The Chronicals of Alaraf

Kafka arrived at Alaraf on his own two legs.
Like heck he was going to expose his pawpads so soon: his dad had vaguely said they were “cleaning up the Muslim problem from before,” and Kafka expected two Muslims he desperately wanted to avoid, not a college of Tasawwuf-trained, traumatized combat veterans teaching classes and trying very hard to seem as “normal” as shape-shifting cats can be.

His office was the largest beneath the political science department, adjacent to his father’s old space, politely overlooking the civilian walkways between buildings, seasonal flowers, and the carnivorous squirrels he had trained into Atkins diet via Sodexo patties in 2011.

The office looked nothing like the old one.
It was wood-paneled now, like a forest cabin with wainscoting and inlay work. Bookshelves were heavy walnut antique; there was no vase in the window. Christmas lights glowed softly, and his entire library had already been replicated along the walls. A gaming-grade computer waited beside three new cellphones, a watch, and a pen that was probably a weapon because…well, it looked like one.

As if summoned by sheer psychic will, the new head of security knocked quietly.

“Dr. Kafka, I presume?” Wolfe smiled, keeping his extra-long incisors from his VampenWölfe days to great effect. Kafka wondered if this was purgatory or hell, but at least Wolfe seemed friendly enough.

“Hi,” replied Kafka. “I am in this narrative and have zero respect for the fourth wall. I have a letter to ‘meet with Leto immediately,’ but there are three of them in the directory…”

“I think you get to choose,” shrugged Wolfe in his charming Euro-English accent.

“I choose the one least interested in meeting me.”

Like a David Lynch film, a red phone inside the cabinet rang at that declaration. It was Shah Leto I.

“Salaams, Kafka. Nice try. The office before yours is the correct Leto-not the stadium.”

The call cut off.

Wolfe offered, “If you change into a cat, I can carry you there, bro.”

“Yeah, no. I’ll walk. I know where to go. I’m surprised my office isn’t located between the literary propaganda department.”

The person who greeted him was not whom he expected but uncannily familiar: dressed nearly exactly like David Lynch: black button-down shirt, black pants, grey hat, sunglasses. He looked like he was about to pull the daily number or give a weather report, except younger, with a blue scarf, manicured black nails, and signet rings on both middle fingers.

Wordlessly, the Ombudsman gestured to the plastic chair on the wrong-colored carpet, beside the wrong-colored vase, beneath artwork in blues far too coherent to be abstract.

The office smelled of incense; a small blue candle burned on an upper, cheaply assembled bookshelf.

Kafka sat. He was already used to this ritual: the Ombudsman pretending to finish an important email before half-smiling and turning toward him.

“My position here is itinerant. I’m simply a substitute for the restructure. We must establish protocol for transition. As our system runs almost entirely on kitty nepotism, you are the correct lineage for a permanent, or semi-permanent, Ombudsman post when relocation with my partner becomes imminent.”

As if summoned, a sleek orange-and-red striped cat climbed from the roof to the window ledge and tapped the glass.

The Ombudsman opened the window; the cat head-butted his hand affectionately before perching on the desk, staring Kafka down with intelligent blue eyes.

“Your partner is a cat?” Kafka asked.

“Na, Meijo. This is Osprey. He stays at my campus apartment when he chooses. Otherwise, he roams rooftops or appears for pets.”

Osprey was well-named: silent, deliberate, watchful.

This office is safe to be catlish,
Osprey projected.

Baron blinked; Kafka had shifted into catboy form.

“Well, this was inevitable,” sighed Baron.


“I’m frankly surprised this narrative loophole hasn’t been exploited in your stories already.” replied Kafka

“You may ask what you wish,” Baron replied.

“Are you pescatarian and obsessed with chocolate?” asked Kafka.

“I am blessed to afford a near-daily diet of sushi as part of my compensation—always two orders. Either a student eats, or I save the second for tomorrow. If a student comes that day, I split it. Quietly. And I have a healthy relationship with chocolate. However, Lindt and Ferrero Rocher may carry unreasonable spiritual weight.”

On the windowsill: feathers, and a stained-glass betta fish. no time for greeting cards.

“How did you get this job?”

“I inherited it. Nothing glamorous. Trained into it, provisionally, as a stopgap measure. Just as you have first option of doing the same, as part of your clearly established lineage.”

Kafka felt more judged by the cat than by Baron Leto.

He stayed in cat-form at Osprey’s request and earned a nose-boop for compliance.

“So,” Kafka asked, “you want me to be Ombudsman because of my dad?”

“Na, Aziz. Other inheritance. You can decline and still keep the big office, salary, Lars von Trier classes, and restart the anarchist club if you want. There is another candidate who actually wants the job; however, by precedent, it must be offered to the most nepotistic option first. So, Dr. Prince Kafka: Do you want to be Ombudsman after my partner and I leave to liberate Leo Peterson in Canuckistan?”

“Hell no. Give it to the other guy. I’ll take the sushi though; I want to feed the squirrels.”

“I’m proud of you, Kafka. Godspeed.”

The golden cat with the blue scarf saluted, tapped Kafka’s elbow with his tail, and exited through the window, Osprey in stride, leaving the human door swinging behind them.

Kafka fed the first squirrel he saw with tuna and headed to the house he shared with Hypatia, planning how best to teach their form of intelligence to recovering faculty and oblivious students with tangled whiskers and clumsy paws.

Osprey returned to the rooftops, but not before finding Mango, diving from the tower, and stealing his tiny officer hat, sprinting up a dogwood tree with no intention of returning it.

Baron tapped Mango on the shoulder: as a full human… and Mango managed to remain festive while returning to his “Mr. Butler Human Mode,” which was significantly less humane than cat mode.

Baron extended his left hand; Mr. Butler accepted.

“Congratulations on your new Ombudsman position. You can reach me remotely anytime, within reason, and visit as necessary for your heart. But I am certain this remains the straightest path.”

Today was the best day of Mango’s life.