Golf in the Kingdom

by Michael Murphy

  We had now come to the thirteenth hole, which is famous in golfing circles. It is a par three up a hill, to a pin that stands silhouetted between a pair of twisted cypress trees. Between the tee and the green lies Lucifer’s Rug, a field of clotted gorse, 200 yards of it to catch any shot that is less than perfection. Along the left runs a steep ravine, from which several boulders rise. It was fortunate, I thought as I looked to the pin, that I had come to this concentrated state of mind by now. Every Monday the caddies of Burningbush and other links came here to hunt for lost golf balls, some trained their dogs for the task. At various points in the history of the club there had been efforts by members to have the hole enshrined as a golf museum, thus prohibiting further play upon it. It was even said that a body had once been found “under the rug.”

  The tee shot had to carry to the green but not roll down the other side, for another ravine dropped off there. Few players could reach it with an iron, so in effect a wood was required to do the work of a pitching wedge. To make matters worse, there was usually a wind across the rise—witness the twisted cypress trees—so the shot had to be played to the left, to the ravine side. It was a hole in all respects suited to test the powers of “true gravity.”

  The wind was now blowing from left to right, hard enough to lift the distant flag. I took out a two iron and gazed at its sweet spot, as if it were an icon. MacIver seemed to be in a trance as he stared dumbly up the hill. But Shivas went into the oddest ritual of all. First he stood on his left leg, then on his right, once with eyes open, once with them closed. Then he cupped his hands to his mouth and gave an incredible cry toward the ravine. It was a long wavering wail, something between a yodel and a cry for the departed dead. It sent a shiver up my back. We could hear its echo from the ravine, bouncing off the rocks. Then he turned and nodded gravely, indicating that we should proceed.

  MacIver, apparently unfazed by this unexpected performance, took his driver and stood like a statue before his ball, a figure of total dedication. All dressed in white and black, he contrasted vividly with the ascending vista of yellow gorse. A tiny figure there, I had an image of him flying like Chagall in the wake of his shot. He stood motionless for a very long time, plumbing the depths of “true gravity,” I suppose, and then he swung. It sailed straight and high—and landed in the gorse some 20 feet short of the summit. He grimaced as he turned toward his golf bag. I slowly marched to the firing line, praying to my golf club icon and looking intently for that mystical joining with the ball. I teed up. As I did there was another bloodcurdling cry, Shivas was wailing again behind my back. I was so startled I jumped. He shook his head apologetically, but said nothing—his attention seemed to be focused somewhere else.

  Whether from the many holes of high concentration or from this incredible performance my mind seemed blasted empty. It was impossible to summon any image. I swung without thinking and the ball flew like a bullet on a low trajectory, a white streak against yellow, rising into the sky before it fell to the green. The picture of it is still painted brightly in my memory.

  Shivas was smiling at me as I turned around. He winked as he went past, but his glance was wilder and more unsettling than ever. I walked over to my golf bag and slipped the iron into it, thinking as I did that maybe I should always pray to the club I was using. I was beginning to feel an exaltation about this round of golf. Then I turned to watch him make his shot. For a fleeting moment there was an odd distortion: he seemed blurred as he stood there. To this day I do not know whether there were tears in my eyes from the wind or whether there was something else that caused it. He seemed smaller. And when he swung I could not see the ball in flight. I blinked as I looked up the hill, but it had disappeared. I asked MacIver as we walked to the green if he had seen it. He nodded vaguely; I could tell from his manner, though, that something odd had happened to him as well. That distortion seemed strange, however, only upon reflection later that day. The growing exaltation I was feeling possessed me then, crowded out questions, problems, anything that seemed not to fit. I felt the land as we climbed the hill, the sea breeze, the grass beneath my feet. A film had dropped from my eyes, from my hearing, from all my senses. The smell of the sea and the grass, of leather and perspiration filled the air. I could hear a cry of delight in the distance, then tiny cheers. Something had broken loose inside me, something large and free.

  We found MacIver’s ball and watched him play a little wedge shot to the green. And there upon the smooth green summit lay Shivas’s ball and mine, just a foot apart near the pin. We played out in silence, a pair of birdies to go with MacIver’s bogey, Shivas solemn and centered, not giving a hint of what was going through his mind.

