Misspelled

by Julie E. Czerneda

  ‘‘How am I supposed to hit over that thing?’’ he demanded.

  ‘‘Weeell,’’ the gnome replied, ‘‘you could take a mulligan.’’

  ‘‘That’s not legal!’’

  ‘‘In this game it is, and in this game it means you can take an opponent’s ball if it’s better. Usually it requires hand-to-hand combat, but Mr. Lamond does not appear ready for a fight. Therefore, by default, you get your mulligan if you want it.’’

  Bob glanced at Tony being lifted away on a litter, and looked back at the castle. ‘‘I’ll take the mulligan,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Very well. The ball lies on the other side of the hazard, but be mindful of your approach. The walls of the clubhouse are well guarded. Should you survive and catch the bogey, we can return to the clubhouse in fellowship and toast your success with mead.’’

  ‘‘Great,’’ Bob muttered. He signaled to Manuel to come along and stepped off the tee.

  "MacDuff is taking the mulligan,’’ the commentator said into his dead mike. ‘‘He’s following the strange new rules of the golf gnome and is heading straight for the castle.’’

  Bob strode along the fairway wondering just how he ever found himself in such a bizarre situation. ‘‘Thanks, Granny Dunn. Thanks a lot.’’

  The castle loomed ever larger as Bob approached, though its true extent was hidden in the fog, so he just forged ahead as a famous pro golfer ought, calculating his next move, but this was beyond his experience.

  When he came within about a hundred yards of the castle, a multitude of shiny, conical helms poked up above the walls.

  ‘‘Archers,’’ Robertson said from behind.

  A volley of arrows ripped through the sky and thudded into the ground all around Bob and Manuel. The two raced back toward Robertson and the others, who remained out of range, arrows zip-zip-zipping into the ground at their heels, and clubs clattering in the golf bag with each of Manuel’s strides.

  ‘‘Jim,’’ the commentator said, "MacDuff and his caddie are fleeing the clubhouse defenses. It’s raining arrows down here!’’

  Once Bob was safely out of range, he slowed to a walk, panting. He glanced at Manuel, who was alive and lighting another cigarette. His golf bag bristled with arrows.

  ‘‘What insanity is this?’’ Bob demanded of the gnome. ‘‘We could’ve been killed!’’

  ‘‘Insanity?’’ Robertson asked. ‘‘I warned you the clubhouse was well defended.’’

  ‘‘But how am I supposed to get by it?’’

  ‘‘That’s your problem. It’s your sudden death playoff. ’’

  Bob pushed his cap back and gazed toward the castle. Enough arrows jutted out of the fairway that it looked like a field of wheat. ‘‘I guess we walk around. Way around.’’

  ‘‘Impossible,’’ the gnome said. ‘‘That would take days, and there are time limits on these things. If you don’t reach the putting green by sundown, your wife will be killed.’’

  Bob wanted to break a club, punt the gnome, something! How was he supposed to get to the other side of the castle? He’d have to go through. Somehow.

  ‘‘You have magic,’’ Bob told the gnome. ‘‘Move the castle.’’

  ‘‘Sorry,’’ Robertson replied. ‘‘Against the rules.’’

  Dad? Bob wondered. What would you do? They’ll kill Susan if I don’t finish this hole, and it’s likely I’ll die trying. He wished his dad were there to offer encouragement and quiet advice. His dad always approached problems directly. Bob remembered the time he hit a ball through a cranky neighbor’s window. Without hesitation, his father marched right over to Mr. Shultz’s house and knocked on the front door, armed only with an apology and offer to pay for repairs. It had meant a summer of chores for Bob to earn the money to replace the window, but his father’s actions had smoothed the situation over with Mr. Shultz before it could escalate. Straightforward, that was his dad.

  ‘‘Manuel,’’ Bob said, ‘‘my five iron.’’

  Manuel exhaled smoke and slid the iron out of the golf bag, and passed it to Bob.

  ‘‘Towel,’’ Bob said.

  Manuel unhooked the towel from the bag. It was white, though smeared with grass stains from cleaning balls. Bob tied it to the end of his five iron.

  ‘‘Wait here,’’ he told his caddie.

