Miss Grackle took up her post by the door, explained that the chimney flue wasn’t working, lectured them on thieves as usual and bid them farewell.

  “Well met, me lad,” called the ragman as he headed toward the door. “Aye, I can see you’re working hard, and making your mistress right proud of you too. Just as quiet and polite a lad as they come, and never so much as a peep out of you. For me, it’s homeward to Williford. Farewell now, me lad!”

  Aaron waved good-bye, longing to dash out the door with him—but Miss Grackle flashed him a look that kept him bolted to his seat. But no sooner had the ragman stepped out the door than there was a commotion above, feet came crashing downstairs, and Lord Tom appeared in full fury.

  “Where’s me pistol, now!” he shouted in a rage. “Hand it over—brisk now!”

  There were no other travelers left inside, and Miss Grackle looked at the man in surprise and stepped forward from the door.

  “Your firearm, is it, me worthy gentleman? Missing? Most lamentable—and just as I was discussing the subject of theft.”

  Lord Tom paid her no mind, rummaging about the room for his gun and cursing under his breath.

  “No doubt one of the other guests has already sped off down the road with it. A shame, sir, and an excellent pistol I’m sure it was. But as it happens I’ve a fine pair of dueling irons handed down from me grandfather. And as I’ve no use for ’em meself, and to make up for your loss, I should like you to take ’em. I insist on it, sir.”

  Lord Tom stopped his searching. “Well now, and where might they be?” he snarled.

  “Why, just down the stairs here—let me show you.” Miss Grackle led him to a door at the far end of the room, took a key from her pocket and turned it in the latch. She swung the door open and motioned for him to precede her.

  “A fine pair of pistols, I promise you, sir. Just sitting in the cellar collecting dust,” she said, her voice fading as she stepped down the stairs right behind him.

  “Now!” Aaron thought—and he dashed across the room and out the door. He saw that the ragman hadn’t yet left, skipped through the snow to his wagon and scrambled into the back. Only the presence of a king could have taken Miss Grackle’s eyes off him, and a moment later he heard the door swing open.

  “Sam! Step forward! Before I lose my patience!”

  Aaron buried himself out of sight under the rags, and realized that the ragman had been inspecting his horse and hadn’t noticed him climb into the back. Again and again Miss Grackle shouted for him. Aaron froze in place beneath the rags, cursing the ragman for taking so long, when all of a sudden the whip snapped, the wagon jerked—and he was off!

  9

  Down the road they went, while Miss Grackle shrieked for Aaron from the doorway. Oh, she could spit tacks and split her lungs yelling—but she wouldn’t fetch him this time!

  Her voice faded in the distance as the ragman drove on, unaware of whom he had with him. Snow began falling and Aaron wrapped his feet in rags, burrowed in deeper out of the cold and decided to wait till he was well away from The Half-a-Moon Inn before coming out of hiding.

  All morning long he rode in the wagon, as snug as a chipmunk. Sometime after noon the wagon came to a halt, and Aaron heard the ragman climb down. He listened for a while, then cautiously poked his head out of the rags and saw that they’d stopped at an inn in a town he’d never seen, and realized that the ragman must have gone in for a meal.

  Aaron rose out of the pile of rags, climbed down from the wagon and headed toward the door, when it swung open and the ragman charged out in a fearsome rage. When he saw Aaron before him he stopped in his tracks, then sprang forward like a cat and grabbed him roughly by the arms.

  “Bless me bats! First me money disappears, then you turn up. Stowed away in me wagon, have ye? And picked me pocket as well?” He gave Aaron a mighty shake.

  “Where’s me silver, boy—quick now, before I break you up into kindling!”

  Aaron squirmed in his grasp, frightened and confused—and then realized that Miss Grackle must have lifted the man’s purse before he’d managed to slip out the door.

  “The thieves and cutthroats are thick as flies—and I should have known you for one the moment I set eyes on you.”

  Aaron couldn’t believe that the ragman had changed so toward him, and then remembered how suspiciously he’d acted the first time they’d met.

  “Got it hid then, have you?” the ragman shouted. He searched Aaron’s clothes, scowled and shook him angrily again. “Or is it tucked away in the back now, me suckling pickpocket?”

  He climbed into the wagon and rooted among the rags for it. “Oh, but I learned me lesson with you, me little scamp. And if you’re looking for mercy on account of your age, I’ll show you mercy, boy—with the edge of me knife. Now where’s me money!”

  Suddenly Aaron spotted a stick on the ground, picked it up and drew a likeness of Miss Grackle in the snow, clutching a coin purse in her hand. The ragman’s eyebrows jerked up when he saw it.

  “What’s your meaning, lad—that she’s the one that’s plucked it?”

  Aaron nodded desperately.

  “Will you wager your heartbeat on it, boy?”

  He nodded again.

  “Why, the thieving fingersmith. That’s all the money I own! Oh, but I’ll shake the larceny out of her good and proper. Quick boy, into the wagon with you!”

