The Reaper Realm: Threads of Compassion

by K. A. Lentz

  “Okay, girl, who was here and let you run your muddy feet all over the store? Uh, more importantly who walked you? ELISE!!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, but the store once more failed to reply.

  Amy continued to doze in her locker, yet sternly sighed with mild annoyance over the noise Thistle created. Deciding to start the cleanup process before her manager returned, she walked over and hauled Amy out of her cozy spot for de-mudding. Her pug in turn projected a forceful snuff of disapproval directly into Thistle’s face. Wiping off the mess, she said, “Thanks, girl. That’s just what I needed, a snot shower!”

  Pug stowed under one arm she headed to the bathroom, stepping over glops of mud along the way. Just inside the restroom door was a small, square table placed there decades ago by a former employee. Its original purpose lost in time, the tabletop’s current function was to house various odd toiletries that countless employees had left behind through the years. She cleared them quickly to the back of the toilet, and then put Amy down on its soft vinyl surface. Thistle’s eyebrows shot up as she turned over one paw and found no mud there, nor any hint it had ever graced the dog’s foot in the first place. She checked each in turn, all ending in the same result; nothing.

  Thistle’s fear began to rise anew. Once again she found herself puzzling over another strange event of the day. Visions, armed men, mysterious muddy footprints that seem to end where they shouldn’t and be in places they shouldn’t be! How could footprints lead up to a locker, but not away? Why were they so small? Come to think of it, why hadn’t there been any sign of a break in? The door had been firmly locked and the footprints didn’t lead out of the shop in any way. That could only mean they were still in the store with me… somewhere.

  Standing slack-jawed, Thistle failed to react in time as Amy jumped from the table. Announcing her readiness to leave the bathroom, the saucy pug gave a small whine and barked at the sound of Esme’s voice angrily ringing through the store. “Thistle? Are you in here? What the bloody hell are all these footprints?! Thistle!”

  The employee in question rushed from the bathroom and—in her haste for safety in numbers—almost knocked them both to the floor. Weaving her way through their legs, Amy did a once around the store before returning to the office to resume her nap. Thistle simply stared at her manager for a second as she in turn hotly waited for an explanation.

  Raising her hands in defense, Thistle said, “They were here when I came in. I haven’t even taken her out yet. I’ve followed them everywhere they go and I’m trying to figure this out myself.”

  “Someone broke into the store?!” Esme exclaimed as she began stomping toward the office, but Thistle’s next statement stopped her progress. “No, I haven’t found any sign someone broke in. And the prints don’t lead to the front door or to the window in the break-room, so I’m not sure how they got in… or where they went for that matter. Maybe you can come up with some reason as to why they’re here.”

  Esme inhaled a deep breath as though to yell, but Thistle silenced her once more. “And Elise isn’t here playing tricks, or at least she didn’t stick around to enjoy her handiwork.”

  Thistle’s manager sighed as she scratched her brow and glanced around clearly confused. Hanging her head with another sigh, she simply stated, “It cannot have been her anyway, now that I think about it. I asked for her keys two days ago… in light of the fact that she was failing to take them out of the lock after opening up in the morning. I warned her three times…” She trailed off from a rant into a mumble.

  Both stood in silent contemplation until Esme decided she should direct the situation into order. “Okay, you take Amy on her walk and I’ll clean up the mud. You shouldn’t be straining yourself anyway. Do me a favor though, check the till on your way out. Cheers.”

  Relieved by her manager’s offered opportunity to get out of the shop, Thistle made a quick dash for the office to grab Amy and her leash. A little more than fifteen minutes later the refreshed pair casually strolled back through the front door after finishing their walk. Stowing her pug back in the office, Thistle grabbed a rag and dusting solution from the bathroom before dawdling her way to the prized book room. She quickly dusted one case and was moving on to the next when she noticed something Esme had surprisingly missed; muddy footprints climbing the shelves as though they had been used as a stepladder. Thistle’s jaw dropped as her eyes followed the mess up one shelf-front, over to the next, and then finally coming to an end at the glass case occupying the top three rows of the grand, centermost bookshelf. Thistle could see a small smudge on the glass and walked over to take a closer look.

