The Chronicals of Alaraf

In Sroasha’s office, Rob was holding a tattered copy of a book titled ‘The Peregrine & The Fishhawk: The Real Radio Logs of Two Poisoned Operators.”  He read outloud:

“September 15. Fishhawk is panicked, pinging my UHF each time they inject him with Versed. All I can do is listen and keep dhikr, Boss.”

“September 16. We have access to his toxicology. Despite his headquarters being newly constructed, he has an abnormally high volume of lead, antimony, and mercury in his system. Duke and I reassured him it was temporary as we re-registered our khadim credentials with every Islamic country, again. His lungs are far from clear. Pulse erratic. He claims we are his only outside care.”

“Pir Duke and I have remained awake for over forty eight hours. Fishhawk is touch and go. He has no insight into his own treatment. He has no agency. Chelation intermittent. Extraction prevented, seemingly by paternalistic conservatorship. Vigil continues. Murid continue to check in to take vigil.”

Rob looked at the Pallas cat standing on his tail, concerned.

“So it is just a story,” Sroasha began.
Rob reached into his official paperwork bag, covered in squirrels with little x’s for eyes, and pulled out a newspaper.

“British Scholar on Cat Sufism. Health Declines Daily on Camera as Mascot for Unethical Human Resource Organization.“

There, on the cover, was Fischadler, who had left less than a week prior. Red in the face. Pale in the hands. Anorexic and fully human. A restricting module was visible near his neck, suppressing his voice. His clothing looked heavy, overlarge, and uncomfortable as he spoke in circular phrases.

“Our Human Resource Placement Organization is the best at Human Resources Placement. Not cat placement. Human. I am absolutely not a cat.”

The paper was dated less than a week after Fischadler left.

“It says he works for Human Resources Placement of Human Resources. He lists himself as the original founder, prey, energy source, captive, and seeking extraction.” stated Rob

“Well, that’s blunt of him. If he’s captive, why don’t they edit that out?” Replied Sroasha

“Because they are flaunting it. That’s what happens when an operator gets captured by an overrun prior node.” sighed Rob.
…Just then, cheering echoed from down the hall.

“I want a week of hot stone massage at Hershey Spa for having to read this. We will organize this further in Russian later. Spasibo,” Rob said tersely as he gathered his vinyl squirrel items.

    “I don’t speak Russian.”

     “All the better,” said Rob as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

      Sroasha’s ears were far better as a Pallas cat than as a man. Kafka had inspired him into a semi-horrifying catman compromise. His suit fit the same either way.

Mr. Butler was in tears as he was presented with his first true office on campus.

The Mango Office.

In the window sat a glass vase with mango-shaped indentations, little stems suggested carefully in brown Sharpie. On the wall was a flat dissected mango sculpture. The carpet was every shade of mango, thick enough to trap the legs of chairs.

Dr. Kafka stood behind him, utterly silent, as Mr. Butler read:
“Salaams. As the newest Ombudsman with the fewest natural defenses, it seemed prudent to give you an office as far from campus as possible. Shah Leto will proceed with plans for a labyrinth prior to the office, easily bypassed by hurdle, for greater delay of grievances if your needs require it. Understood. Enjoy your office. ❤️‍
Pir.”

      Mr. Butler cried because he now had a mango-colored KitchenAid stand mixer, all new surveillance equipment, and since he liked uniforms so much, a white and beige suit that made him appear like a receptionist for Jannah.

    There was also a pashmina scarf in orange dreamsicle colors, with two blue eyes stitched with near photographic realism near the bottom edge. On the other side of the weave, a mango was hidden neatly in gold and red threads.

It was creepy and his favorite thing ever.

He even had an optional white campus authority uniform for both man and cat.

“Alhamdulillah. That was kind of them.”

“The word is necessary.”

***********************
Ibn Arabi had spent two weeks with Gefn, leader of Norse Heathens of NORAD, whose family found no contradiction in being clergy, government-entangled, educators, and artists without psychological or reputational fracture.

When he returned, Duke Leto’s usual shiny schlegg key had been replaced by one familiar, antique, and black. The key to his first office. Around the triskelion end, it was tied with an embroidered blue ribbon of Central Asian design.

He sighed and hoped they had at least moved his things of value first.

