Valley of Flowers

by Chris Collins

  Again the plight of all in the valley arrived at the spot he now stood, and so did the sad-sounding refrain called Why? Now he felt smooth-talking his mind might be beneficial in helping him get started here.

  He told himself to relax and at first there was some success. Nicolas bent his knees slightly as if to sit on a bar stool. It soon became clear to him an easy go of it would not be the case and he backed off the shot.

  Nicolas again went back into it. He set his biased stance over the ball. He assumed his normal two-plank strategy. Butterflies had not migrated but went south. They had in fact increased their flight traffic.

  He told himself he was about ready. Nicolas settled into his stance more. He worked hard at getting his feet in position. They were at equal points, though the heavier burden was decidedly placed on the back or right foot. He turned in his left foot to get it more square. It felt like a weighted stone.

  Just do your part, his left foot seemed to tell him. We'll keep the swing tight.

  Nicolas hoped there was more trouble to consider. He had the feeling to stand up straighter. He went from focusing on his grip to where there was a warring battle of nerves being played out. This had him shaking like a proverbial leaf.

  Once, twice, again, he moved the 3-wood back and forth while staring at his rotund little nemesis. He fought to get back his groove. Nicolas looked to the one hovering as an alien craft behind the ball.

  In a whisper that came in a quivering tone he said, "Still I do not relish this."

  He next looked to the Valley of Flowers sparkling bright. All appeared fresh and alive. Trust showed and attempted to writ large on his face. He gripped the club tighter then let go some. He adjusted his posture from loose pillar to post. Nicolas continued performing this bit of bad theater for the paying-for-it flower crowd. He wondered how he can ever reconcile hitting into this colorful flowered valley.

  He settled in again within himself. He went further into the idea of hitting the ball. He opened then closed his hands over the 3-wood. Nicolas discovered it was not at all easy to grip the club with his nervous digit nerves. It might have appeared he was holding a red-hot pipe.

  Nicolas endured twelve seconds of perspiration. Inside his head he forced an Okay! message. He signaled his reflexes to get in there and do the dirty work. He wished not to think but allow muscle memory to take over.

  But then, as if ringing the doorbell twice, Nicolas held the club firmer but not too. He told himself he could take the swing at any time, and so he turned away from his troubles. His mind left off the effort at getting his body to stand more correctly.

  Again Nicolas backed off the shot. He stepped back to look at one area over the flower valley. He looked to the scaling, seven snow-clad mountain idols and sought resolve. He might have had harsh feelings for the one holding up his play to now, but Nicolas readily forgave himself for this.

  He noted in the next instant one more thing. He believed it was not always an easy ask to give the grand okay a nudge and to just say Yes! to it.

  With a reluctant heart he went back in but stalled more. He hoped to get a sense the flowers were going to be okay with this. He prayed for some sign from the Upstairs. Receiving no answer he aimed to just trust.

  12

  Nicolas stood with his plan to send a no-hoper into the lake. His mind, though, created excuses for not being able. As to how to go about hitting, Nicolas had no real idea. To him it seemed the body of someone else stood over it.

  He felt ill thinking he would be striking out into this world soon. He tried coming up with last-minute answers to a few unending questions. He argued in his head for more time.

  Nicolas remained at the spot as an observer might, taking serious note but outwardly doing nothing. He believed this act of hitting might lay heavily on his conscience forever.

  He felt Arjuna might take this chance to ask if everything was okay with him, or would he be needing to take mental tests.

  He looked at what lies ahead for him. His sad sight went to all locations. Images collected in his mind and he saw only horror. He felt his talent could seep out of his toes over this. Nicolas feared his game might forever be thrown off kilter, if indeed he went ahead with this plan to attack.

  He peered at the ball resting atop the tee. Nicolas looked at the clubhead hovering behind it. At first the club and ball appeared hopeful. They seemed to stare back. He wondered if these two were poking fun or if this situation was even real. He saw the ball and club give each a curious look. He heard in his head the ball say to the 3-wood, Who is this one with the special needs and what is he waiting for?

  Another comment came to like kick him in the rear. Next he imagined the flight of the one he would sometime hit. Nicolas held the club that appeared to want nothing more than to get going. He drew his well known inner-perception lines. He repeated this until the actual hitting of the ball was likely to get lost in all the line-sailing.

  He put away his sketchbook mind. Nicolas focused on his fourth, fifth, sixth address over the ball, which proved also to be just teasing.

  "Come on, baby doll," he said, forcing in some lightness.

  Nicolas joked but took serious note of his inordinate delay in getting started here. He made out he was like any Indian cinema star. He pretended to be waiting for the right script to come along before acting on the song-and-dance picture project. He told himself, Either resign, retire altogether, or get on with it, sweetness.