  Standing directly in front of the case she clearly saw the smear’s shape: the grubby outline of a small hand. Startled by some vague realization of what she was looking at, Thistle cautiously backed away from the unexplainable. Her mind ground over each fact she knew to be true before quickly deducing who was responsible. Striding from the room with confidence, Thistle had come to the shocking conclusion that this whole hullaballoo was a joke perpetrated by her co-workers; there was no other explanation. The footprints had thrown her for a loop, but the handprint, well… that was over the top. All this was rolling through her head when she found Esme finishing up with the mess in the hall and prepared to confront her.

  Thistle puffed up and stated matter of fact, “Alright you got me. Well, you had me, that is… until the handprint. That was a bit over the top, but I suppose it’s your first joke, so I’ll cut you a little slack. You get to clean up the mess on the shelves though, seeing as you put it there. Also, added note, you might want to consider acting as your fall back for bookstore manager… I really did believe you took Elise’s keys away.”

  Esme simply stared as though Thistle had lost her mind. At the end of Thistle’s statement her manager’s back went rigid, she put down the bucket of muddy water, and glared a no nonsense expression while asserting, “I have no idea what you are talking about. I most certainly am not playing a joke on you!” Looking around, her tone acquired a note of condescension. “Don’t you think I have better things to do with my time than to make a mess and clean it up, all just to have a funny over on you, hmm? Aren’t you smarter than that?”

  Stung by her words, Thistle retorted, “True, you wouldn’t play a joke on me just to give you a reason to be a jerk. I see now, how foolish of me. Well then, I’d like your opinion on a new development in the prized book room you failed to clean.”

  Thistle made her statement firmer by giving a curt nod along with an extremely sour expression. Refusing to wait for a response, she turned on heel so fast her braid smacked Esme square in the chest. Her manager’s eyes went from annoyance to surprise in a heartbeat as she rubbed the spot her employee’s braid had hit. Thistle simply marched back to the prized book room with the confidence of a leader; casually assuming her manager would follow as told. After a moment’s pause, Esme decided it would be easier to go after her and see what her addled friend was raving about. Turning the corner into the room, she found Thistle standing beside a shelf impatiently tapping her foot. Saying nothing, she pointed to one side, slowly stepped the other direction, and then stopped just past the glass case, her finger pointing at the smudge. Putting on her glasses, Esme walked over to where Thistle had started and began to investigate. The moment she saw the footprints leading up the bookshelf, her jaw dropped and she issued a small stamp of frustration. Her fists clenched as she followed the path to the glass window bearing the handprint.

  “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!” Esme sputtered in red-faced anger. Thistle watched on as the wheels in her manager’s head ground over the facts. Esme’s expression changed to accusation as she turned toward Thistle pointing the finger of judgment. “Oh me, I see it is you whom is playing the joke. Did your spell this morning knock all sense from your head? You know I won’t tolerate this kind of rubbish. You have wasted part of the day on running you and ME around. Well, I will not be paying you for your ti…”

  With her own stomp of
anger, Thistle cut through her rant like a knife. “Shut it right there! I did NOT do this and you had best apologize for that. I’m… nearly as upset as you. The day I’ve had so far… well, let’s just say it won the prize for worst and weirdest ever. Tell me you did this, just to make me feel better, but I don’t want to hear how I’m to blame, because I most certainly am not!”

  Thistle stood angrily glaring at the smudge while she waited for Esme’s apology. Her manager’s expression softened as it shifted to concentration. For a few minutes they stood, neither saying a word, and then Esme abruptly broke the silence. “I’m sorry, what was I to think? You came to the same conclusion and you know me well enough to know… I don’t play jokes.”

  Thistle walked over and patted her arm. In a consoling tone she offered, “Fair enough. Now then, do we have any theories on this very odd smudge? I can’t come up with any. The only other culprit in the store doesn’t even have hands to climb up the front of a shelf with, not to mention fingers such as the ones made here.”

