‘‘What am I going to do, Dad?’’ he asked, his voice dull.
His father didn’t answer, but Bob knew what he’d say anyway: Keep trying, son.
Bob shook his head. ‘‘I don’t think I can.’’ A swan dive off those sea cliffs at Pebble Beach held a certain appeal.
A poetic end, he thought.
In the darkness, a glow coalesced on one of the bookshelves. In his muddled state, Bob believed he was seeing things, but the luminescence brightened until he had to shield his eyes. Then it dimmed until it illuminated a single volume.
Bob rose and crossed the room to the bookshelf. When he touched the book, the luminescence faded altogether. He pulled it off the shelf and returned to his desk, setting it in the lamplight. He knew what it was immediately—an old family text passed down through the generations. Bob’s father had given it to him before he passed away.
‘‘Keep it safe,’’ his father said. ‘‘It is dangerous in the wrong hands. Use it only if you are certain of what you’re doing.’’
It was written by his many-greats grandmother, Granny Dunn, a couple of centuries ago in Scotland. Bob’s father never explained how the book was dangerous, and all he could tell from the handwriting scrawled across yellowed pages was that it contained recipes and advice on ailments from ‘‘kramps’’ to ‘‘gowt.’’ For all these years, it had been no more than a forgotten family heirloom shelved among glossy volumes about golf. Most of those books remained unread, but they looked impressive to visitors.
Now Bob opened the book and traced the faded ink with his index finger. The language and handwriting were so old-fashioned, and the spelling so atrocious, he hadn’t the patience to puzzle it all out. He supposed if his finances continued to plunge, he could sell the book at auction online.
But his father said it was dangerous.
One recipe for flux called for the innards of spotted salamanders, various plants, and powders, and Bob could see how it was dangerous—the mere notion of swallowing salamander guts soured his stomach.
He was about to close the book when the pages flipped open of their own accord to the topic ‘‘Chasing the Bogey Man.’’ Only S’s looked like F’s, and F’s looked like S’s, so he initially read it as ‘‘Chafing the Bogey Man.’’ Beneath the title was the subheading ‘‘The Effenfe of Gows,’’ which was really, ‘‘The Essense of Gowf.’’ Gowf, he knew, was the old Scottish word for golf.
‘‘Huh,’’ Bob said, taking a keener interest. He knew also that in the old days, bogey meant par—a good score on a given hole. Somehow in modern times the terms were reversed. Par now meant bogey, and bogey now meant one stroke over par.
Granny Dunn wrote: ‘‘Chafe the kreature os fhadowf . . .’’ He had to start over and concentrate, which the scotch made difficult. ‘‘Chase the kreature of shadows at your own peril. Find success in skill and practice.’’
Well, that was pretty good, if uninspired, advice from the old girl.
‘‘But if these fail,’’ she continued, ‘‘here lies the secret for catching the bogey.’’
This was followed by a list of ingredients and instructions and a warning: ‘‘He who fails to follow my words exactly must face what he has wrought with courage, for the consequences shall be deadly.’’
There was a line or two at the bottom of the page, written in a tiny, cramped hand. With a magnifying glass he determined it was in a different language. Gaelic? He shrugged and set the magnifying glass aside and looked the spell over again.
The ingredients looked perfectly reasonable. Sand from a bunker, grass plucked from the fairway, a lock of his hair, and a few other common additions, including a finger of scotch, all mixed together on a full moon.
Well, Bob decided, I have nothing to lose.
Over the following days, Bob decided to try Granny Dunn’s concoction during practice rounds on his home course, which was, quite literally, outside his door. He played early mornings, starting while it was still hazy out and the dew thick on the fairways—before even the greenskeepers were up and grooming the course. He didn’t want witnesses.
He followed Granny’s instructions to a tee, and he laughed at the pun, sprinkling the barest pinch of her recipe on his golf ball. Then with a quick glance to make sure no one was in earshot, he recited the bogey man chant: ‘‘Bogey man, bogey man, hide if you will. The creature of shadows I will catch with skill!’’