  Normally he had his school chums along for the ride as his strongest supporters, however Nicolas was no longer in any mood for the glad-happy chatter from the attaboys.

  He chanced becoming more miffed with himself if he did not take the shot soon. He told himself to be more alone inside. Nicolas spoke again and again to The Protector of the Masses Lake. He wanted some assurances. He shifted his weight to be more on his right foot. The difference can be measured in minute grams. Nicolas thought things were about to get going. Opposition to this mounted.

  More challenge came when he released his grip to shake off a stiff hand. The gross hold up in his play seemed all set to continue. He gazed at the ball. Nicolas looked hell-bent on discovering its beginning and end. He turned to peer at the days-are-numbered crowd. He looked for what he thought might be the last time at the spoken-to, spoken-to cushion of wet that was the small lake.

  Yeah, I know! he yelled in his head. Hitting into the lake is not my usual intention, I got that!

  Peripherally he saw Arjuna shift some. He envisioned the old man kick a pebble or two out of impatience. Nicolas heard him clear his throat as to speak more. It occurred to him then to hurry. He feared Arjuna might take advantage of his stalled situation. He thought the old man may accept this chance to offer up more of his wisdom, or perceived bit of vague talk.

  Nicolas Kumar explored this idea more and his fears rose. Thought-patterns as these gathered. They leapt onto this one reality.

  "Now if you are to swing sometime today," said Arjuna, "and the ball strikes that tree there and bounces back, the ball coming to rest a step or two behind you, is this not a progress? The shot is not forgiven, yes? No, I do not think it is, and it should not be. And I hope they never change the rule. It is a progress. It's a progress in disguise. I did not see it myself for quite a while, but I wholeheartedly believe it is. Maybe along your way you will encounter a retracing step. Is this not a progress? Do your duty then, to the best of your abilities, for others and for yourself. Do so without selfish motive. Remember, before starting work or at the completion of some task, or even now while standing so inactive, do not think of God as one and you another, as God is in All, performing joyfully. Begin by understanding this. You can learn to respect this truth by repeated prayer. Practice looking upon all creatures as if they are you, in thought, word and deed. In recognition of this truth, of you as an equal, forgive yourself for any transgressions or blue mountains of error. The light that shines so bright that you before could hardly see, shines well within you now and will do s
o always. Your tears too, at any time that may flow as a mountain stream, are in reality unnecessary, and the sadness you feel then only lacks true understanding. Again, forgive me. Please. Continue with what you were doing."

  Nicolas took in the old man’s words as cruel punishment. He told himself, I probably had that coming.

  It next occurred to him to make use of this interruption. He felt he could excuse himself and back off the shot. Nicolas reversed that decision, though. He said quietly, "I can’t do that." Another thought came. Here too he readily scotched it. He told himself also, I can't do that either.

  Now he felt as fragile as any bud. He looked at the valley that had been giving him such a torrid time. He rehearsed the scene that was already an epic by taking forever. He tried hard to procure the green light.

  Nicolas blocked out all audience stares. You're stalling! he shouted inside his head. Now he felt as nervous as any first-timer at a major.

  He had the idea to let all caution lie with the unpredictable wind. He heard himself say a strong Yes! to it. This seemed to be the thing he had been awaiting. It provided him true spark.

  Put up a decent performance, he advised himself. Nicolas added a soft-spoken though choice set of words. After the swearing-in ceremony he felt about ready.

  13

  Down from the high hills the wind occasionally blew in. It arrived as if out of nowhere and then went away. The wind blowing in seemed to support the theory that now was the time for this much-awaited event.

  Nicolas sped through more preoccupations in his mind. He wished to receive an Okay! message from the Approver. It felt good knowing someone was up there thinking of him.

  He peered down at the one teed up. Fear set in. Hands, he sensed, had been laid on his. Nicolas underwent last-minute checks. This included repeated glances down the fairway.

  He was next caught dead aplomb over the ball. He looked poor as a fakir while possessing not one mind possession.

  Nicolas Kumar felt not ready to swing into action. He was surprised then to see that the club was mobile. The club he had held for so long was indeed moving, and in earnest this time. It drew a faint line over the grass where dew had been.

  The 3-wood went with extended care rearward. It rose. The club then looked to be scrambling up a fire ladder to save some helpless victim. It reached a peak. It was roughly at parallel. In perfect peace the 3-wood appeared to relax by reclining.

  Nicolas added more stretch and the club dipped below its zenith. As if that was the last straw, the club sharply rose from its lie-there position. It went around and then down with a to-heck-with-all fast motion. The unbearable coil had reacted to the terrible tension his body made. It sent the 3-wood crashing. The iron club, curiously referred to as a type of wood, was fast called back to Earth. It returned to its starting point as any metal-worker's hammer. All could hear the ball and 3-wood connect, Ting! The two sounded as if they’d been involved in an unfortunate roadside melee.

