The Reaper Realm: Threads of Compassion

by K. A. Lentz

  Ever happy to be outside where her feet could thunder across bare earth, Amy was not one to be hurried through her morning routine. Thistle dazed into a daydream while waiting, knowing full well that rushing her pug was a futile effort. Gazing at a mound of dirt she wasn’t really looking at, Thistle was brought back to reality when it alarmingly began fountaining up from below. Backing up a step, she eyed it cautiously; expecting something, rabid or otherwise, to come popping out ready to bite the first unsuspecting person. The rumbling dirt-pile caught Amy’s attention as well and—after a preliminary puggish investigation—the little dog decided digging was the only possible solution. The mound abruptly lost all life and sunk in reaction to her violent intrusion. Thistle decided it was best they moved along and tugged Amy deeper into the sizable city park.

  Worrying she would be late for work Thistle glanced down at her watch and realized she wasn’t going to be late, she was late. Breaking into a run she announced between breaths, “Looks like we’re going to get a bit of exercise too. My, what a morning we’ve had today.” Her pug cared not for any pressures the world may lay at her feet, she was simply happy her paws ran through wet grass and her lungs were filled with fresh air.

  About twenty minutes later Thistle came jogging into work with Amy confidently trotting by her side. Her manager turned and immediately pointed to the office at the back of the shop with an expression of stern disapproval stamped across her face. As Thistle passed by the front desk, her superior sarcastically commented, “Late… and with the dog I see! I certainly can’t wait to hear this one!”

  Thistle gave her back a stern glare and topped it off with a quick tongue jab in her manger’s direction. Seeming to sense this unprofessional action she twisted around and glared a dictatorial frown. Thistle quickly skirted away from her judging gaze and hurried toward the short hall leading to the back room.

  The small hall was lined with bargain bookshelves punctuated by two side-doors before dead ending at a door leading to the backroom generally referred to as the office. The slim, wooden portal opened into a space betrayed by the size of its entrance. On the far wall, the room was dominated by a tall, round window boasting stellar views of an alleyway and the soot-covered brick wall of the building next door. Long ago, at the height of the structure’s forgotten glory, the scene from this magnificent window may have captured your eye for hours of wonderful viewing, but today it was as dull as the contents the room housed. Beneath the elegant window rested stacks of boxes, filled to the top with books waiting their turn on display. As though painted down the length of one wall, industrial gray lockers stretched up to nearly ceiling height. Balancing the room’s decor on the opposite wall sat a typical superstore desk with two drab filing cabinets standing guard on either side. Atop one of the cabinets rested an old portable television wearing longer than usual antennas fastened with duct tape to its back.

  Despite the room’s monotonous furnishings within, the building’s hardwood beams and hand-laid flooring invited ideas of another time. Constructed somewhere around the start of the Victorian era, it was originally built to serve as an upscale general-store with a two story house perched above. Regardless of its small size, the building was stout and well made with a flare toward the dramatic. It commanded a seemingly magical ability to dwarf newer, taller structures sharing its street. She loved being in this old place, and the fact that it was filled to the hilt with books made it all the more charming.

  Thistle unleashed Amy to have the run of the room. With single-minded determination the little pug trotted magisterially to her favorite napping spot at the bottom of an abandoned locker and wasted no time curling up to doze off. As Thistle finished stowing her few belongings, the store’s manager poked her head in the door and said, “Quit dawdling please, we do have work to be done.”

  Adding emphasis to her authoritative statement the persnickety woman receded back through the doorway and then closed it sternly behind her. Thistle looked down at Amy with an eyebrow raised. Amy looked back as though she knew exactly what her human was thinking. Laughing with a sigh, Thistle commented, “Yeah, I think so too, little girl. Today appears as though it’s just going to be one of those days.”

  Letting off a final sigh, she closed the locker, pinned on her nametag, and headed out to face the firing squad. Her manager was watching the hall like a hawk as she waited to lecture her employee on the finer points of being an employee. Trying to head off a long—and boring—reaming, Thistle preempted her lesson by hastily talking first, “I know I’m late so you can spare me that lecture, and Amy had to come with me because I was late getting out the door. I did, however, wake up three hours early this morning… so I don’t want to hear about that either.”