  They stood a while in quiet contemplation, but the spell of curiosity was broken when the bell dangling from the front door announced an arrival. Pausing to give each other a knowing look, the duo quickly jumped into action. Exiting the room at the same time; Esme ran for the front desk while Thistle ran for the bucket and mop lounging on the floor in the hall. Quickly stowing them in the bathroom, she swiped a bottle of cleaner and a rag from under the sink before dashing off to finish cleaning up the mess. Not sparing the unique smudge another thought, Thistle squirted cleaner all over the glass and wiped it away without a hint of ceremony. Soon after, the remaining mud followed the handprint into oblivion.

  From then on a steady trickle of customers prevented both co-workers from any further discussion on the matter. As her manager locked up for the night, Thistle felt the need to survey the store one last time for possible overlooked oddities. Spending extra time examining the prized book room, she decided to investigate which book the mischief maker had stopped to gaze upon. Thistle’s memory guided her to its previous spot while conjuring an image of the smudge. Behind the phantom mark within her mind’s eye was a dated book on the subject of Roman history; prized no longer for its contents but for its considerable age. Without thinking she made a motion to open the case and withdraw the book, but the door was locked. Sighing, she let it go and headed to the front desk where Esme stood uncharacteristically staring off into space.

  Compelled to go home and put the whole day behind her, Thistle gave her boss a pat on the shoulder and then turned toward the office. It took hardly any time to gather up her few belongings and leash Amy for the journey home. Absorbed within her own questioning mind, Esme absentmindedly waved farewell to Thistle as her employee bid her goodnight and walked out the door.

  Gone was the pleasant, sunny day from earlier, it had been chased off hours ago by a biting wind ferrying a ferocious storm from the north. Thistle braced herself against the approaching rain and quickened their pace. About half way home she suddenly felt… followed. Chancing nervous glances over her shoulder, she was unable to see anyone suspicious behind her. Barely a block from her house, the feeling surged into an overwhelming panic. Trying to find the comfortable medium between a walk and a run, Thistle made a break for the crowded streets bustling outside the park.

  Rounding the last corner, Thistle’s heart soared at the promise of safety waiting within her apartment building just ahead. Without pause she yanked open its front door and raced into the building’s vestibule. Passing her mailbox, she trotted into the waiting elevator and punched the button to her floor. Feeling relatively safe within the familiar, rattling contraption she glanced down remembering the footprints from this morning. Nervousness rising anew, she stared transfixed at a single, fresh pair of muddy outlines gracing the elevator floor. Thistle kneeled down to take a closer look; same as the pair from this morning and identical to the ones tracked all over the shop. Who? Why? Still crouched down inspecting, she startled upright when the elevator stopped and rudely chimed its arrival. Hastily standing, she made a mad dash for her apartment and started in on its crowd of deadbolts.

  Once inside, she dropped her bag onto the floor before securing every lock and bolt her front door possessed. Still feeling the apartment’s security inadequate, she snatched up an aged chair outside her bathroom and proceeded to wedge the elderly piece of furniture beneath the door’s rickety handle. Taking a step back, she surveyed her handiwork. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. Feeling moderately safe behind her makeshift barricade, Thistle picked up the splay of discarded belongings and followed Amy into the kitchen for dinner.

  When she awoke the next day, it felt like any other day before. The alarm screaming from beside her bed did its usual job of startling Thistle awake. Feeling oddly invigorated, she donned her usual grab-bag of clothes before trotting down to the kitchen with every hope of finding something quick—and edible—lurking in her refrigerator. Empty, she would have to wait out the day until lunch. Only thing left to do was walk Amy and even she seemed more willing to cooperate than normal. Thistle felt as if the world was back in order when she locked the door to her apartment and left for work on time.

