Castle War

Thirty-two Inferno, Then Paradiso

The lava flowed, the ash rained down. Smoke and fire rose from gashes in the earth. The tee was a bed of cinders that set the soles of their shoes to smoking. Thaxton had the honor, and drove into a magma flow. One lost stroke. He hit another and the ball bounced among the rocks and disappeared into a crevice.

Two. Gritting his teeth, Thaxton got out a new ball and shot again. The ball fell on the narrow fairway, where a herd of hippogriffs pecked and scratched. One got to the ball and gobbled it.

Thaxton threw his club into the bubbling tar pit. “Right! That’s it, that’s the bloody end! I’m damned if I’ll put up with any more of this!”

Dalton said, “I don’t blame you this time.”

Above, harpies shrieked their dismay, and great dragons soared on thermal updrafts. Smoke poured from the great volcanic cone that rose against the sun to the right. The air was filled with flying debris.

“Oh, damn. Damn!” Thaxton stamped his foot. With an air of resignation, he took out his three-wood, teed another ball, and drove. The ball bonked a hippogriff and hid in tall grass.

“To hell with it,” Thaxton said, rebagging his club.

After Dalton drove they struck out for the wastes, Cerberus following. They passed basilisks sunning themselves on the rocks. None spoke, none seemed to care; needless to say, the men paid them no mind.

Tremors shook the ground, steam-venting chasms opening up here and there. Dalton nearly fell into one, Cerberus clamping down on his shirttail to save him. His ball was lost, so he calmly played another.

Thaxton finally found his ball and chopped at it to get it out of the rough, then hit a good four-iron toward the green. The earth split where the ball landed.

Without saying a word, Thaxton dropped his last ball.

The erupting volcano exploded, raining ash and fire down on the course. By the time the men got to putting, the surface of the green was a smoking ruin and they were dodging boulders the size of cars. Thaxton virtually herded his ball into the cup.

“Make your putt!” he shouted over the din.

Dalton putted for a sextuple bogey, and they got out of there.

The land seemed to change as they ran. The thunder faded, and the smoke cleared. It was like passing from one diorama to the next in a museum. The sky became blue and trees sprang up. The grass thickened and greened, as did the shrubbery. Wildflowers bloomed in the rough. A soft breeze began to blow, carrying the scent of jasmine and lilac. The sun was bright and beautiful, sparkling off the lake and drenching the course in a yellow glow.

The fairway ahead was long and broad, few bunkers to mar its manicured prettiness.

On an oak near the tee was a sign:

Underneath, on a picnic table, was a bucket of ice with a magnum of champagne in it. Two inverted glasses rested on a sheet of white linen.

“How nice,” Dalton said. “Compliments of the management, I assume.”

“Or the Devil,” Thaxton said, taking the bottle out and ripping off the foil top. He deftly worked the cork up until it popped and flew. He poured.

Dalton sipped. “The real thing, from the Champagne region.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Thaxton gulped it down and poured himself another glass.

Their clothes were in tatters, great holes burned in them. They were snowy with ash and their shoes were scarred and burned. Thaxton poured out a stream of champagne for Cerberus, and the dog lapped it up with relish.

All three were slightly tipsy by the time they were ready to play golf, but this didn’t seem to affect the play. Both players drove deep and true.

The fairway smelled of fresh-mown grass; ducks, simple unmythological ducks, paddled and dipped in the lake, and birds — robins, sparrows, and blue jays — twitted in the bordering woods. The sun shone down. Apple trees were heavy with late-summer fruit, and bees buzzed among the clover in the rough. They were through the fairway and onto the green in three.

The green was quiet save for the plock of balls dropping into the cup. Both men putted for par.

Thaxton replaced the pin and smiled. “Well, that’s that.”

Dalton sighed. “Yes. Best game I ever played. I’ll always remember it.” He slid the putter into the bag.

“Who could forget it?” Thaxton shouldered his bag. “And now we pay the piper.”

“Yes.” Dalton solemnly nodded. “Yes, we do.”

They walked through trees, following a path that bore gently uphill.

“I’d like to think I lived my life as well as I played that game,” Dalton said.

“Did you?”

“No, not as well. Sometimes I gave up, withdrew, didn’t care.”

“We all do that,” Thaxton said.

“But you get older, and you learn. There’s always time for redemption, for changing, for doing better. It’s never too late.”

“Well, I learned a few things, I must say,” Thaxton said. “Never say die, keep your pecker up, and all that.”

“Good outlook.”

When they came out of the woods the Devil was waiting for them.

He was sitting on a bench by the first tee reading a newspaper and smoking a thick green cigar. His scaly legs were crossed, the talons on his feet long and sharp. When the men approached, he lowered the newspaper, and a fangy smile spread across his gargoyle face. He took the cigar from his mouth.

“Enjoy your game, gentlemen?”

“Very much,” Dalton said. “I don’t think we ever want to do it again, but it was an experience.”

“Oh, but you must do it again. In fact, that’s the whole point of this place.”

“Uh, what’s the point?”

“Wait a minute. You’re lost souls, aren’t you?”

“No.”

The gargoyle frowned. “You’re not?”

“Not quite,” Thaxton said. “I’m afraid we blundered into your domain quite by accident.”

The gargoyle took a puff. “Well, I don’t see as how that makes a difference. You’re here, and you have to play.”

“Why?” Dalton asked.

The gargoyle snorted derisively. “Why.Now, see, that’s the kind of question that really bugs me. This is my universe, I run it, I set the rules. It’s my show. When you run the show, certain rights and immunities accrue to you, one of which is not to be constantly annoyed by piteous wails about how absurd it all is, about how senseless and futile it seems, and so on. Screw that noise! It’s the only game in town, so play already. Quit bellyaching.”

“I think we’ve learned that,” Dalton said. “But you only have to go around once. Once is enough.”

“Not if I say it isn’t,” the gargoyle said. “There’s the first hole. Go tee up.”

“There comes a time,” Dalton said, “when you have to stand up to the big guy and say, hey, that’s enough.”

Frantically Thaxton shook Dalton’s shoulder and pointed. “There it is!”

The portal, or what could have been it, was flitting about in the meadow behind the gargoyle. The phenomenon was a region of vagueness that now and then took the shape of a doorway. It floated, dipped, scudded, then rose into the air and settled once again.

“Run for it!” Dalton shouted, dropping his bag.

“Wait just a damned minute,” the gargoyle said, throwing down the cigar and rising.

Cerberus leaped on the monster and knocked him back against the bench. The bench flipped and dog and gargoyle went rolling in the grass. The two duffers took off across the meadow.

The gargoyle got up and retrieved his cigar. Puffing thoughtfully, he watched them chase down the strange doorway and disappear into it. Then the phenomenon vanished, leaving the meadow to its bees and flowers and other peaceful inhabitants.

The gargoyle turned to Cerberus, who had also watched.

“Hell, I was going to take them to dinner.”