Seventeen Steps

 1863 – Fredericksburg, Virginia, snow blanketed the town with muffled silence that belied the atrocities all around. From a ramshackle one-story house could be traced an unmistakable pattern. Through snow as deep as a man’s knee, there were two uneven footprints, angled to the left the mark of a cane, and to the right a set of paw prints. Those familiar knew the prints belonged to Lye and Trusty – though most had forgotten which prints were which.

               Lye and Trusty made their way, as they did “every day ‘cept Sundays,” to their store. The sign above the door read “Guns Ammunition Hardware and Tinware.”  Lye knew the words, painted a chipped and faded green, by heart, though he couldn’t much see them anymore. He reached into his pocket, extracted his ring of keys. With aching hands, unlocked the door.

Three steps to the coat rack, Lye hung his coat and his wide-brimmed hat. Trusty shook, droplets of frozen water flying, and wandered lazily about.

 Five steps to the counter, Lye tapped the register, reached into his satchel, filling the drawer with greybacks.  

Three steps to the end of the counter, Lye shuffled around touching the ever-dwindling supplies: hammers, nails, rusted saws, dented tin plates. His stock consisted of what merchandise remained and items that were brought in for trade. Most men coming through his door were clad in butternuts, seeking repairs of rifles or pistols or to sharpen their battle-scarred sabers. They came because Lye could fix it all – his eyes were failing, but his hands were skilled. They paid what they had or could trade. Lye accepted it. War, he knew, was hell on everyone.

Four steps to the cast iron stove, Lye threw logs inside. Striking a long match, he listened to the telltale hiss of simmering fire.

Trusty whined. The hound pawed and scratched at the door to the storeroom, demanding entrance with an unusual amount of excitement. Trusty was not known for his enthusiasm.

“What’s the matter pup? Find a mouse? Good boy!”

Trusty barked at the compliment, pawing at the door with greater fervor.

“Okay, okay I’m coming.” Lye took four steps and reached out to the counter – six steps to the storeroom. He tapped his cane against the floorboards, reached for the door, letting Trusty in to find his conquest. A cold breeze blew through the open frame, Lye didn’t hear the scamper of a frenzied chase. Instead, he heard Trusty’s low whine, the unmistakable sound of a pup sniffing and licking a new friend, a sudden intake of breath and the soft rustle of a body trying to make itself impossibly smaller. Lye knew Trusty to be a great judge of character. He wasn’t worried. Still …

Lye raised his cane menacingly in Trusty’s direction, “Come on out! Ya might get past my traitor of a dog but ya won’t get past me!”

A chattering voice cracked and pleaded, “P..p…please sir, I d…d…don’t mean you no harm. I just needed a place to rest.”  

Lye lowered his cane and shuffled in farther – three steps to the barrels of gunpowder on the right, the barrels which were currently providing cover. Lye reached his hand down to help the stranger. Frozen hands gripped his.

“Son, you ‘bout near froze to death.”  Lye offered his old wool sweater, threads hanging from unraveling cuffs.

“Th….thank you sir.” The voice cracked again, as small arms slipped into a sweater, three times their size.

“Name’s Lye. You got one?”

“Lye sir?”

“Now we both can’t be named Lye!” he teased and was rewarded with a chuckle. “A nickname, Old Reliable, and that traitor that keeps slurping at ya, that’s Trusty.”

“He’s a great hound. Name’s Tate.”

“Tate? That short for somethin’?”

“Nah, just my name.”

“Well, Tate, why don’t we go warm up by the stove and you tell me how you came to be in my storeroom?” Lye turned and shuffled nine steps to the counter, four to the stove. He whistled for Trusty to come knowing where pups go, boys go.

Tate followed, the wool sweater hanging to the knees of his torn clothing.

“Where ya from Tate? Guessin’ you’re a might bit south of here.”

“Georgia, sir, Mr. Lye.”

“Just Lye’ll do. How’d you wind up here Tate?”

“The soldiers, they come to the farm, lookin’ for food and a place to stay. Everybody lookin’ at them, no one lookin’ at me, so I ran. I ran as far as I could, but I got tired and cold. Couldn’t run no more. I see your window and I broke it. Real sorry ‘bout it too, sir. But I was so cold … so cold.” Tate pulled Lye’s sweater tighter, shivering.

“Reckon that’s the first time you saw snow?”

“Yeah, Just Lye, and I don’t like it.”

               Lye laughed softly. “Snow can be beautiful. Covers up some things, makes others more visible.” He looked to the front windows, boarded up, a concession to the war. “What we gonna do with you Tate?”

               “P…please don’t turn me in, Just Lye, sir. I’ll go, once it’s dark again.”

               Lye heard the fear in Tate’s voice, a fate worse than death turning him in. “Why would I turn you in?”

               Tate squinted at Lye; it was hard to tell what the old man could see. “Sir, you know what I am?”

               “I reckon you’re a boy, but if you’re a ghost, better tell me now, so I know I’m crazy and blind.”

               “No sir, Just Lye, not a ghost, not even white.”

               “Just look like a boy to me. People see what they want to see. I’m gonna help you. Stay in the storage room till nightfall.  Move the barrel of gunpowder, open the cellar door. It’s gonna be dark, so dark you’re gonna think you’re me,” Lye chuckled at his own joke. “Go down the ladder. Move forward seventeen steps. Knock on the door. Someone will be waiting to help. Seventeen steps,” Lye repeated, “Seventeen steps to freedom.”