“Don’t poop on my parade. Ladies first.”
“Do you know what you are? You’re obnoxiously cheerful.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“That’s not a compliment.” Still grumbling, I placed a ball on the tee. I remembered that there was a right way to set up a swing, a skill I had yet to perfect when my father’s accident put the kibosh on golf lessons. What I didn’t remember was how that right way was. This was painfully obvious when I fanned the ball three times before actually making contact. Even that was pathetic. The ball hopped into the air, dropped like a stone, and dribbled into the rough.
“Randi, Randi,” Brian cooed. “You’ve got to let me work on your alignment –”
“No! I don’t care about my stupid alignment. Just hit your ball and let’s get out of here!” By this time a foursome of golfers was crowding us – like when you’re stuck between monster trucks on a highway and they kind of waffle across the white line into your lane and you think, omigod I’m gonna die. They were big, bulky, businessman types, pink with sun, and boisterous.
“Why are you so jumpy?” Brian asked.
“Why aren’t you?”
“Because there’s nothing to be jumpy about.”
“Yes there is. Oh, man! Just hit the ball and let’s get out of here.”
Brian placed a ball on the tee, took his stance, made a couple of practice swings, then swung for real, hitting the ball right in its sweet spot. It sailed through the air and onto the fairway. He turned to me, gloating. “Now, your –”
“Nope,” I snapped. “No way. I don’t want this to take any longer than it has to.” I plucked my ball from the rough, got on my Segway, and chugged resolutely in the direction of the fairway.
“Eat my dust,” cried Brian, zipping ahead of me.
We quickly negotiated the next two holes, the foursome hot on our heels due to my continued fanning. I’m not what you would call a connoisseur of golf holes. Brian, it turned out, was. He insisted on describing their various features – their swales and berms and sand traps and bunkers – despite my frequent, irritated assertions that I didn’t care. Brian was an unstoppable juggernaut when it came to this sort of thing.
Then we arrived at the fourth hole.
“And that right there, if I’m not mistaken, is what we’ve been looking for.” Brian pointed to the left of the hole, between its fairway and the next one. I consulted the course map. The strange eruption of earth he was pointing at corresponded to the spot marked “Ancient Native Grave Site.” It didn’t look like a berm so much as a big mound of mud that had been leveled off and planted with tall bushes. Could this actually be the point of origin of our family’s misery over the generations – this pile of dirt, this messy scramble of bushes? If it was, I don’t know what I had expected. Something more impressive, I guess – something more sinister.
“Saskatoon-berry bushes,” Brian was saying. “You have to prune them ruthlessly. They make for a good hedge. We’re going to need shears.”
“Shears?”
“Hedge clippers.” He shook his head. “Oh, man. Talk about adding insult to injury! Whoever this poor dude was, he wasn’t only buried in a place with lousy feng shui, the feng shui still sucks even after they built a golf course around him.”
“What do you mean?”
“This hole. It’s a disaster. The balance is all off.”
“I don’t get you.”
“I’m talking about aesthetics. Whoever designed this hole bungled it. The shaping is horrific. It’s what you call a dog squeeze, golf course archi-torture.”
“Brian!”
“I mean it. The guy was way too bunker-happy, and look at that monster hogback, right there.” He pointed to a large mound in the green. “It’s completely out of scale. And the hazards … way too tight.”
“If you say so. As far as I’m concerned, a golf hole is a golf hole is a golf hole.”
Brian shook his head. “No,” he said, “you’re missing my point. Whoever this guy was, he was buried in a hog wallow, right?”
“Right.”
“Bad feng shui.”
“Apparently!”
“If it really is Qianfu who is buried here and if the landscaping and architecture of the site had been in harmony with the rules of feng shui, we might never have had this problem in the first place. But they aren’t in harmony. Just the opposite.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The grave is on top of a steep incline. That in itself is bad. Chi can’t accumulate or settle; it can only run downhill.”
“Chi being positive energy.”
“Right. Then there’s the cart path. Up until this hole, it’s kind of meandered around. Right?”
“Right.”