  He approached the castle waving the club and towel like a flag of surrender. When he came in range, no arrows were shot at him. He continued until he stood within fifty yards of it. In moments the massive gate of the curtain wall was lowered with the echoing groan of chains and cranks. When it thumped to the ground, a horseman rode across it, followed by another bearing the standard of a red lion. The first horseman was clad in silver armor over which he wore a surcoat with the lion insignia. Clearly he was a knight.

  The knight reined his charger to a halt several paces from Bob and flipped back the visor of his helmet. ‘‘You seek to parley?’’ he called out.

  ‘‘Uh, yeah. I’d like to get to the other side of your castle, but your archers keep shooting at me.’’

  ‘‘That’s what archers do.’’

  ‘‘Well, see, if I don’t get through to the other side, they’re going to kill my wife. She’s really pretty and everything, and I’d like to have kids. And . . . I love her.’’

  ‘‘They? They who?’’

  Bob scratched his head. That was a good question. ‘‘I dunno. Whoever is in charge of this.’’ He waved his hand vaguely at the fog and castle. ‘‘I’m stuck in sudden death.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ The knight sat silently upon his steed for some time, seeming to consider Bob. ‘‘You are playing gowf. Most dangerous even under the best circumstances. Here we play it on ice during the winter, one team against the other. Most amusing.’’

  Bob suddenly envisioned armored knights on hockey skates.

  ‘‘And you say,’’ the knight continued, ‘‘that your wife will be killed if you don’t get through to the other side?’’

  Bob nodded.

  ‘‘Well, I can certainly appreciate rescuing damsels in distress, but I can’t just grant you passage.’’

  Bob clenched the grip of his five iron, wondering if he’d be challenged to mortal combat. The knight, with his steed, armor, and very big sword at his side, had the upper hand. Clubs with graphite heads were good, but they lacked a pointy end.

  ‘‘Tell me,’’ the knight said, ‘‘are you an honest man?’’

  The question caught Bob off guard. Was he being tested? If he characterized himself as honest, then he’d be lying. Would the knight be able to tell? If he were honest and said no, then the knight might skewer him right there. He was glad he hadn’t indulged in the scotch so he could think his answer through.

  ‘‘I am,’’ he said, ‘‘maybe less honest than a lot of men, and maybe more honest than some.’’

  The knight laughed. ‘‘A more honest answer than I could have hoped for, and clever! Well done.’’

  Bob wiped sweat off his brow with his towel of surrender, relieved to still be alive.

  The knight clanged his thigh armor with his fist making Bob jump. ‘‘I’ve decided! I like your answer, and you may pass through the clubhouse.’’

  Even as Bob nearly melted to his knees in relief, he heard that voice drift out of the fog, the one that usually laughed. This time it was a shriek of rage. A shriek from the one who stayed in the shadows, the bogey man.

  ‘‘Follow me,’’ the knight said, reining his steed around, his squire falling in behind.

  Bob waved to Manuel to come along, which appeared to be a signal for everyone else to follow, as well. Robertson ran to catch up.

  ‘‘Impressive,’’ he said between gasps. ‘‘I didn’t think you had it in you.’’

  Bob strode up the fairway, stepping around arrows and horse droppings. He and his entourage crossed over the gate and beyond the wall. Here Bob expected to find soldiers and other medieval peasant types, and while those were present, th
ere were also people in swimsuits sunning themselves on lounge chairs, sipping at frothy drinks with umbrellas in them. The knight dismounted and handed his steed’s reins to his squire.

  ‘‘This way,’’ the knight told Bob, and he clanked and clattered across the flagstone courtyard and through the castle entrance.

  Inside he found an information desk with a smiling concierge standing behind it, and signs indicating the cafe and spa.

  ‘‘We’ve had to diversify,’’ the knight explained. ‘‘You would not believe how expensive it is to run a castle these days. We just opened a disco down in the dungeons that is quite popular. Would you care to see?’’

  Bob would, but the gnome had mentioned the time constraint. ‘‘Maybe another day.’’

  ‘‘Ha ha, good man!’’ The knight hammered Bob with a friendly blow that almost knocked him over.

  The corridor they wandered down was very castlelike in décor, with empty suits of armor standing at attention and portraits of ancestors hanging on the walls.

  Bob’s entourage murmured in wonder.

