Valley of Flowers

by Chris Collins

  Nicolas considered the flag's suggestion for him. He stood for a time staring. He dwelt on the nature of defeat. Then his nerves moved on some to steel city.

  "Time to move into action," he said.

  Nicolas thought of the ball he had dropped one club length from the point of entry. He went without hesitation to stand over it. He moved then to hit with the club he already had. He held out in front of him the pitching wedge. He gripped it like the law was in his hands. Next thing he knew a dozen or so flowers shot up from the drop zone. They had flown up from his Swoosh! swing.

  The thing was over in a flash. It made him look like an avid embroidery trader. The ball had left the spot medium-like. It crossed the Protector of the Masses Lake though off to one side. It instantly headed into one bright bouquet as a failed missile. He felt all was one big stinking waste dump.

  Nicolas looked to where a bundle of colorful flowers lay complementary to this very idea. He stood pressing down on these little beauties while not really wishing to. He went to pick up his rucksack and struggled to get it on properly.

  While fighting gravity, a yellow-throated marten flew by. Nicolas Kumar followed the flight of this unlikely visitor. He wished to catch a ride on its tiny body to escape from this place.

  But as suddenly as this one flier appeared it went away. Then the flight of another arrived. The grim shadow of this one raced over the reluctant flower ground. In place of looking up, Nicolas followed its grisly running shadow. He watched a series of silhouettes produce grotesque shapes over the Valley of Flowers. The gross images went quick in undulating rolls.

  Nicolas looked up to spot it. The one flying had left before he could catch any glimpse of it, other than what had rolled ugly over the flower ground.

  He went to the spot near the lake where his ball had gone. Nicolas found it without difficulty. It was resting against a gathering of pink flowers. He laid down his pack. He pulled from it one club and began to set up.

  He settled in and took the club back. A second or so later flowers ripped up. They flew off in quick dispersion. His swing looked done by a farmer's pitchfork bailing hay. It seemed to him he had only come here to tear this world apart.

  Nicolas picked up his pack. He headed to the place his ball had flown and found it in a difficult spot. It occurred to him to just kick the thing. He felt he could improve his lie this way. Nicolas hesitated and in the end he did not.

  Another swing came and went. This too was done by his earth-remover pitching wedge. The ball rode the chill air briefly. Mountain peaks showed as magnificent backdrops. They were the models of beauty to anyone.

  He went the short way to where his ball lay. Nicolas again had the notion to do some form of ball-tampering. He felt it would be easy enough to give the thing a spot-kick or roll it over with the bottom of his hiking boot. Nicolas thought he could roll it up onto a tuft of something not so petaled.

  But he decided against it. He said in a voice unlike his own, "Devabhumi. Remember, you are on God’s land."

  Soon after he took a horizontal swing. Nicolas took back the club as a flattened practice stroke. He rode the flat line once, twice, then again. He swung once more at a similar angle as Hogan's well known one-plane swing.

  Nicolas took aim with his eyes first. He listened then was treated to the thrashing sound his swing made at impact. He gathered his things and went to where his ball lay. Nicolas began to set up. He swung. The shot came out fat. It went a short way with the seemingly worthless material known as common dirt.

  The ball had gone into one colorful patch. It had fallen into flowers shaped as upturned stars. He saw that the flower dead were many. His swinging in the area had claimed lives. Countless now were seriously wounded. The scars on the ground looked like the after-effects of a crude bomb.

  The disappearance of these flowers seemed sorely missed by the remaining others. He told himself the stroke penalty for hitting in the lake was something he had to remember.

  He went to the place his shot had gone. Nicolas looked for his ball with his pack on his back. He felt the flowers might remarkably spill the beans as to where his little friend was by simply telling him.

  In his ears the whispering grapevine had it that his ball had nestled in nicely. Nicolas got word the ball had found good accommodation in among their bunch. The flowers seemed to tell him, or perhaps it was just his intuition, that his ball was off right. Nicolas turned his offending wedge in that direction. He stood tall in the fight. His cap was then in his free hand when suddenly he pointed with it.

  "There!" he said.

  He set down his pack of club boys to one side. Nicolas put back the club and pulled out a different wedge. In this way he showed his firm intention of taking up arms in the valley.

  He took two swings above his found ball. He stood blank, became lost as any hare. Now he felt all were hunting him and this was his elimination round.

  For his next turn at destruction, Nicolas chose a lob wedge. He took a swing above the spot his ball lay comfortably in the mix. He set up in earnest. In a flash the little white ball was hit with a bundle of flower growth. All took off heavy with a slab of moist earth. He watched all fly. The mud-as-divot flew off with the flowers. It soon gave up its struggle for life through flight and flopped down.