He chose his three wood, warmed up with a few practice swings, then dug in for his first shot. The drive was pretty good, as far as he could tell in the haze. Straight down the middle of the fairway and in a decent position for shooting for the green. He sliced the second shot. The slice had been a great source of misfortune for Bob, but a curse stilled on his tongue. It wasn’t too bad this time, and the ball bounced up to the fringe of the green.
He two putted. That made par. Or bogey, as in the old lingo.
Not bad, he thought, more than a little pleased.
He retrieved his ball and replaced the flag, and something moved near the trees of the next tee. A shift of shadows, or maybe the early morning haze lifting from the ground, or the flutter of raven wings. He couldn’t say. He shrugged and continued the round. Once he lost his ball in the rough—couldn’t find it in the near-dark—and as he poked his club through the thick grass, he heard soft laughter, but when he looked up, no one was there. No one he could see, anyway.
Word about Bob’s morning practices got out. Maybe it was a greenskeeper who leaked it, or an early-bird duffer. It could have been anyone since it was usually full daylight out by the time he hit the sixth hole, and life was astir around the course. In any case, the press was interested in him again, though his agent still wasn’t calling, but that was okay. He had a tournament coming up, and then he’d show Ira he was worthy of attention.
His accountant continued to leave him messages about the audit, and he found a voice mail on his cell from an attorney. Susan wanted a divorce. Bob didn’t throw the phone in anger or reach for the scotch. He’d show them he could be a winner again, and then all would be well. Thanks to Granny Dunn and her spell. Susan would come back to him. He knew it.
The tournament was held at the old Brambles course near Atlanta. It was, in comparison to other pro venues, a smallish event picked up by one of the lesser known cable sports channels that would only air highlights. Bob didn’t complain. Invitations to others had dried up, and he failed to qualify for the championship tour. He considered Brambles his chance to redeem himself, to start over.
And so he did, wearing his ‘‘Lucky’s Nuts & Bolts’’ shirt and cap, and with Manuel, his caddie, standing at his side. Bob knew Manuel was receiving offers from other, more notable pros, to do their caddying, but so far he’d not accepted any. Manuel remained steadfast even in the darkest hour. Bob couldn’t imagine why, but he was grateful.
He was paired with another B-list pro, Archie Calvin, whose career had also once held promise, but he could no longer maintain the scores to play with the big guns. Maybe someday Bob would discuss it with Arch over some scotch, but right now he had a game to win.
He stepped up to the tee, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. This was no practice round. He wasn’t playing in the dark. There was a gallery and everything. He teed up, his hand quavering, and feeling just a little too conspicuous, he reached into his pocket for a pinch of Granny’s recipe, and sprinkled it, with some pocket lint, on his golf ball. His cheeks warmed when he saw everyone watching him.
‘‘Salt for luck,’’ he told onlookers. Then, just under his breath, he spoke the bogey man chant. Perhaps people would think he was praying. He knew they thought he needed all the help he could get, divine or otherwise.
The tournament was a dream. Bob remained in the top five on the leader board all three days with no major mishaps, finally sailing in just behind the winner for a solid second place at nine under par. The media interest in Bob spiked, and as he traveled from one tournament to another, he continued to turn in i
mpressive scores.
‘‘I’m doing better, Dad,’’ he told the picture in his den. Inwardly, he wondered if he was winning fairly, or if using Granny Dunn’s spell constituted cheating. It wasn’t like he was taking steroids, and besides, who could prove that a magic spell was helping him win? Who on earth would believe it? Magic didn’t exist, right?
He quickly forgot any pangs of guilt because invitations to more prestigious tournaments started to roll in. With his winnings he resolved his IRS problems and saved his house from foreclosure. Sponsors sought him out once again, though he held onto the ‘‘Lucky’s’’ cap—the hardware chain was suddenly in the black, and Bob felt he could hardly give them up now. Even Ira returned his calls. Not only was he invited to bigger events, but his former jet-setting life was blossoming again in the form of parties where almost any sinful temptation was available for the asking.
As his life took on its former luster, only one thing made it bittersweet: Susan still wanted a divorce.
But never mind that, for he received an invitation to a big tournament with a multimillion dollar purse attached and that would be aired on a major network. No B-list group of competitors would be playing, only Big Names. Bob was thrilled.