  Aaron scrambled aboard, and trembled to see the ragman heading back toward The Half-a-Moon Inn. He’d rather have shaken hands with the devil himself than set eyes on Miss Grackle again, and he cursed himself sharply for not thinking of that sooner.

  Onward they drove, with the wind and snow whipping down from the sky. Soon they were plodding along at a porcupine’s pace, struggling merely to keep a hold on the road. They lowered their heads to the freezing wind, while the snow swirled through the air and clawed at their faces. Finally the road grew too difficult to travel, and they sought shelter at the first house they came to.

  For three days and nights the blizzard raged. The wind howled like a pack of wild dogs, the snow streamed down without end. The temperature plunged, colder than Aaron had ever felt in his life, and the snow put a stop to all travel on the roads.

  Finally the weather cleared, the snow began to melt and Aaron was distressed to see the ragman ready to press on. Aaron tried his best to skip free of the man, but the ragman still had his suspicions of Aaron and kept watch over the boy like a jailer.

  The snow was deep when they finally headed toward the inn, and though the distance was short, it was evening before they arrived. All the windows were dark, and the house looked deserted. A single horse stood out front in the blackness.

  “You’d best not have been juggling the truth about me purse,” the ragman bellowed, “or I’ll reach down your throat and pull your heart up like a carrot.”

  Aaron had to be dragged out of the wagon by the arm, struggling not to be returned to Miss Grackle. The two of
them crept through the front door, stepped inside and stood perfectly still in the darkness. The air was like ice. Footsteps creaked on the floor above them. The ragman listened for a moment, pulled a candle from his pocket and lit it—and there was Miss Grackle, and Lord Tom right beside her, sitting before the hearth, frozen solid as stone!

  “Bless me bats!” gasped the ragman. A mountain of logs lay on the grate, but the wood had not burned. She must have been stranded alone when the storm closed the roads—and frozen for the lack of a fire! She’d even brought Lord Tom out of the cellar to try and raise the flames—and found out how honest a man he was!

  Aaron stared at her in wonder, reached inside her huge apron pocket and with a sigh of relief pulled out the ragman’s purse. With no flames in the fireplace she’d had no chance to burn it.

  “There now, that’s what we be looking for. Thank you, boy.” Aaron was in no mood to linger and pressed the ragman to leave. But just as they turned to go, footsteps descended the staircase, a figure approached, the ragman held out his candle—and there stood Aaron’s mother.

  “Aaron, my lad!” He stared at her in disbelief as she swept across the room toward him, wrapped him inside her cape and hugged him close.

  “Oh, but I knew I’d find you here somewhere, my dove.” Aaron’s eyes glittered with joy while his mind spun in bafflement, unable to understand how she could be here.

  “This icy one here told me so herself,” she said, indicating Miss Grackle. “When I showed up a-looking for you, and she commenced a-wheezing into this.” She dipped into Miss Grackle’s pocket and plucked out Aaron’s handkerchief. But of course—when he’d jumped up and down in the closet and loosened the dust, she must have clapped it to her nose when she was sneezing!

  “Half a glimpse was all that I got of it, and never even took it for my own needlework. But when I got home and went through your clothes and found one of your handkerchiefs missing—why the sight of it flashed in my eyes like lightning. Oh, I knew then for certain that she knew more than she was telling, and quick as I could I came to pay her another visit. And see what I found!”

  She hugged Aaron again, and glanced down at the rags on his feet.

  “But where are your boots, my dove? Ah, but they were cramping your toes as it was.”

  She disappeared out the door, and returned with a pair of new-made, knee-length boots, shiny black and smelling of leather.

  “These are what kept me in Craftsbury so long—’twas deep in the night before Mr. Cheedle, the cobbler, put the last tack in ’em. And then the snow came down, and the wagon got stuck—oh, I don’t blame you for leaving. Come looking for me, did you?”

  Aaron nodded his head.

  “Well, you did the right thing, lad. I could have used your help, and as it was I had to keep myself warm in the wool that I’d bought and live on the food that I was carrying home. But enough of that now—and happy birthday to you, boy!”

  She handed him the boots, and Aaron’s eyes lit up.

  “Your birthday, is it?” the ragman asked.

  Aaron nodded his head and unwrapped the rags from his feet, while the ragman walked out to his wagon and brought back a pair of wool stockings that were practically new.

  “Can’t have you going about barefoot in your boots, can we?” the ragman asked with a smile.

  “Certainly not,” said his mother. “Try ’em on, then, lad.”

  Aaron slipped into the socks, pulled on the boots and stamped his feet into them. He stretched his toes and strode across the room. They felt grand.

  “Yes, indeed,” said his mother, “they’re more appropriate to a boy who’ll be taking the wagon into Craftsbury by himself soon enough.”

  Aaron’s ears pricked up and he smiled excitedly at the thought.

  “But now tell me, my dove—what became of my coat?”

  Aaron thought for a moment, then reached into Miss Grackle’s apron pocket and pulled out her key ring. He took the candle from the ragman, led the way up to her bedroom and unlocked her closet door, to find his mother’s coat as well as his own, and his burlap sack with the rest of his belongings.