  Thistle’s manager glared through the duration of her statement. Thistle simply stood staring back, feeling satisfied with the explanation given. Esme, on the other hand, could not have cared less and her tone said as much, “Next time leave the dog at home and make it on time, or better yet, early. Okay?”

  Sighing, Thistle skipped over an answer and asked, “Which would you like me to start with today, boss?”

  Her boss fired off a final glare for good measure before slackening her posture. Rolling her eyes, she turned back to her paperwork spread across the counter. “You may start with restocking, and then I’d like you to dust the prize book room,” she said in a voice laced with snobbery.

  “No problem, boss,” Thistle replied with a salute. Adding a stray pile of books waiting on the corner of the counter, Thistle wheeled the “Returns” cart off to the home of its top occupant. Having a university in town made the shop fairly profitable. Students borrowed books as though the store was a library and with the precautions her manager took, few were ever lost. One student visited so often it was safe to assume he never bothered going to the school library. That very student walked in the door not five minutes after Thistle had begun work.

  “Hello all! How are you two on this fair day? Is it not just perfect outside?” As Murph greeted his small audience the book pile cradled in his left arm nearly toppled to the floor. Lurching to one side with hopes of catching his tower of teetering tomes, the hapless young man nearly poured out a tray of steaming drinks clutched in the other. Taking one look at their faces, Murph said with surprise, “Well, don’t we just look to be in a foul mood today?!”

  Not waiting for a reply, the young man flopped his topsy-turvy pile onto the counter and then carelessly placed the drink-tray atop his haphazard tower. Grabbing the smallest cup, he walked up to Thistle and handed it over while saying with a smile, “I know you’re not supposed to drink around books, but this is a new tea blend… ya’ know, from that coffee shop two blocks down. I tried it yesterday and I thought of you right off. I know how much you love black teas, so enjoy!”

  Thanking him, Thistle gave his shoulder an encouraging pat while taking the offered tea. He flashed a broad smile before returning to the remaining drinks. Pulling out a much taller cup he made a quick comment to the manager, “Tall black coffee, and also… I need to check out four more books and recheck these two.”

  It usually took about an hour to get Murph checked in and back out again, annoying her manager with undaunted optimism all the while. Now that the process had begun Thistle felt no need to hang around, and so returned her attentions back to the cart. Sipping tea every now and then, she took her time restocking the books for fear of a recurrence of this morning’s events. When she finally emerged from the recesses of the store, Thistle was shocked to find her manager’s steadfast post… vacant.

  As she looked around, the faint sound of a woman’s voice wafted from the office. Trotting to the front door, she turned the “Back in Five” sign and latched the bolt. The woman’s voice had grown louder during the process, nearly to a point Thistle could hear what the news-anchor was saying. Drifting like a curious child toward the sound, she slowly made her way to the office. Pushing the door aside, she was greeted by the sight of her boss si
tting at the desk while blankly staring at the tiny television screen. Amy was happily perched atop her lap, encouraged to stay by absent-minded pets bestowed upon her as Thistle’s manager intently listened to the news. So striking was the sight that it took Thistle a moment to tune back into the television.

  “…of the four injured police, one is being treated for critical wounds. We will bring you more as the news breaks. This is Aurora North for channel three.”

  Curiosity perking, Thistle asked, “What was that all about?” Impersonating her manager’s usual bossy attitude she added in a chiding tone, “Oh and by the way, I turned the sign and locked the front up for five.”

  Upon hearing her voice Esme jumped up with a start. Quickly regaining her composure, she stated in a matter-of-fact voice, “It’s lunch time, so get your coat. We’re off to the pub across the street.”

  Thistle stared for a moment in disbelief, but didn’t think to argue. Trying to catch up, she grabbed her coat and hurriedly followed Esme out. Less than five minutes later, they were both seated in a comfortable booth with laminated menus firmly in hand. The list of options was full of things Thistle couldn’t eat, having been diagnosed with a severe food allergy as a child, but she always found something no matter how paltry the fare. With a labored sigh, she resigned herself to the default choice of fried avocado slices and a side of steamed veggies. Putting her menu down, Thistle tapped on her manager’s and raised an eyebrow when she finally put it down.