  I looked out from our vantage point; we could see for miles now. The sun was dipping behind the western hills, while purple shadows spread across the water and arabesques of grass below. The curving fairways and tiny sounds arising from them, the fields of heather, the distant seacaps were all inside my skin. A presence was brooding through it all, one presence interfusing the ball, the green, MacIver, Shivas, everything.

  I played the remaining holes in this state of grace. Specters of former attitudes passed through me, familiar curses and excuses, memories of old shots, all the flotsam and jetsam of my golfing unconscious—but a quiet field of energy held me and washed them away. I can think of no better way to say it—those final holes played me.

  There were moments when the thought occurred, “maybe this will disappear.” The new-found strength, that too was questioned. But there was another thought, “wait ’em out,” and eventually I did.

  The incoming holes of Burningbush unfolded before us, wild and gentle by turns. I could see why they were so loved and famous. They are so much more than you can see at first, fierce as Lucifer’s Rug and familiar as the old town that beckons from the surrounding hills. From the thunders of the North Sea to the gray stone houses and cobblestone streets, Burningbush shimmers in my memory.

  As if to show us that virtue will be rewarded, the occult Powers and Dominions gave us a grand finale. Shivas hit a drive on the eighteenth hole that carried all the way home—to the green 320 yards away. He was hitting with a wind to his back, and he took it to full advantage, sailing the ball toward the ancient clubhouse with a fade along the fairway to the green. I hit a wedge to the pin for a birdie, following MacIver, who had done the same. One eagle and two birdies closed out the round.

  Shivas put an arm around my shoulder. “Ye deseruv’ a drink,” he said, “come j’in me and ma friends.” So we headed for the clubhouse bar. MacIver said good-by, dutifully setting a time for his next lesson. Before he left he announced our scores, so faithfully recorded, a 67 for his teacher, an 84 for him, and an 86 for me. “And, Murphy,” he said with an admiration that surprised me, “ye shot a 34 comin’ in, the same as Mr. Irons, which only proves”—he raised a finger for emphasis—“that true gravity works on this plane too.” I shook his hand and followed Shivas into the famous Burningbush clubhouse.

  Singing the Praises of Golf

  LISTON THE BARMAN WAS lighting a fire in the clubhouse bar as we entered. A few moments later I was sitting in front of the blazing logs, whisky glass in hand, listening to Shivas and his friends sing Scottish golfing songs. The fire in front of me and the subtle fire of Shivas’s presence were warming me inside and out. I listened to them singing in their rich Fife accents,

  “. . . among the heather and the gorse,

  ye must remember of course,

  not tae lose yer balls at ol’ Sin Tondress. . . .”

  listened to their laughter and raillery, to the sounds of golfers stomping grass from their cleats, then a cheer from the eighteenth green—sounds that reminded me of a special Christmas when I was a child. I was filled with gratitude, my eyes filled with tears as I looked around that glowing room. The mood that had come over me out on the course, that sense of an enormous presence suffusing the world, was with me still. I could feel the wild and mysterious terrain of the Burningbush L
inks, those immense worlds waiting, but this warm place was at the center of my feelings now, the convivial faces and friendly words, the songs, the walls covered with dancing firelight.

  For more than an hour I watched the clubmembers come and go, and gazed into the fire as I savored that incredible round. Shivas was greeting friends at the bar. I could hear his voice above the rest from time to time, giving encouragement or answering a friendly gibe; his presence seemed as important to them as it was to me.

  During that hour no problems existed. But then questions began to form, began intruding themselves as they inevitably do. The aura of utter well-being was fading, and I began the return to my ordinary state of mind.

  What was this strangely impressive man really up to? What was he doing on the thirteenth tee? There had been something uncanny about that hole, something I could not quite bring into consciousness. What had the bartender meant when he taunted him about “defiling the old men of Burningbush”? Later that evening some of these questions would be answered and others would be compounded.