  “Took your boots and stockings away in the cold of the winter, and your wool coat as well?” Aaron’s mother asked. “Why, the woman deserved to freeze, I warrant. But who’s that beside her?”

  Aaron took his pen and ink from his sack and wrote out “Lord Tom” on a piece of paper.

  “By the heavens, lad—can it be?”

  Aaron nodded his head, led them downstairs and removed the patch from his eye.

  “It’s true!” gasped his mother. “Why, they’ve been combing Bingham Woods for the man and trembling in their beds, and here you’ve got him sitting by the hearth, frozen stiff as a log. You’ll be famous, my dove—and with a reward just a-waiting for you!”

  Aaron glowed with his good fortune and proudly led the three of them out of the inn.

  “Aye, madam, I’d be proud to have me such a son meself,” said the ragman. “Just as quiet and polite and well brung up as they come.”

  He climbed up on his wagon and bid them farewell. “Homeward to Williford,” he called out into the night, and he snapped his whip and was off down the road.

  Slowly, Aaron and his mother walked over to their horse. He strapped down his sack, and his mother stuck her foot in the stirrup and hoisted herself up.

  “You take the reins,” she said, holding them out to Aaron.

  He smiled, climbed up in front of her and looked about. The woods were knee-deep in snow, the night air was still. He listened to a bird chirping in the distance. Then he flicked the reins, leaning back against his mother, and headed the horse for home.

  Excerpt from Seedfolks

  Kim

  I stood before our family altar. It was dawn. No one else in the apartment was awake. I stared at my father’s photograph—his thin face stern, lips latched tight, his eyes peering permanently to the right. I was nine years old and still hoped that perhaps his eyes might move. Might notice me.

  The candles and the incense sticks, lit the day before to mark his death anniversary, had burned out. The rice and meat offered him were gone. After the evening feast, past midnight, I’d been wakened by my mother’s crying. My oldest sister had joined in. My own tears had then come as well, but for a different reason.

  I turned from the altar, tiptoed to the kitchen, and quietly drew a spoon from a drawer. I filled my lunch thermos with water and reached into our jar of dried lima beans. Then I walked outside to the street.

  The sidewalk was completely empty. It was Sunday, early in April. An icy wind teetered trash cans and turned my cheeks to marble. In Vietnam we had no weather like that. Here in Cleveland people call it spring. I walked half a block, then crossed the street and reached the vacant lot.

  I stood tall and scouted. No one was sleeping on the old couch in the middle. I’d never entered the lot before, or wanted to. I did so now, picking my way between tires and trash bags. I nearly stepped on two rats gnawing and froze. Then I told myself that I must show my bravery. I continued farther and chose a spot far from the sidewalk and hidden from view by a rusty refrigerator. I had to keep my project safe.

  I took out my spoon and began to dig. The snow had melted, but the ground was hard. After much work, I finished one hole, then a second, then a third. I thought about how my mother and sisters remembered my father, how they knew his face from every angle and held in their fingers the feel of his hands. I had no such memories to cry over. I’d been born eight months after he’d died. Worse, he had no memories of me. When his spirit hovered over our altar, did it even know who I was?

  I dug six holes. All his life in Vietnam my father had been a farmer. Here our apartment house had no yard. But in that vacant lot he would see me. He would watch my beans break ground and spread, and would notice with pleasure their pods growing plump. He would see my patience and my hard work. I would show him that I could raise plants, as he had. I would show him that I was his daug
hter.

  My class had sprouted lima beans in paper cups the year before. I now placed a bean in each of the holes. I covered them up, pressing the soil down firmly with my fingertips. I opened my thermos and watered them all. And I vowed to myself that those beans would thrive.

  About the Author

  PAUL FLEISCHMAN was born in Monterey, California, and grew up in Santa Monica in a family of gardeners. He attended the University of California at Berkeley and the University of New Mexico at Albuquerque, and now lives in Aromas, California. He is the author of many books for young readers that draw on his interest in music, history, theater, and multiple viewpoints—including JOYFUL NOISE: Poems for Two Voices, winner of the Newbery Medal, GRAVEN IMAGES, a Newbery Honor Book, and BULL RUN, winner of the Scott O’Dell Award for Historical Fiction.

  You can visit Paul online at: www.paulfleischman.net

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Also by Paul Fleischman

  Young Adult Novels

  Breakout

  Seek

  Mind’s Eye

  Whirligig

  Seedfolks

  A Fate Totally Worse Than Death

  Bull Run

  The Borning Room

  Saturnalia

  Picture Books

  Sidewalk Circus

  The Animal Hedge

  Weslandia

  Lost

  Time Train

  Poetry

  Big Talk: Poems for Four Voices

  Joyful Noise: Poems for Two Voices

  I Am Phoenix: Poems for Two Voices

  Middle Grade Fiction

  The Half-A-Moon Inn

  Non-Fiction

  Cannibal in the Mirror

  Dateline: Troy