  ‘‘Jim, it’s the most unusual clubhouse I’ve ever seen,’’ the commentator said. ‘‘More clubs ought to look into adopting themes. But then, who would want to golf? They wouldn’t leave the clubhouse.’’

  In fact, as they passed a sign indicating happy hour in the armory, Bob lost most of his gallery as well as the commentator. He nearly trailed after them, but the knight continued down the main corridor.

  Must save Susan.

  The corridor led to wrought iron doors. A pair of guards opened them as the knight approached. Beyond lay the comforting green carpet of Bermuda grass, where Bob’s golf ball sat pretty in the middle of the fairway. He paused on the threshold, admiring the view.

  ‘‘Best of luck with your game,’’ the knight said. ‘‘And for you and yours . . .’’ He handed Bob a piece of parchment. It was a coupon for the buffet.

  ‘‘Er, thanks,’’ Bob said.

  He stepped out of the castle onto the familiar springy turf of the fairway. As each person who remained with him passed through the doors, the knight and his squire handed out coupons. When the last person stepped outside, the castle vanished, and there was just the fairway extending into the mist.

  ‘‘Free wings!’’ Manuel said, waving his coupon and grinning.

  From here the hole looked normal, except for the fog on the fringes of the rough. Tony’s drive had been terrific—birdie material—and put Bob in a good place for reaching the green, so long as a castle didn’t suddenly pop up again.

  ‘‘Three iron,’’ he told Manuel.

  Manuel nodded as if he approved the choice and passed Bob the club.

  After a couple practice swings to loosen up, he struck the ball, and watched in dismay as it flew long but sliced and plopped right into one of the huge bunkers that bordered the green.

  ‘‘Nice slice,’’ Robertson said.

  Bob grumbled and considered anew punting the gnome. He and Manuel trudged up the fairway and covered half the distance to the bunker when he realized Robertson and the gallery had fallen back. That did not bode well. He continued grimly on, determined to meet whatever—

  A swath of fairway exploded around Bob and Manuel, pelting them with clods of turf. They threw their arms over their heads to shield themselves. When the last clump plopped on Bob’s head, he spat dirt out of his mouth and surveyed the scene with suspicion. It looked like a pack of very bad golfers had hacked divots out of the fairway and not replaced them.

  ‘‘Divot bomb,’’ Robertson said, suddenly at his side. He plucked his red cap off revealing an hourglass balanced on his head, with the sands already flowing. ‘‘You and your caddie have fifteen minutes to replace all the divots.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ There had to be at least a hundred divots.

  ‘‘Fourteen minutes and fifty-four seconds. If you fail, you lose. Oh, and you must replace each divot in the exact spot it came from.’’

  How? Bob glanced around himself in disbelief, but all he could see was the sand pouring through the hourglass.

  ‘‘Manuel!’’ he cried. ‘‘Divots!’’

  The two sprang to action, dashing around in a race against time to replace turf. Bob felt like the subject of some mad psychiatrist’s twisted experiment, trying to fit round puzzle pieces into squares. Grass flew as they tossed divots back and forth, seeking the right gouges. When each found its spot, it received a quick tamp of the toe.

  By the time he and Manuel finished, they were both panting and sweating, and ready to collapse. The sands in Robertson’s hourglass trickled out.

  ‘‘Well done,’’ Robertson said, replacing his cap. ‘‘You will not die. Yet.’’

  Bob gave Manuel a weary smile, and did a double take, discovering his caddie was bald!

  Manuel smoothed his hand over his head, and chuckled. ‘‘Lost my rug in the confusion.’’

  As Bob headed toward the bunker for his next shot, he decided not to point out the hairy divot tamped into the fairway lest Robertson declare this test failed and their lives forfeit.

  When Bob reached the bunker, he stood at its edge gazing at his ball. What threat awaited him in the sand? Hitting his ball out of the large bunker looked difficult enough, with the opposite lip rising high into the verge of the green. He had two strokes left to make ‘‘bogey,’’ and the sky was darkening, which meant sundown approached. He needed to hit that ball soon or suffer a time default . . . Death for Susan.

  Manuel already held his sand wedge ready. ‘‘The green is pitched toward the hole,’’ he said. ‘‘And it’s probably a little damp from the fog, so it might slow the roll. No breeze though.’’