  As she arrived at the shop, one of the day’s usual scenes was playing out for her amusement. Bent over her ledger resting in its central location, Esme dutifully occupied her daily post as sentinel of an orderly bookstore. Murph was also strangely in attendance this morning, getting an early start on his weekly routine of author check. Smiling and calling out a quick hello, Thistle dodged the situation by swiftly making her way to the office. It didn’t take long to stow her book-bag and jacket, but still she dallied her way back to Esme’s steadfast station hoping to avoid Murph’s usual perkiness. The cheerful customer in question had established a minor fortress of books on the far side, perched behind his wall like a warrior waiting for battle. Thistle leaned in and whispered to Esme, “So anything interesting this morning?”

  Her manager didn’t bother looking up while simply shaking her head in response. Hoping for a little more, Thistle prodded, “Nothing new at all?”

  This time Esme glanced up long enough to glare her disinterest on the subject before curtly stating, “No, nothing of any kind happened while you were gone. Good? Alright then. There is a delivery of books by my desk in the office, they need to be stocked.”

  With a salute and a giggle, Thistle retorted, “Ya-know, one of these days you’re going to stare a hole right through that thing.”

  She looked over at Murph, flashed a mischievous smile, and then ran off to the waiting boxes before her manager could muster a retort. Finding the delivery, she pulled up an empty stocking cart and started loading its bottom shelf. Midway through she came upon a history book of Roman battles and quickly decided to ask Esme about borrowing it. Knowing she had best wait until break time, Thistle set the book atop the desk and dug through the remainder of the delivery with added incentive.

  Leaning in to retrieve the container’s dwindling occupants, Thistle halted as a loud commotion started at the front of the shop. Starting almost in tandem with the ruckus outside, sounds of small footsteps began echoing around the room. Thistle rounded on the noise, but no one was there. Again the stampede sounded behind her. Panicking, she spun in circles scanning for their maker… still nothing. Thistle glanced down to her feet and found, much to her surprise, the same muddy footprints gracing the floor just as the day before. Thistle froze.

  The events taking place at the front of the store had escalated to an intelligible decibel. Agitated and annoyed, her manager’s voice carried these sentiments as she spat, “Listen here, you medieval freak, leave my…”

  Her eyes drawing up in surprise, Thistle abandoned the everlasting hunt for elusive footsteps and began searching the room over for a solution to the problem outside. Pondering her options, Thistle cursed her boss for keeping the only operating phone-line under the front counter. Looking around for anything of use, she spotted an al
uminum baseball bat shining like Excalibur beside the door. Tip-toeing over, she slowly picked up the gleaming weapon and hugged its comforting metal close to her chest. Inching open the office’s customarily squeaky door, Thistle sent it a silent plea to remain quiet. The old portal seemed willing to cooperate and was kind enough to pass her message along to the creaky floorboards resting in the hall. Noiselessly reaching the end, Thistle peaked around the corner to a scene she had never expected to see.

  Murph quickly exited from view as he dashed out the front door and down the street, screaming in high-pitched tones along the way. Her manager’s opportunity for escape was not so lucky as Murph’s. Captured and held off the ground by the front of her button-up blouse, Esme was frantically trying to shed the arm hoisting her up. Finding no quarter there, the helpless woman switched tactics and tried kicking off her attacker, but her foe’s grip was unrelenting. Thistle’s gaze traced a path down the arm holding her friend and found its owner to be none other than the man from her vision. With intense anger stamped across his face, the man’s gaze threatened to bore a hole through his prisoner. Speaking through an exceedingly thick accent he demanded, “Stop! Where is she? I feel! TELL!”

  Shocked by the events unfolding before her, Thistle’s sudden lack of grip enabled her Excalibur to start on a silent flight toward the floor. As it struck the hardwood the distinctive ring of aluminum echoed like a bell throughout the store. The man still gripping Esme swiftly turned to face the racket. Seeing her, a faint smile crept like a spider across his shadowed face. With the flick of his wrist the man threw Thistle’s struggling boss at the bookcase behind her steadfast post. On impact Esme’s neck caught the edge of a shelf just before her head bounced off a large, decorative bookend. With an ungainly thud, she fell into a heap upon the unforgiving floor. Not sparing his crumpled victim another glance the offending man started off in Thistle’s direction, his eyes burning with angry purpose.