‘‘If I do well at the Hardesty,’’ he told Manuel, ‘‘we’ll be on the championship tour for certain.’’
The Hardesty Invitational took place in Nevada, on a challenging course that, from the point of view of the GetLife blimp overhead, was an oasis of green surrounded by desert brown. The rough really was ‘‘rough’’—sand, rocks, and cacti. The first morning of the tournament dawned golden bright, with scrub jays shreeeping over the chatter of the gallery.
Bob never felt more ready to win. Winning this tournament would seal his comeback, and Susan couldn’t help but return to him. Second place wouldn’t be good enough. Not nearly.
‘‘We’re going to win this one,’’ he told Manuel.
Manuel nodded as if Bob were some great sage.
As always, Bob began his tournament with a pinch of Granny Dunn’s recipe and the chant. The press had picked up on it and declared it an eccentricity like that of ball players who didn’t dare change their socks all season for fear of causing bad luck.
Bob’s first drive was incredible and elicited loud applause and shouts from the gallery and a stream of chatter from the commentator next to the tee. Bob waved to his admirers.
The following days found Bob neck and neck on the leader board with Big Name Tony Lamond. They were tied at eleven under, and on the last hole, which Bob birdied, this meant a sudden death playoff. It began immediately. It was televised, after all. He smiled. It would delay the evening news on the east coast.
Tony’s first drive was long and straight down the center of the fairway, very picturesque. Bob was impressed, and he felt the first pangs of doubt. When it was his turn to tee off, he hesitated. He’d never used more than one dose of Granny’s spell per round, but winning this tournament was really important to him. He didn’t want to take any chances, so he reached into his pocket, sprinkled the ingredients on his ball, and spoke the chant.
Something felt different. Wrong. Bob attributed it to nerves from being in this position for the first time in a long while, with the stakes so high. He took a practice swing, and when he looked up, he found, to his consternation, a dense fog billowing over the heads of the gallery and across the course. The media booth up on its scaffolding vanished.
‘‘Fog?’’ he heard Manuel say in disbelief. ‘‘In the desert?’’
Bob smelled brine on the air, as if he had been transported to seaside links in Scotland. Very peculiar. Unnerving laughter drifted from the fog.
Bob wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, feeling clammy.
‘‘You going to shoot?’’ Tony demanded.
The gallery chattered in dismay as the fog obscured the fairway. Officials tried to command silence by waving about ‘‘Quiet, please!’’ signs, an effort that proved futile due to the low visibility. A gull sliced through the air, its mew replacing the raucous calls of the scrub jays.
‘‘It’s the darnedest thing, Jim,’’ a commentator said into his mike, using his best golf voice. ‘‘Let’s see what MacDuff does with this new complication."
Bob licked his lips. This was definitely wrong. Just as it occurred to him to speak to the officials about postponing play, a little, little man with a long beard and red, pointed cap bounded up onto the tee. Bob almost dropped his club.
‘‘Whaaa?’’
‘‘You’ve got to play,’’ the little man told him. ‘‘It’s sudden death.’’
‘‘Jim, it looks like a garden gnome,’’ the commentator said.
‘‘Play?’’ Bob asked.
‘‘If you don’t continue, well, the consequences . . .’’
‘‘Consequences? What consequences?’’
‘‘Why, sudden death!’’
An official strode up to the green with determined strides. ‘‘This is not acceptable,’’ he said.
‘‘It appears the official is conferring with MacDuff and the garden gnome, Jim,’’ the commentator said.
The gnome whirled and pointed at the commentator. ‘‘I am not a garden gnome. My name is Robertson and I’m a golf gnome.’’
‘‘I don’t care what kind of gnome you are,’’ the official told him. ‘‘You are interfering—’’
Robertson waved his hand at the official. The man vanished, his empty clothing—smart yellow blazer, plaid slacks, golf hat, and all—collapsing to the ground. Within moments, a toad hopped out from beneath the hat.
‘‘Interference!’’ it croaked.