“But for the last hundred yards or so, it’s ramrod straight. That’s what you call a shar in feng shui, a ‘poison arrow.’ Evil travels along straight lines, and this one’s pointed directly at the grave.”
So it was. “And?”
“And last but far from least, the proximity of that ‘comfort station’ over there.” He waggled a finger in the direction of a vividly turquoise, slightly tipsy-looking porta-potty to the left of the hole. He shook his head. “Toilets and chi…not a good combination. I’d be pissed too. You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think we should climb up there and take a closer look at the grave.”
My heart set off at a gallop. Blood rushed to my head. Then I heard gabbing – it was the foursome of businessmen on their Segways closing in on us.
Brian snapped his fingers. “Shoot. Too late. I guess it will have to wait until tonight.”
I can’t wait, I thought. Not.
Brian pulled the Helio off Highway 363 into a ragged copse of Manitoba maple on the far side of the road from the golf course; we were maybe five hundred yards from its entrance. Before stowing our luggage in the car’s trunk and checking out of Scarface’s old haunt, we had changed out of our “proper golf attire” and back into our civvies at the Prairie Rose – jeans and my CanBoard hoodie for me, cargo pants and photographer’s vest for Brian. I figured we’d get one chance and one chance only to dig up Qianfu’s bones. Either we would die trying or, miracle of miracles, we’d succeed, in which case the plan was to get out of town, and I mean pronto. There was a drop box for the Salvation Army next to the hotel. On the way to the car I crammed the rolled-up Bermuda shorts and yellow golf shirt into the box, followed by the socks and gloves and visor and, to top it all off, the white-and-gold shoes.
“Hey!” Brian objected. “What are you doing? That’s good stuff.”
“Which someone else will appreciate more than I ever will,” I told him. “Because if there’s one thing this day has taught me, it’s that, whatever else happens, that was my last golf game.”
The sun had set moments before – according to my Zypad, at precisely 8:21 p.m. Soon it would be dark enough for us to venture onto the course without being seen, but for now the western horizon glowed vibrant pink. “We’re lucky there’s no moon tonight,” Brian said. I didn’t feel lucky. It’s hard to feel lucky when you’re freaked out. And sore? Man! Over my protests, he had insisted on playing out the full nine holes; he had begged and pleaded for the whole eighteen, but I had gotten on my Segway and headed back to the clubhouse, so he didn’t have much choice except to follow.
“It’s a good thing I don’t have to dig,” I grumbled. “My shoulders are killing me.”
“Are you kidding? I’m just getting warmed up,” Brian assured me, beaming. How could he be so cheerful? What was wrong with him? “Equipment check. Shovel?”
“Check. In the trunk.”
“Clippers?”
“Also in the trunk.” After our golf game, we’d made a detour to Canadian Tire to buy the clippers. Oh, and junk food for Brian; the many pockets of his cargo pants and his vest were stuffed with bags of chips and candies and crackers and peanuts. He was like a walking, breathing snack machine
.
“I-spex?”
“Check.”
“Suit bag?”
“Check.”
“Lo p’an?”
I patted my knapsack. Through the thin leather, I could feel the outline of the cherrywood box containing the compass. “And I’m wearing the Zypad in,” I told him.
“What for?”
“To make sure somebody’s really down there,” I replied. “Since the grave site’s in the database, we should be able to use WorldBoard’s infrastructural anatomy function to see the grave’s contents. Once we’re in position.”
“Good thinking. No point digging if nobody’s down there.”
“I just wish we knew for sure if it was Qianfu,” I said.
“It’s our best – heck, it’s our only option,” Brian replied.
“I know,” I said, “but it doesn’t make me feel any better about trespassing on private property and disturbing a grave site and whatever other crimes we’re about to commit.”
We sat for a moment, our eyes fixed on the pink horizon. Brian extracted a bag from one of his pockets. “Jujube?” he offered.
I shook my head. I don’t like jujubes and, even if I did, I don’t think I could have swallowed one at that moment. It felt as though invisible hands wrapped around my neck were slowing squeezing my windpipe closed. “What kind of security do golf courses have, anyway?”