  His many-armed swing had swung the 3-wood down and through. His hands swept beyond the area where the ball had been and turned over. His little grippers arrived behind his left ear. They looked to have found a safe spot to hide.

  The ball shot out as a medium-pacer. Nicolas had put in the brakes at the bottom before hitting. Sorely missing in the attack then was his usual tremendous firepower.

  Yes! he said to himself, despite having serious misgivings. And the good feeling that always came to him after hitting was followed fast by an ignoble vision.

  Nicolas sought the skies silently. The unfit paceman that flew lined the skies white. The ball climbed the sky as any common airliner. The drive was his heart's opposite. It was slowly inching up while his feelings for it were heading fast back down. The ball went as a leisurenaut. It went as any life condition. It at first was expansive and then ascendant. It would soon reach some peak. Then it would descend.

  With cheerless intent, Nicolas watched it go. He wanted it to drop in the drink, Kerplop! He feared it may overshoot its target. He experienced dampened spirits.

  "Go less!" he yelled.

  He remained in the follow through position. Nicolas again sent his gaze low. He believed this was the correct position for him, a future flower harvester. The flowers with their sweet scents looked like upturned designer cups. They appeared made only for catching broken hearts.

  Nicolas told himself added punishment would be his if he did not look up and follow the shot. He settled in again at watching. He saw in the delightful blue skies the ball vie for more space. The ball showed a lack of conviction for one fresh out of the box. It reached some peak. It went into its death dive. The ball proceeded to dump down into the snow-melt lake and there he saw its violent finish. Now he was no longer a go-getting linkster but an insurance person.

  He wondered if this act might herald an accurate prediction for his whole round here. Nicolas thought of nothing now as blankness froze him. He gazed at the spot his ball’s life had ended predictably wet. Nicolas looked as any shocked relative of the deceased. Eight seconds had gone by since his ball left the tee box. It went into the Protector of the Masses Lake as he had planned it.

  Nicolas brought the club down. He rocked the 3-wood back and forth over the green grass. He swung the club lightly to and fro as if rocking to sleep old granny. He shook his head in a similar dejected way. In absence of applause, his usual appreciations, he did not tip his cap. Instead he continued sweeping the club over the sorrowful ground. It seemed to him the time to till the land had just now come.

  He lived inside this poverty a second or so. He experienced more than an ounce of regret. Nicolas defied the six years of age he felt by bending low like the aged. He reached for and unceremoniously removed the blue tee from the ground. He lifted it amid the perceived quaking laughter, or general hardy-har-hars coming up at him from the dull-green grass.

  Nicolas thought of this teacher’s perceived indignation. He went to return the 3-wood to his rucksack. He walked with an award-winning performance in aloofness. He went in a silence that was vacuum-like.

  He said in his head, Do it gently. This was his sole stage direction.

  He picked up and then he tied his jacket around his waist. He raised his rucksack up onto his right shoulder. Nicolas moved to strap in his other shoulder. His pack which might have grown moss on it from the long delays was adjusted to fit. Next he hopped up to even the weight on his shoulders. He stood then in jelly suspension.

  Nicolas went over in his mind the tee shot that had ended. He sneaked a peek at his good teacher who appeared not bothered. The youth considered the nonplussed look on the old man's face that spoke volumes.

  Arjuna already had on his jacket. He picked up his pack and put it on. He lifted his rainbow-colored umbrella to work as a sunshade.

  Nicolas undid the straps of his pack and set all down. He took out his umbrella, gray and shrunken. He opened then hoisted above him the thing that looked miserable.

  Arjuna adjusted his pack then he was off. He walked down off the front of the tee box platform. Arjuna went without uttering a word.

  Nicolas perceived this as a slight. He felt this snub was for hitting his ball in the Protector of the Masses Lake. He tried thinking of something different. He told himself to remain positive. In this way he hoped to achieve some relief.

  14

  Nicolas could not help but walk slope-shouldered down. His irons banged together as he stepped down off the tee block platform. The sounds of his clanging clubs came to him then as sharp criticisms. The series of I told you so's reverberated inside his ears. The reproach entered his body unobstructed.

  Pesky, chatty, his irons seemed determined to speak all at once at him. They sounded quite concerned over the plight of these flowers or statues of martyrs. His club complaints were made greater as he descended further off the elevated tee box. With each step down his irons clamored for him to heed their good counsel and quit this place.

  Just then a shadow of his self appeared.
The image was that of a black knight, dressed in all black. It extended left and behind him. The shadow trailed him outside the protective shade of his gray umbrella. It followed him slanted.