‘‘It appears the garden gnome is really a golf gnome with some powerful mojo, Jim,’’ the commentator said. ‘‘Jim? Jim, are you there? All I’m getting is crackling,’’ he told his videographer, tapping his earpiece. The videographer shrugged and said something about his camera. A swell began to build among onlookers who realized their myriad electronic devices were malfunctioning.
‘‘What? No text messaging?’’ a woman cried out in horror.
‘‘Kiss me,’’ the toad said, hopping in her direction.
She screamed and ran off, vanishing into the fog.
Bob watched it all in disbelief. ‘‘What have you done?’’ he asked Robertson.
‘‘It’s not what I’ve done,’’ the gnome replied. ‘‘It’s what you’ve done. Did you not read the fine print?’’
‘‘F-fine print? What fine print?’’
‘‘Why, the fine print under Granny Dunn’s spell. You were to follow her instructions exactly.’’
‘‘But I did! The full moon and everything!’’
‘‘No, you didn’t.’’
Magically the book appeared floating in the air before Bob’s face, opened to ‘‘The Essense of Gowf.’’ The handwriting, misspellings, everything looked the same. On the very bottom was the tiny scrawl in Gaelic.
‘‘Do you mean the Gaelic?’’ Bob asked, trepidation knotting his stomach.
‘‘I do,’’ Robertson replied.
‘‘But I can’t read Gaelic.’’
‘‘Should’ve thought of that before you started using the spell, eh?’’
‘‘What—what does it say?’’
‘‘It says,’’ Robertson began, drawing himself up, as much as a gnome can, ‘‘never to invoke the spell in a sudden death playoff. Doing so makes it all the more deadly. If you do not catch the bogey on this hole, the life of someone you hold dear will be forfeit. Heck, you might not even survive playing the hole yourself.’’
‘‘I don’t believe this,’’ Bob said.
‘‘What’s not to believe?’’ Robertson asked.
Just then, a hulking fellow in an executioner’s mask appeared with his arms wrapped around a struggling Susan. She was perfectly coiffed and stylishly dressed, wearing the best designer labels. ‘‘Bob!’’ she screamed.
‘‘Susan?’’ Bob said, striding forward
, but Robertson held his hand up to forestall him.
‘‘She’ll be at the putting green waiting for you. If you succeed.’’
‘‘But I can’t even see the fairway,’’ Bob said.
The gnome shrugged. ‘‘Not my problem.’’
‘‘Go ahead, take a shot,’’ Tony Lamond said, with a smirk on his face.
Manuel shrugged unhelpfully.
Bob closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to recall every detail of this particular hole, its yardage, bends, bunkers, moundings, everything.
He loosened his wrists, adjusted his grip, and swung. The ball cracked off the tee and sailed into the fog, only to hit something with a ponk!
‘‘AFT!’’ the gnome cried, and everyone just stared at him until the ball rebounded out of the fog and conked Tony Lamond on the head. He crumpled to the ground, out cold.
‘‘Aft?’’ Bob demanded. ‘‘The word is fore.’’
‘‘Fore is for those ahead,’’ the gnome replied. ‘‘The ball threatened those behind it, hence aft.’’
Bob watched as medics tended Tony. He suddenly realized what it meant. ‘‘Hey, Tony can’t play! He’s disqualified—I win!’’
‘‘Not so fast,’’ the gnome said. ‘‘That one was irrelevant to begin with. The challenge of sudden death remains. You must catch the bogey.’’
Bob dented the green with his club head. ‘‘Damn. Then what the hell did my ball hit?’’
‘‘The clubhouse.’’
‘‘The clubhouse? But that’s—’’
‘‘You must remember that things are not as they were,’’ the gnome cautioned.
The fog parted from the fairway to reveal a castle sprawling across it; a huge medieval fortress with turrets and crenellations and hoardings and arrow loops, and a stone curtain wall surrounding it.
‘‘The clubhouse!’’ the gnome announced with a flourish.
‘‘Good God,’’ Manuel muttered. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from a pocket. Smoking wouldn’t be tolerated during an ordinary tournament, but this was no ordinary tournament. Bob was tempted to dig out his flask of scotch from his golf bag but thought better of it.
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