The Half-a-Moon Inn (2 page)

When he awoke in the morning, Aaron sensed a chill in the air. He looked out the window, dashed out of bed and threw open the door in disbelief. Snow was falling thickly out of the sky.

He darted back across the room and jumped into his clothes, shivering in the cold and with his teeth chattering at a gallop. Never had he known the first snow of the winter to arrive so early. Usually it didn't come until Christmas—and then only a dusting of snowflakes at that. But this!

Aaron squeezed into his boots and ventured outside, to find his feet sinking into a full half foot of snow. The fields were covered completely, and the woods in the distance were white. It must have been snowing all night.

He looked about in amazement, walked back inside and lit a fire in the stove. What would become of his mother? A half foot of snow wouldn't hold up the wagon, and she'd said she'd return home by noon, just as always. He peered out the window at the road, but could barely make it out under the snow. Surely she wouldn't leave him here longer than she'd promised—not on his birthday.

Aaron shed his coat and his cap and sat down by the stove. The wind had died down during the night and there wasn't a sound to be heard from outside save the movement of the waters and the brush of snow against the windows. Hour after hour he waited, keeping watch on the road that led from the forest, gazing at the snow drifting down.

He glanced at the clock. The hands said noon. He walked outside and stood peering up the road, but his mother was nowhere in sight.

He tramped back inside and put more wood on the fire. Where could she be? He heated the porridge he'd cooked the night before, but found he wasn't hungry. He decided to whittle a piece of driftwood, but couldn't stop his eyes from wandering to the window, and he put his knife away.

All afternoon he waited, keeping his eyes away from the clock, staring out the window in expectation. Snow continued falling without end, and slowly the light departed from the sky. Aaron tried to keep his thoughts at bay by busying himself with making a pot of potato soup—his mother's favorite kind. He lit all the lamps, built up the fire blazing hot and set the table for two, with the wooden spoons she'd carved herself and her treasured blue-enameled bowls—as if to lure her in out of the darkness.

He decided not to eat until she arrived. He waited an hour. Two hours.

Surely she'd just gotten a late start this morning, or been merely slowed down by the snow. Why, she was bound to show up, and any minute at that.

Another hour passed. At last Aaron couldn't wait any longer, and he ate his dinner alone. He was ready to fall asleep in his chair but he refused to turn in, forcing himself to stay awake. He cocked his ear to the sound of the snow scratching against the windows like a cat, desperate to make of it horses' hooves and the sound of wheels turning.

Finally he could keep his eyes open no longer. He rose from his chair, made certain the door was shut tight, but left it unlatched. He placed a lamp before the window that faced the road, turned it down low and looked out one more time. Then he climbed into bed, and fell asleep waiting for the sound of a wagon.

At dawn he awoke with a start, sprang out of the sheets and stopped in his tracks. His mother's bed was still empty.

What could have happened? He'd been certain she'd be there in the morning, sure she'd have arrived during the night, creeping inside quiet as a mouse, careful not to wake him.

Aaron ran to the window and looked out. He peered through the snow still falling from the sky, but nowhere was his mother to be seen.

He glanced around the room, and noticed her thick winter coat on the rack by the door—she hadn't thought to take it along. Suddenly, everything she'd warned him of leaped into Aaron's mind, and he was struck with the fear that she wasn't just late—but that something had happened to her.

Could she have lost her way in the woods, with the roads covered with snow? Had the wagon become mired in a drift? Had she been attacked by a wolf pack, or a bear, or been fallen upon by thieves? Was she lost in the snow somewhere this very moment, shivering in the cold, calling for help?

He remembered what she'd said about leaving sight of the house. But surely she hadn't meant for him to stay home at a time like this. Perhaps she was stranded just a mile from home. And if she were still close to Craftsbury—why, he'd ridden those roads every month of his life. He'd find his way through the forest, sure as an owl. After all, his birthday had passed, he was a full twelve years old—and she'd expect him to act it.

He rushed about the house, found a large burlap sack and filled it with food, enough for himself and his mother for several days. He packed his flint, a pot and a spoon, paper, pen and ink. He put on his scarf and his mittens and brought his mother's along, drew on his plaid wool coat and put her own coat on over it, so she'd have it to wear. He stood in the center of the room, glancing nervously about, looking for anything he might have forgotten. Then he walked to the door, and set out to find her.

Up the road Aaron marched, with the snow knee-deep on the ground now and still blowing down from the clouds. His feet felt pinched, for he'd outgrown his boots, and the wind numbed his face till it felt like stone. The sound of the sea faded as he tramped along, the sack slung over his shoulder and his mother's coat dragging in the snow.

At last he arrived at the edge of the forest, passed in among the trees and came to a fork in the road. He bore to the right, just as he remembered his mother doing, and sharpened his eyes for any sign of her. Deeper into the woods he walked, the trees leafless and bare and their tops swaying in the wind. Soon the road divided again, and again he bore right. Hour after hour he trudged through the snow, treading his way through the maze of the woods, stopping to eat when his stomach grew empty and moving on through the forest again.

It was late afternoon when Aaron came to another fork in the road and stopped, looking about in bewilderment. He struggled to find something familiar to seize on, but nothing he saw set his memory in motion. He stared at the sky, at the trees and the road, and realized that riding along in the wagon was different from guiding it. He turned and looked about for the ocean, but it was nowhere in sight. He climbed up a tree, and saw only more trees, stretching endlessly to the horizon in every direction.

He cursed his memory but vowed not to turn back. He took note of the wind and the path of the sun—and suddenly felt certain that he ought to bear left, and struck out up the road.

The wind swept angrily out of the sky, driving the snow in his face and moaning two-voiced through the trees. Onward he trudged, the road twisting like an eel and growing ever more narrow, while the branches gesticulated wildly in the wind, as if desperately struggling to be understood.

Snow streamed down, filling in the trail of footprints behind him, and slowly the light began to fade. Soon the road tapered down to a trickle so that Aaron had to search for it anew every few steps. Still he pushed ahead, tired and hungry, groping for the trail among the trees.

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.