  Bob grabbed the wedge. ‘‘Nothing else? Like beware the trap of the sand trap?’’

  Manuel shrugged. ‘‘Got me.’’

  Bob sighed and stepped into the bunker, expecting some monster to emerge from the earth to eat him, or to find himself sinking into quicksand. But nothing happened. He stood there in shock.

  ‘‘May I remind you of the time?’’ Robertson called out.

  ‘‘Right,’’ Bob said, and he positioned himself to hit his ball, digging in and doing what Susan called the ‘‘butt wiggle.’’ She didn’t know a thing about golf, just that his winnings filled her bank account.

  He glanced at the pin and lip of the bunker, judged distance and what sort of stroke he’d need to launch the ball out of the sand. Sweat trickled down his temple. The ball could hit the lip, and he’d be stuck in the sand. He could strike too hard and send the ball over the green to the rough beyond. He might make the green, but leave himself with an impossibly long putt.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of metal rasping metal, like when he sharpened the carving knife at Thanksgiving, followed by a scream.

  He glanced up, heart thudding. ‘‘Susan?’’ he cried.

  At the edge of the green, the fog parted just enough to reveal the executioner holding Susan. He displayed a wicked-looking dagger for Bob to see and grinned cruelly.

  ‘‘Bob!’’ Susan screamed. ‘‘Help!’’

  ‘‘Hold on!’’ he told her. ‘‘Stay calm!’’

  She sobbed.

  If only Granny Dunn’s spell hadn’t betrayed him. If only he’d never seen it! If only he hadn’t let his career tank in the first place. If—if—if! Now he had to rely on his own skill to win this deadly game.

  ‘‘Doing my best, Dad,’’ he murmured.

  And it was as if his dad whispered in reply, That’s all you have ever needed to do, try your best.

  Bob calmed, trying to ignore Susan’s sobs. He inhaled. Exhaled. He drew the club back. Backswing, follow-through. Sand scattered as his club plowed through it. The ball rose in a glorious arc, bounced onto the green and rolled. Rolled down the pitch, curved left toward the hole, hung on the edge of the cup, and plunked in.

  ‘‘YES!’’ he cried.

  ‘‘YES!’’ Manuel echoed, and they high-fived. />
  The gallery roared, a rather subdued roar considering its diminished numbers.

  Bob pumped his arm in the air and danced. A birdie! When he stopped, he noticed the gnome standing nearby with an unhappy expression on his face, and that the executioner hadn’t released Susan. Her make-up had smeared with her tears.

  ‘‘Upset because I won?’’ Bob demanded.

  ‘‘You’ve won nothing,’’ Robertson replied.

  ‘‘What are you talking about? I just birdied.’’

  ‘‘That is the problem. The game was to catch the bogey. You needed another stroke. And you don’t want a birdie, trust me."

  "Why?"

  Menacing laughter descended on them and Bob looked upward to find a huge shadowy figure with clawed hands hovering over the green. The gallery murmured in alarm.

  ‘‘Why don’t I want a birdie?’’ Bob demanded, his voice pitched a little high.

  Just then the pin popped out of the hole and fell to the green. A bird’s bill poked out of the hole, followed by a head.

  ‘‘That’s your birdie,’’ Robertson replied. ‘‘An albatross, actually. It’s going to carry your ball all the way to New Zealand, and you will have to make your one stroke from there. But, as we know, there isn’t enough time.’’

  ‘‘No!’’

  Slowly, the albatross, a rather sizable bird, was squeezing and twisting out of the hole. Bob forgot all else and sprinted up the green. The bird squawked at him, but before it surfaced completely from the hole, he dove on it and started trying to stuff it back in. Feathers flew, the bird pecked him with its enormous bill, but Bob was relentless, squeezing, pushing, squeezing . . .

  ‘‘Good thing he didn’t get an eagle,’’ someone remarked. ‘‘More feisty.’’

  Pecked flesh bled, but Bob kept pushing and smooshing, like an obstetrician shoving a baby back through the birth canal, and once he succeeded, somehow in defiance of the law of physics, he stomped his foot over the hole so the albatross couldn’t escape.

  Bloodied and covered with feathers, Bob said to Robertson, ‘‘I put the birdie back in the hole. That makes bogey, in your parlance.’’