“Video surveillance,” replied Brian, chewing. “I spotted some cameras today, but whoever’s doing the monitoring is probably just focussing on the Segway stand and the bag drop – that’s where thefts happen. Mind you,” and he gave me a sideways glance, “I was thinking of stealing a Segway …”
“Brian!”
“But we’ve got all this gear to lug!”
“You’re unbelievable! Do you know that? No!”
“But it would be exciting!”
“It would not be exciting! It would be nerve-racking, and my nerves are racked enough. What is it with you?”
He playacted pouting. “Spoilsport!”
We reverted to an uneasy silence. I felt like a kettle set to boil, my anxiety bubbling along. The sky above the horizon shifted from pale to royal blue. After a moment I asked, “Would there be any other kind of security?”
“Man dog,” replied Brian.
I turned to him. “What?”
“Man dog,” he repeated. “That’s short for ‘a man with a dog.’ Usually a Doberman pinscher.”
“Doberman pinscher?” I gulped. Don’t get me wrong. As I already mentioned, I like dogs. Lassie and Toto? Bring ’em on. Doberman pinschers, on the other hand…
“Yeah, I know,” Brian said. “I’ve never liked ’em either. Way too alert for my taste. I like my dogs chill.” He glanced at me, then laughed and, reaching over, squeezed my arm. “There won’t be any dogs, Randi. We’re way out in the country in a place that is mostly country. C’mon. Nobody’s going to spring for a guy with a dog at a place like this. What’s the worst that can happen? Some dweeby junior high schooler takes a Segway for a joyride? Some mini-goths throw a party on the seventh hole? You don’t need a dog to break that up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s your problem, not mine.”
Now the horizon simmered into a thin maroon line, and the sky above it turned deep indigo.
“Besides, Qianfu’s ghost is a lot scarier than a Doberman pinscher.”
“Shut up!” He just couldn’t resist, could he? “Oh, man! Don’t talk about that. Not if you want me to be of any use at all.”
By the time nine o’clock rolled around it was pitch-dark, and of the dozen or so cars that had been parked in the lot when we arrived only one remained – a battered, white, windowless van. Brian pointed to it. “That’ll be security.”
At 9:30 sharp the clubhouse went dark, and I mean dark. This far out into the country, with no light pollution coming off a nearby big city and no moon … doesn’t get much darker than that.
I peered into the gloom. “No security lighting?”
“It costs to burn sodium-vapor lights all night,” said Brian. “The lights are probably controlled by some kind of motion detector system around the periphery.”
I snorted. “Great! And I suppose the security guy is going to ignore the fact that suddenly the fourth hole is lit up like a Christmas tree?”
“Relax, Randi. He’ll assume we’re a couple of animals. Nine times out of ten, it’s animals that set off motion detectors.”
“Animals? Do you mean, like deer?”
“Like deer. Like hedgehogs. Like coyotes.”
“Coyotes?”
“And bears.”
“Bears?”
He checked his watch. “Showtime!”
We’d agreed to wait a few minutes after the clubhouse closed, to let everything settle a little, before downloading the avatar and, you know, heading off into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. But now my mind had snagged on the possibility that there might be bears roaming around. “What kind of bears?” I asked. “Dangerous bears?”
“All bears are potentially dangerous,” Brian replied. “Just remember, if we encounter one, stay calm. Don’t run. Back away from the bear slowly. Do not look the bear in the eye –”
“Brian!”
“I’m jerking your chain. This country’s too open for bears.”
I started to relax just a bit…
“Besides, Qianfu’s ghost is a lot scarier than a bear.”
“Brian!”
“Oh, take a pill, why don’t you? C’mon. It’s the witching hour. Time to get cracking.” He rubbed his hands together and I realized that he was excited. It wasn’t that he wasn’t scared; he was that extra bit hyper, his mania cranked up that couple of extra notches, and I knew he was afraid. After all, he wasn’t stupid. But he was psyched too, like this was some crazy adventure. Which I guess it was – but still!