  He focused on the place his ball went. Into more clusters he sent this sad story. Nicolas looked down at the spot of his ball’s previous predicament. He felt he should replace the divot, or clean up some the manhole he had just created. It occurred to him next the area could end up ranking highest in destruction of any Indian state. He believed this record could even widen to earn the highest sickening incidences of soul-polluting cow slaughter.

  He looked at his gloved hand. He acknowledged his part in the crime. Nicolas felt he had worked hand-in-glove as any cattle smuggler might, who worked for the O so despicable tanneries.

  Butcher! Killer! he told himself. He swung in anger at the open air. Nicolas believed he was doing less damage this way. His club hovered over a few flower bulbs. He focused on the ball. He appeared to be in the midst of a murderous frenzy when he took the swing. After which, he picked up his pack and headed to another group of mingling flowers.

  Nicolas found his ball, thanked God, then he laid down his pack. He went to take the shot quickly. He moved to set up. Soon an explosive batch of wildflowers was all he knew.

  He looked down at the spot his ball had been and saw only horror. The area appeared to have witnessed war firsthand. Many flowers lay dead. Pleas from the remaining colorful others could at anytime be expected.

  Nicolas picked up his things and the feeling of joy was not his. He went to look for his ball. On finding it he began to set up. Soon another bundle of wildflowers flew up with an oblong slab of soil. Shot after shot then kept the scoreboard in the sky ticking over

  Of this killing he said to himself, Who are you to do this?

  Again, he picked up his kit and bore the pain of dozens. He went while the remaining others seemed to scream over the bodies of their near and dear ones. Nicolas arrived and not long after another swing ploughed through as practice. He shot at flower shafts in a repeated splash manner.

  Nicolas perceived a valley in vast turmoil. He drew back his destructive club. His wrists he set early. The club rose to the point known as parallel. He held it there and felt the powerful coil. Nicolas sensed hesitation. His many-armed motion came down, striking in a flash.

  A Whoosh! could then be heard cutting through. The ball with another batch of wildflowers was alight. All flew low in an abbreviated flight that descended off right. The ball went into a ghostly haunt of white flowers he would rather not think about.

  Nicolas struggled with life issues. He went to what would otherwise have been an easy mid-pitch to the green. This too would sail a second or so. It would go sleepless into another flowerbed.

  He discovered the spot where his ball lay. He went about making another demarcation trench in the flower ground. The flo
wers seemed to know they were in the unenviable position of being at the mercy of this one little human.

  He swung. All lost their heads while Nicolas did what he could to keep his own melon thinking rationally. He wished to leave this trail of death and destruction. He followed the short flight of his ball. Nicolas gathered his things. He went to look for the ball and found it easily.

  "Just one more hack at it and I should be on," he said.

  Several determined swings later, a rash of flop shots, and the valley was thoroughly reaped away. Now he was in no mood for sparing anyone.

  Two more shots came down on the Earth heavy. He neared the green. One final act was to make another shovelful of mud, killing a handful of wildflowers. This attempt too was a flop shot.

  Nicolas went with his pack the short way to where his ball lay lifeless near the green. He set all down. Nicolas resisted taking a stab at it, but soon it was away. The shot was one of his better ones. The ball landed on the green and he felt happy. The green might as well have been decorated with festive lights at the time of Diwali.

  He went to retrieve his things. Nicolas put all on his right shoulder. He led his gang of ignorant thugs through traffic snarls made up of colorful wildflowers. He arrived onto this dance floor green shoulders first. Nicolas stepped onto this new frontier or elevated putting table.

  "Finally," he said.

  He guessed the putt to be somewhere in the neighborhood of forty feet. It was a downhiller and somewhat bending.

  Nicolas eyed the white flag on a white flagstick. The two had a seen-it-all-before manner. The flag as Mr. Surrender looked especially sad or sorry. It seemed to say there was no reason to celebrate light or life. It appeared to be telling him there was no real reason to try.

  17

  The surface of the green did not have the pleasurable pool table look he was used to. The green was drawn in brown more than he would have liked. It looked thrown here and there with a type of masala chili powder. The green had a bumpy flow to it that made it look makeshift or temporary. It was thick in areas with genuine rough patches, the result of being without regular proper maintenance.

  Nicolas conceded the battle had just become tougher. He gauged the putt to be a difficult one. The flag kicked up. It fluttered in the breeze faithless. As to his chances of getting it up close, Nicolas felt about the same as the flag.

  He next went to the back of the green. He laid his pack on the fringe. Nicolas set it down near a few poppy swells. His pack with his clubs in it lay on the ground looking dazed and confused. This was in contrast to the flowers standing bolt upright. The flowers stood at military attention as if their security level had just been raised a hue.