It was just past Shaba Yaldo Yule, which was a phrase he would never repeat out loud. He crunched across frosty grass toward the white building near the road, opposite the parking lots.

No one was taking classes. He entered through Fernañdo’s classroom, despite Fernañdo not having worked there in years. He cleared his throat and coughed as he passed the cramped political science library.

“Is that you, Pishicat?” a voice called from behind a door.
Duke paused, then continued up the moss-green carpeted stairs two at a time. He listened for patterns. He wanted to announce his relocation quietly, indirectly, but clearly.

Down the hallway, past the lounge of terrible writers on the right and the bathrooms on the left, he reached the black door. The key entered at the angle he remembered, requiring patience.

Inside, the shelves were carved cherrywood, filled with cats and birds. Above the desk hung a Klimt-esque image of two inlaid cats, grey and black on a radiator grate of metallic media against stained-glass blues.

A blue borosilicate vase fumed with silver and flecks of gold sat in the window beside greeting cards and tokens from students. A stained glass betta fish hung nearby.

He hung his coat and scarf on the brass hook and opened the closet.
It was his old closet.
Behind it, another door.
He touched the handle, felt heat immediately, and closed the first door gently.

The desk chair was black, ergonomic, and comfortable. The L-shaped desk had been replaced with something heavier, older, and real. [It was likely from Bryn Athyn trash day, but it worked.]

Inside the drawers were his files, upgraded communication equipment, better phones, a headset, a tablet, and a PC tower.

One drawer held international chocolate bars.

Another contained cannabis, vape cartridges, and a refillable prescription for five milligrams of Valium from Dr. Agathon of Upper Darby.

On the desk lay a copy of ‘The Peregrine & The Fishhawk.’

He had lived through it twice.

Cycles repeated like Fibonacci fractals until identified correctly, then interrupted toward better outcomes.

He noticed a framed photograph of himself younger, in a gray tank top, red bandana, medic bag, cargo pants, and boots. It was signed, “Duke and Hawk, London.”

Beside it was a stained glass frame of green vines holding a newer photo of Baron. This image was never kept on his desk. It was usually buried behind years of files.

His foot nudged something soft beneath the desk.
“Mew.”

A black cat with bright green eyes yawned, revealing a shiny metal left fang.

Soon after noticing the kitty, every device in the office and across campus carried only Fischadler’s distress signals.

“Fischadler requesting extraction. I can not escape on my own. Chelation intermittent. Please do not leave me. Astaghfirullah. Do not listen to the commercials. Please know that I love you. I am not giving up. SOS.”

Duke cut power to every device. He shut off the lights, lit a blue candle, and burned incense. He opened a chocolate bar and trusted, for once, that it was safe.

He lifted the cat and rested it over his shoulder, pressing his ear to its body.
The broadcast continued, now audible in his pacemaker.

The cat trembled.

Duke held him until the shaking stopped.

“What is your name now?” Duke asked.

“You have not picked one yet.” replied the black cat

“Have we called you Ruh yet?”

“Not officially.” stated the cat

“Then Ruh it is. For Opsec.” stated Duke, decisively.

Ruh sighed.

“I am tired of being Radio Fang.”
Duke smiled faintly.

“I am tired of all of this, except you.  oddly.”

“I know the feeling.” Replied Ruh as Duke felt the same familiar purr as always.

“Next time you should ask more questions before assuming I authored all those books, kid.”

  “You probably wouldn’t answer them anyway.”

     “I would be a cat.”

*********************
Under the college of Alaraf, Jerusalem Jones continued searching the catacombs for evidence of the prior administration’s corruption.

“Hi professor. I am your new student,” said the loudest orange kitten yet. His collar read Kek. Beneath it: Property of North Korea.

“I was told to help you until you send me on Birthright.” Stated Kek.

“This is not the time,” Jerry said.

“Yes it is,” Kek insisted.

Jerry sighed and handed him a torch and a book on ritual entrapment.

It would be an excellent distraction.

*************
Above them, Mango’s office buzzed with coordination. Bird handled nutrition. Duke monitored vitals. Other students dropped physics papers for distraction.

…As The radio carried Fischadler’s pleas, over and over…

“This is stability,” was one excuse.

“Maybe it is the best we can do.” was the conclusion.

And the broadcast continued.  .unending.