  “Why must you act like a tight-ass all the time, Esme?” she frankly asked.

  With an expression that attested to the frequency of this question, Thistle’s manager eyed her coolly before replying, “At work I’m not your friend. I’m not your pal. I’m your boss. We’ve been through this. You will always be my friend, the only one who helped me when I came from England, but… I can’t be your friend at work… period.”

  In a defensive tone Thistle retorted, “I’m not asking you to be a friend at work… I’m just asking that you be a little less stuffy. One thing that will help is if you act as though you give half a wit about what is going on—outside of work—with your employees.”

  Esme shot her a look that said she found her statement ridiculous. Reacting to her jibe, Thistle pressed on, “I’m serious, you’re too hard on Elise, she has complained. Listen, I’ve known what you’re like… for a while now, so hear me when I tell you… lighten up a bit.” With a lighter, mischievous tone she added, “Remind me again what brought you here?”

  The second she opened her mouth to reply their waitress walked up, pen and pad in hand, cutting off any further argument for the time being. “What can I get for you today?” As she spoke the waitress’s eyes never left the pad her pen sat poised over. Both women quickly ordered their meals. Smiling congenially at the receding waitress, Thistle waited until the lady was out of ear shot and then asked, “What was that all about on the news, just before we left?”

  Her manager’s eyes widened with remembrance. Her eagerness to tell the story was apparent as she began, “Some guy with a lot of show attacked police in the cathedral of St Peter in Fritzlar, Germany. The guy was not only armed with two swords, but he was wearing what looked to be leather armor; even putting on funny ears for the whole show!” Esme paused to take a sip of water before continuing on with a shake of her head, “He was bonkers I tell you. They aren’t sure what he wanted or what he was after, but apparently the scuffle started when police visiting the cathedral caught sight of two swords hidden beneath his cloak. Three of them were barely injured, but one is in critical now. Wouldn’t you know it… a tourist captured the latter half of the fight on tape! Which, as always, the news channels are flashing about. Every channel seems to have a copy.”

  Astonishment clear in her voice Thistle wondered aloud, “How were they injured? I assume he used swords.” She leaned in close to her manager and started sparing quick glances at the television hanging over the bar.

  Esme shook her head again and explained, “No, the man didn’t use them at all from the looks of it… at least not on any of the ones with minor injuries. They haven’t said what caused the one guard to be in critical condition and the tape doesn’t show. The seriously hurt cop was downed before the camera could catch it. They also haven’t said whether they caught him or not. It’s all very bizarre.” She straightened away from the table and gave Thistle a look that said, doesn’t that just beat all.

  Thistle nodded in heartfelt agreement and proceeded to tell her friend all about the morning she had had, which she debated mentioning in the first place. Through the telling of the story her manager’s expression was awash with concern and anger. Leaning forward, Esme looked her in the eye and commandingly stated, “Next time you’re passing out and having hallucinations… call in sick and stay home.”

  Thistle’s jaw dropped a little and her eyes widened in mild surprise. Laughing she retorted, “I’ll have you know I’m just fine now thank you, and they weren’t hallucinations, they were what some might call… visions.”

  “Honey, visions are hallucinations,” Esme said with a slight roll of the eyes before adding, “But sure, we’ll go with visions if that is what you want to call them.”

  Laughing a little more, Thistle agreed, “Yes, thank you, we shall! Now if you don’t mind let’s move on from this subject… if you’re going to be so very narrow about it.”

  Thistle picked up her water and glanced at the television again. The news anchor from earlier returned on screen as the words update and attack flashed in bold, capital letters just above the woman’s head. Unfortunately, adhering to a general custom within bars, the television was muted and—being too far away—she was unable to read any of the closed captioning racing along the bottom of the screen. Her manager was revving up for a response when Thistle hastily put down her drink, told her she would be right back, and made a quick dash to see the picture before it disappeared.