  He had invited me to dinner, interrupting my ruminations with a sudden shout from the bar. “Michael, ma good lad,” he said, coming over and putting his hand on my shoulder, “ ’tis time ye’re exposed to the true complexities o’ the gemme.” I would soon find that the thoughts which had begun to disturb me were being developed at length by others.

  The meal was to be at the home of the McNaughtons, he said as we left the clubhouse. I was surprised and flattered at the sudden invitation, and sensed his excitement about the gathering that was soon to take place. He had changed into a white crew-necked sweater, and either because of the clothes or a change of mood had a different look about him. He seemed less massive and concentrated, even a little smaller in size. His wind-burned face contrasted sharply with the sweater’s whiteness, making him more handsome than ever. He hummed a tune as we walked along, some old Scots ballad, I think, with a vaguely Oriental air, that mysterious longing and joy you catch sometimes in the wailing of the pipes.

  The strange melody trailed off as we approached our destination; he seemed to be distracted. When we arrived at the McNaughtons’ house, he touched my shoulder vaguely and murmured something about needing to be alone for a moment. “Ye go ahaid, Michael, they’ll understand,” he almost whispered the words, then wandered off down the street. Startled and embarrassed, I explained to the handsome woman who answered the door that Shivas Irons had invited me to dinner and that now he had gone off down the street. She asked me to come in. As I stepped through the doorway, I looked back and saw him sitting on a window ledge looking up into the evening sky. He seemed to be lost in thought.

  “Did ye play gowf with him today?” the handsome lady asked as she ushered me in. “He sometimes brings his playin’ partners here afterwards.” She introduced herself as Agatha McNaughton. Following her up the narrow staircase, I couldn’t help noticing what a great figure she had—she moved ahead of me up the steep passageway with slow pleasurable steps.

  The other guests had arrived and were sitting with their drinks around a stone hearth that framed an inviting fire. Above the mantel an ancient-looking pair of crossed swords gleamed in the firelight. The men stood to greet me. Peter McNaughton, Agatha’s husband, was a vigorous-looking red-faced man in his fifties, perhaps twenty years Agatha’s senior. He shook my hand, pulling me toward him with two muscular jerks. “Welcome to our guid café,” he said with gusto. “What did ye do with our unpredictable friend?”

  “He went for a walk. . . .”

  “Waitin’ for the moon to rise perhaps,” he said and smiled, cutting me off in midsentence as if to save me embarrassment. “He may stay out thair for an hour or more. But here . . .” he introduced me around to the others—an imposing craggy-faced old Scotsman named Julian Laing, an English couple named Greene, and Peter’s sixteen-year-old son, Kelly. Laing, it was explained to me, was the town’s “main doctor”; he had delivered five thousand of the town’s ten thousand inhabitants. He was also, I was to discover, a psychiatrist of sorts with remarkable, highly eccentric theories. As he shook my hand he winked enigmatically and asked if Shivas had brought me “through the eye of the needle.” I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant.

  The Greenes were visiting from Cornwall, up to study the ecology of the Firth of Forth and tell Shivas their new theories about golfing links. Spirited, bouncy little people not much taller than five feet, they reminded me of a pair of elves from Tolkien’s trilogy. His name was Adam and hers was Eve, they were meant for each other, they said. Everyone laughed at the familiar joke, which must have been trotted out for the hundredth time. Adam Greene taught “cosmic ecology” at a London “Free University.” God knows how he supported himself. I think he had been an engineer or inventor before his turn to philosophy.

  Peter McNaughton acted as master of ceremonies with enormous zest and a sense that this was a special gathering indeed. It was obvious that he was very proud of his friends. His son, Kelly, was over six feet tall, had a sardonic whisky brogue, and blushed whenever he smiled. He smiled when he shook my hand.

  “Did ye git the traitment today?” he asked. The remark carried all sorts of insinuations. I mumbled something like “Yes, I did have quite a round, how did you know?” evoking a laugh from everyone.

  “How do we know!” exclaimed Agatha, with a warm, richly textured brogue. “Why, that bad man wouldna’ just let ye play an ordinary round of golf!” I felt like I’d been taken into the clan.

