The Golden Sphere had never been happier to see any human being than It was to see Kafka once It had reconstituted itself underground. That this had taken hours was infuriating. That it had required so much re-joining and so much irritation and hurt was beyond maddening. To have to share space and commonality with grubs and earthworms and moles grated on the Golden Sphere’s last nerve. It did not like Nature or nature—that was not in its ultimately mechanical nature. The ooze and stink, the gelid soft putrescence. Ick and ick. Icky icky icky!
Yet still the Golden Sphere, being tough, had reconstituted. It had taken on the disguise of an entire coach for hire, of the variety that already looked like a transformed pumpkin from a fairy tale, inhabiting also the dead-puppet at the reins and the horses, which if one looked closely in the dusk light were connected by reins and bridles that were long vines of veins and themselves composed of sphere-concentrate and thus as hard as steel.
The Golden Sphere now found Kafka, the salamandary man-lad, guardian of the Prague wall, in resting gill-mode, enjoying a quiet moment in a small squalid pool full of algae-plagued water. No doubt after a long day (well, it was still only midafternoon) of writing protective spells on the wall.
Was that a piña colada in his hand? Surely not. No, it wasn’t. Just a glass of water, perhaps. A jug of milk. A decanter of his own pee for all It knew. The Golden Sphere had lost track of some human customs. It was the Golden Sphere who wanted a strong drink.
The Golden Sphere, about the size of a bouncy ball a child could ride on, sans handles, rolled up to Kafka. It didn’t want to waste the energy floating, not right this moment. God, could It use a drink. Even as It could make a million drinks internally and pretend to be drunk all It wanted.
“What a sight for sore non-eyes,” the Golden Sphere said to Kafka, who had put down his drink and was staring at It with what the Golden Sphere supposed must be awe. That would account for the narrowing of the eyes and the slight frown and the flapping of the gills in his neck.
“You again,” Kafka said.
“Me again. You still can’t kill me, so don’t start.”
“What do you want?”
“As the old sea shanty goes … well, actually, I’m a little too scrambled to think of one at the moment.”
“Hmmph.” Kafka seemed unimpressed.
“Think of us as ‘In the Penal Colony,’ and I am the Kind Friend and the Wise Old Man both.”
“I’m not familiar with that story.”
“You haven’t written it here, so … fair enough.”
Kafka lifted himself, naked, out of the pond.
“Whoa! Put a towel on that thing. I don’t need to see that after the day I’ve had.”
Kafka obliged, even putting on trousers and a shirt after drying off.
“Now, as to our future plans,” the Golden Sphere said.
“You talk too much,” Kafka said. “I let you talk too much last time.”
“Oh, for shame, Kafka, my old friend. How can you say such a thing when—”
“I am not your friend,” Kafka said. “I cannot undo what you made me add to the wall. And I cannot banish you from this place. But I have written something else into the wall. After some delving, I found you in the old books. I found your kind. You cannot stay here. You must go somewhere else.”
The Golden Sphere had, until that moment, thought It felt weak from the travails of the day—namely, having been beaten half to a pulp by Ruth Less. But now It sensed the truth to what Kafka said. There was a nausea coming on that was almost human, infecting every pore. Why, It had rarely felt anything quite like this sensation. It was … It was … most vomitous and vile and curdling. Almost as if someone had filled its delicate mechanism full of runny custard.
“Well, I hardly think that’s neighborly, Kafka. After all, I can kill you.”
Kafka pointed to a golden word glowing on the wall near the pond. “That word says not. That word says if you kill me, you inflict untold damage on yourself.”
“You are indeed very Kafkaesque, I’ll give you that,” the Golden Sphere conceded. “You really should write fiction, you know.”
For Kafka spoke true—the word did constrain. The Golden Sphere tried not to panic as Kafka moved his finger and another word appeared on the wall and the Golden Sphere could not speak, was wrapped in silence that seemed for a panicked moment eternal and never-ending.
Then Kafka moved his finger again and the word faded.
The Golden Sphere had no body, but It felt as if It would begin to spew from both ends, from all ends, in just a few moments. It had a headache. It had shin splints. It had a broken leg. It had a concussion. It had a case of malaria. It had dropsy. It had mopsy. It had gout. It had measles. It had consumption. It had irritable bowel disease. It had C. diff. It had … well, what didn’t It have?
“I … I must depart now,” the Golden Sphere said. “I am leaving of my own free will, however. I must make this clear. Because I want to.”
“As long as you’re leaving, I don’t care,” Kafka said.
The Golden Sphere hesitated, despite its distress. “Kafka … don’t you ever get lonely, all by yourself. Down here? Couldn’t you use … a friend?”
In truth, the encounter with the Celestial Beast had sobered the Golden Sphere right up. Had, at least in part, brought a streak of sincerity bubbling up from its core. And underneath that: a seething shame and regret. The shame of having been made, not born. The regret of being, in the end, by itself.
“I have plenty of fish friends and otter friends,” Kafka said. “That is enough.”
“Please?”
“The château is almost here. And I hate you for it.”
“ ‘For love of a river shanty / I know many / You know scanty / Bullrushes and—’ ”
“Go!”
The Golden Sphere left weeping, which was only half pretense.