  As she got closer an overwhelming feeling of dread lodged deep within her stomach, threatening to send her to the floor. The picture had been taken as its subject was advancing on the person foolish enough to hold a camera dangerously close to his face. With shock dominating her features, she stood and stared at a close-up of the man kneeling in her vision. So caught up by the flurry of questions raging within her mind, Thistle flinched when the screen changed to show a reporter standing in front of a scuttled fishing boat. Thistle absentmindedly read the captioning; a boat off the coast of Japan nearly sunk after being struck by an unidentified object. Barely able to make it back to port, the vessel’s small crew had been taken to the hospital for shock. The picture once again abruptly changed to a commercial, this time Thistle took no notice. Her mind was bogged down with possibilities as to why she was seeing this man in… visions. Slowly she turned and dragged her feet back to the waiting plate of food rapidly cooling on the table. As she sat down, Esme made note of her paled skin and clear expression of fearful surprise.

  “Are you alright?” Her eyes widened with concern. “Did you faint again? I’m not kidding… you’re taking the rest of the day off.”

  Coming out of her daze, Thistle gave her manager a weak smile and said, “No, I’m fine, thanks. I think… I just need something to eat is all. I haven’t had much today. I’ll be fine, you can watch my every move if you feel the need.”

  Esme shot Thistle a look expressing her lack of amusement, but let the matter go as she pointed to her food and commenced to eat in silence. Thistle too sat quietly lost in thought. This is, by far, the strangest day I’ve ever had. At some point the waitress returned to inquire on their meal. Thistle barely registered the server’s question as she offered a response more automated than genuine. Her manager brought her back to the present when asking a short time later, “Time we got going don’t you think? Amy will pee on my office floor if we don’t get back there soon. You look finished.”

  Shaking her head a little Thistle stammered, “What? Oh yes, I’m done. Oh no! You’re right! Amy! W
hat do I owe you for my half?”

  Chuckling Esme replied, “Consider it a get well gift. Now, go get Amy and enjoy your walk home.”

  Upon her last words Thistle halted every effort to remove herself from the booth. She quickly turned back to her friend with an expression that dared her manager to order her home again. Mustering a stern voice, she stated her case, “I most certainly am not. I’m going to finish out the day so I can pay the vet and my rent this month. Please, I’m going to be short if I miss any more days.”

  During the course of her plea Thistle’s expression morphed from unyielding to pleading. A resigned sigh escaped Esme as she conceded, “Alright, but no more lifting… or heavy work. Just get the dusting seen to and I’ll think on something else for when you’re done.”

  “Oh, thank you!” she replied and hopped out of the booth to hug her friend.

  Esme hugged Thistle back as she replied, “Don’t make me regret this by passing out again okay? Now go see to Amy while I pay the bill, my treat.” When she saw Thistle piping up to disagree she sternly added with a laugh, “No arguments… now go!”

  Barely a minute later Thistle was back across the street putting key to lock. Opening the door she was surprised to find the shop’s hardwood floor dotted by small muddy footprints. With a furrowed brow she followed its path as it wound around the front desk, into the prize book room, and then back toward the front desk. As though suddenly guided by purpose, the footprints ran in a straight line to the hall and up to the door at its end. As Thistle followed the trail it seemed their creator had taken great care to refresh the coating of mud upon its tiny feet; just as the footprints began to wear thin they would suddenly become sloppy and bold once more.

  Thistle stood in wonder as she looked at the prints leading to the door at the end of the hall. Maybe Elise had stopped by. Thistle called out her name. No answer. She knocked on the bathroom door midway down the hall. No answer there either. She poked her head into the small, box laden closet next in line; equally empty. Fear rising, she recoiled from both doors until her back collided with the wall of books behind her. Deciding to muster her courage, for Amy sake, she confronted the offending office door and opened it with the same tact one affords moldy leftovers. Amy simply lifted her head in acknowledgement of Thistle’s rude entrance, and then rested it back atop her crossed paws. Thistle hadn’t made note of her pug’s presence until she came to the end of the mess, right at the base of Amy’s locker. Her fear ebbed with the idea that, somehow, the footprints belonged to her pug.