  We sat around the fire drinking whisky and trading pleasantries. I couldn’t stop thinking about Shivas down there on that window ledge, but no one else seemed concerned. There was excitement underlying the hospitable remarks, a sense of anticipation about this gathering. “And what do ye do to keep the body alive, Mr. Murphy?” Agatha asked. She wore a light brown woolen blouse that showed the contour of her breasts. I said something about being a student and aspiring writer. They wanted to know what school I went to and I told them. Old Laing then got the conversation going in earnest.

  “Well, Murphy,” he intoned with his gnarled burr, “as an aspiring man of words, will ye tell me whether words have a future? They’ve had a dismal past.” He raised his brambly eyebrows and peered over his glass at me. He then looked around at everyone else and came on with another conversation opener. “Wuidna’ all of ye agree tha’ all logic, all human history, all our experience compel us to recognize tha’ the only thing in life worth doin’ is the will of God?” I hadn’t expected that kind of statement. I thought of some people in my home town, Salinas, from the First Church of God of Prophecy.

  No one seemed disposed to reply. Any further remarks would have to carry some metaphysical force. There was a long silence as we drank our Scotch and looked into the fire.

  “Well, Shivas would agree with ye,” Kelly said at last with his sardonic inflection.

  “Aye, we’ve discussed the matter for years,” the old doctor replied, “but ye ken how he is. Tomorra’ he’ll be tellin’ Murphy heer that believin’ in God is dangerous. He’s the dangerous one, o’ course.” He repeated the words with affectionate irony, “He’s the dangerous one.” There was affection in the old man’s voice as he invoked his friend’s presence, but with it there was an unmistakable sense that Shivas Irons was indeed dangerous.

  “As long as we’re talking about him, shouldn’t we tell him it’s time to eat?” Eve Greene broke in. The McNaughtons replied, almost in unison, that there was no use disturbing him now, that he would come in good time. “Ye know how he is,” they said protectively, and ushered us into their dining room. It was a long, low candlelit room with latticed windows and wood beams across the ceiling. The dining table was some 12 or 14 feet long, a table for a banquet. Seated around it we seemed yards apart.

  The McNaughtons’ hospitality, the happy anticipation I felt among this group of friends, the whisky, and the winds of Burningbush had all had their effect upon me. I was warmed and lifted high. Peering down the ta
ble at those faces in the candlelight I began to smile. It must have been an idiot smile. “Ye look so happy, Michael,” Agatha said, “a round of golf with Shivas will do tha’ to ye.”

  “Oh, where is he, where is he?” Eve Greene persisted, looking hopefully about the room over her attractive upturned nose. Her head barely made it over the edge of the table. Both she and Adam needed cushions to reach their dinner. “We’ve been looking forward to seeing him for weeks. Our theories about golf and evolution are growing larger every day.”

  “Aye, ma guid Greenes, yer theories were enormous awready,” said Peter, lifting his glass high. “Let us drink a toast to all theories round, let us sing the praises of gowf.” His always ruddy face was red with pleasure. “To gowf!” he exclaimed, and we all raised our glasses—of water, milk, or whisky, a makeshift but inspired toast to golf and the good life.

  Agatha then brought in a large tureen of broth, full of dumplings. For a moment we ate in silence, savoring the aroma of that ancient Scottish potion. It smelled to me like heather and the breeze above the thirteenth hole, warmed with bullion and flour dumplings.

  Suddenly, there was a loud knocking at the front door and Shivas’s stentorian voice shouting, “Open up in the name o’ the law.” Peter hurried down the stairs and we could hear them talking below. Then Shivas appeared at the dining-room door. He was flushed and radiant.

  “I, ma guid cronies, Ah see ye’ve waited for me. Is thair anything at a’ left to eat?” He embraced Agatha with a bone-crunching hug and held her for a moment while she tried to squirm away. “Adam and Eve, love birds still,” he grasped their hands, “what new theories have ye now? Julian Laing, protector o’ Burningbush and ma very own soul!” He went round the table as he greeted everyone. “And you.” He squeezed the back of Kelly’s neck and the tall boy punched him playfully in the stomach. “What d’ye think o’ this group, Michael? A motley lot, wouldn’t ye say?”