  Nicolas undid his jacket from around his waist. He laid it onto his pack. Next he pulled off the glove on his left hand. He bent down. He removed the club that usually attends to any difficulty atop a green. Nicolas gripped the putter again and again. The grip appeared to have turned into a string of goat meat that now needed tenderizing.

  He went to the hole and pluck the flagstick from the cup. It seemed to be the usual dimensions. The hole looked to be 108mm wide by 108mm deep by regulation. The numbers struck him as quite curious. The number 108 happened to be Hindu holy.

  He pulled the flag from the hole and did not toss it. Nicolas held it out front as if it was a baton and he was leading the parade. He laid the flagstick down onto the green, though well away from his line.

  Nicolas went to look at his putt from the far side of the hole. He thought of the magic 108 number that was the number on the holy mala beads. He remembered that there are 108 points that help define the body, along with being the full range of human emotions. Nicolas recalled that 108 is the number of the Yantra, the geometric figure that is a crucial aid to knowing Ultimate Truth.

  He walked the full length of the putt. Nicolas came back and squatted behind the ball about a meter or so. He took a long-learning look at his putt. Nicolas ran an imaginary line from his ball to the cup then back again. He focused on the grass next to complete this triad known as the Trimurti.

  The cosmic functions of birth, life and death were all there with him then when abruptly he stood. He went to the hole and came back. Once more he squatted low as a vegetable seller. Nicolas was directly behind the one about to be consumed.

  He rose. He studied the line from his roughly six foot aerial angle. The youth went back to pacing the length of his putt that looked serpentine.

  Again he arrived behind the ball and squatted. He inched closer. He did this to get an even finer line. Nicolas asked for divine help then stood. He moved to set up but backed off. He returned to his usual two meters behind the ball to recheck. Nicolas again squatted low. He rested the club on a thigh. The club with the lead tape on its back, referred to as Father Electric, was to him the real deal. Of his many club weapons this was the one he could rely. It was known for getting him good results.

  Nicolas was fond of this producer of winning memories. He looked at the logo burned into the club. It had been forged by one of the game's well known hardware merchants.

  Nicolas raised his hands to the sides of his cap as to put on blinders. He fashion forwarded it some. His line to the hole was a sidewinder. Nicolas figured the right-to-left breaker would open up at the hole. He began creating his usual pre-enactments. Nicolas walked the full length of the putt as an inspector might looking for clues. He returned as one who had gotten a whispered tip-off from a reliable source.

  He moved to take his stance over the ball. Suspense entered. He hoped to knock it in on one and be done with the thing.

  Nicolas took a few practice strokes. He put behind the ball the one about to make its directorial début. He brought his right foot up to the spot it had been previously. As for the other, he moved it forward to be more in line with the first.

  He bent over to putt in his familiar style. Nicolas appeared set to close some big real estate deal. He looked forward to the ball falling into the cup, which serves symbolically the cosmic function of Shiva, or Lord of Destruction, the purist example yet all nature is holy.

  The thought of looking into the dark cup ruled him. Nicolas held firm the club designed for such a subtle touch. He said in a tiny whisper, "I pray only for your kindness, Lord."

  Now he felt he should get down to work. He wanted to get the proper line and speed of the green. Nicolas hoped to be done with the thing and finally.

  A Quiet, please! order seemed to have been issued to all in the famed Valley of Flowers. Over the fast-rushing stream, the mountains, the colorful flowers, a hush fell onto this hard-to-believe landscape. Only the occasional sounds of light air gusts could then be heard. A strong breeze rushed in to shove him forward. It left without much success.

  Nicolas adjusted his stance to settle in better. He turned the face of the club to aim right for more break. He scoped the line. Numerous looks at the hole, then over the green, then back at the ball, would soon set all in motion.

  Then he just stroked it. The ball ventured off. It went as any happy-go-lucky, tra-la-la, more or less towards the intended target.

  He had a focused calm while watching. Nicolas observed the jolly roller travel somewhat downhill. He saw it enter a difficult spot. He watched it roll into a patch of collected dirt. He demolished down any high hopes for it by thinking up the worst.

  The ball stopped well short. It had gotten caught up in the thick area. Nicolas took no time in setting up over this next putt. He made the decision to go for it with some speed.

  Give it a chance, he told himself.

  Soon after, the rounded one was on its way. The ball was again heading towards the cylindrical dark hole but a taste right. It turned nicely and against the odds. The ball moved onto a much better line. The one rolling headed one finger right. It looked as if it might still change lanes. Although it was by no means a shoe-in, it looked good to him. It went as any Good Samaritan.