I took a deep, tentative breath. My stomach was tied in some kind of Celtic knot and my chest ached from my efforts not to hyperventilate. This has to be done, I told myself. This has to be done whether I want to do it or not. Even if it’s the last thing I do, it has to be done. I sat up straighter, squared my shoulders. “OK,” I said, trying to sound resolute. “I’m going to use my GPS to track the grave’s coordinates. I don’t want to rely on the Zypad for both the GPS and the feng shui network in case we lose our connection.” With trembling fingers I set the grave’s latitude at fifty degrees, twenty-two minutes, and thirty-six seconds north, and its longitude at one hundred and five degrees, forty-one minutes, and four seconds west. Then I muted the audio. Wandering around a pitch-black golf course at night directed by a woman’s disembodied voice saying, in a posh British accent, “Follow highlighted route … recalculating,” didn’t seem very smart. Another deep breath. “Now I’m going to download The Grandfather.”
“Roger that!”
Using the touch screen, I logged onto the Internet, entered through the New Age portal, selected the feng shui network, and did a control find for Liu Xiazong. A moment later, the avatar appeared on the tiny screen and lifted its cane in silent greeting.
I swallowed hard. I looked at Brian. “I guess we’re really doing this, huh?”
“Looks like it.”
“Give me your I-spex then.” He handed me his pair. I charged them with my CanBoard card and handed them back. “Ready to rock?”
“I’m always ready to rock.”
We put on the I-spex and powered on.
Again the entry bump, that spinny sense of dislocation, that feeling of being stretched out. I glanced down at the screen of my Zypad, which looked much farther away than it had a moment before. The avatar had vanished. I squinted at the screen. A second later, “Shall we?” – right in my ear. A hot, electric surge of fear ran right through me; it was like being struck by lightning. My heart slammed into reverse and I twisted toward the voice
and, sure enough, there was the avatar, hovering outside the car window on my side. It was so close that I could make out the polygonal mesh from which it was modeled – tiny vertices in 3-D space connected by firefly-green lines. I closed my eyes and slumped back into the seat, my hand over my pounding heart. “Oh, man! Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t just appear like that.”
“I really don’t have any control over how I manifest.” The avatar floated through the Helio’s back door as though it were not there, which I suppose it wasn’t in its whatever it was – dimension? frequency? – and took a seat in midair.
Brian twisted around in his seat to face it. “OK, Gramps, what’s our game plan?”
“Gramps?” repeated the avatar, as if it could not possibly have heard him correctly. “Gramps?”
“Sorry,” Brian apologized hastily. “I mean, Honored Grandfather.”
“That’s better.” The avatar was stern. “An ancestor is owed respect, something you will do well to remember, great-grandson. As for our … whatever the sports metaphor was that you used …”
“Our game plan.”
“Game plan,” repeated the avatar. “Ah, yes. Our game plan is very straightforward, Brian. First we must take the precaution of ensuring that the grave in question is indeed that of my brother.”
“Yes,” I interjected, “and how do we do that, exactly? We can’t test for DNA in the field and, besides, wouldn’t they have scraped his bones clean in the Death House?”
The avatar regarded me gravely. It shook its head. “If this is my brother, there will be no doubt, Miranda. No doubt whatsoever. All we need to do is disturb the grave to determine the identity of its owner.” It turned to Brian. “What have you brought in the way of a body bag?”
“A Pierre Cardin suit bag,” replied Brian.
“Good. Good.” The avatar nodded its approval. “Qianfu always liked quality.” Then its tone turned grave and its mien severe, and it was as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the car. It spoke in a low voice. “You must understand, great-grandchildren: if Qianfu lies buried here, digging up this grave will be tantamount to knocking down a hornet’s nest, only a great deal worse. The ghost will resist with all its might and, as you witnessed yesterday afternoon, its powers are formidable. It is not my dear brother we may encounter tonight, but his hungry ghost. I assure you, it would bear no more resemblance to my poor brother than a hummingbird does to a buzzard. What was human and good in Qianfu has been utterly consumed, leaving behind black rage and darkest malice. That distillation of rage and malice would be our adversary, and a worthy and terrible adversary it –”
The Geomancer's Compass Page 14