'The Royal & Ancient Golf Curse' - Part 4. The Ferryman from Hell

By: Richard Voorhees


[Editor's Note: In the third episode - http://www.cybergolf.com/golf_news/the_royal_ancient_golf_curse_part_3_the_island_tee - Beer Boy hit an absolutely awesome shot but accepted a little too much help from the cart nymph. For the foreseeable future, he'll be standing drinks at the 19th hole. Herewith is the fourth in our friends' series of misadventures, suffered under the spell of the "Royal and Ancient Golf Curse."]

One fine round, four golf buddies - known as Irish Coffee, Single Malt, Wild Turkey, and Beer Boy - stumble upon some kind of golf Shangri-la. But is this strange golf course actually a blessing? Or is it a curse? It may depend on how they play the game . . .

The three of us - Wild Turkey, Single Malt, and I - turn back toward the island green. Far off across the water a barge is approaching. We can see the rhythmic flash of an oar.

"Quick, put a coin on your tongue," our guide says. "And don't use a ball marker. It's got to be real money. That's the ferryman. When he arrives, he'll come up to you. When he does, stick out your tongue and he'll take the coin. That's how he insists on getting paid."

"Weird."

We hurriedly dig around in our pockets for some coin or another.

"I hope he hurries," Single Malt says. "This quarter tastes blehh." He's hard to understand.

"I haven't sucked on a penny since I was a kid," says Wild Turkey.

I find a thin dime and place it on the tip of my tongue. I hold it carefully in my mouth, trying not to have too much to do with it. My mouth starts watering anyway.

"After he takes your fare, he'll have you load your clubs onto his boat. You're to lie down on your back next to them."

"What about you?"

"I'll sit up front with him. Don't worry."

All I can think is: "I'm worried!"

One of the ancients, dressed from head to toe in black, pulls hard up to the tee box moments later and climbs off a big black barge. He drags it a couple feet up on the grass before us, saying nothing. When he faces us, we see his eyes. They wander every which way, focusing on us for a second, then rolling left, then suddenly spinning right, and finally slowly spinning all the way back into his head. What's left are big white globes pointed blankly toward us, looking frankly like golf balls of the dead.

You can meet some pretty interesting people golfing.

He comes up to me first and I immediately stick out my tongue as far as it will go. I want to make it easy for him. He deftly takes the dime. I'm relieved he doesn't feel it necessary to stick his fingers in my mouth to check for loose change. He moves on, thankfully, and nods slightly plucking Single Malt's quarter. Last and least, Wild Turkey sticks out a trembling tongue. There's the penny he has to offer. The ferryman makes an angry, contemptuous sound and whaps him under the jaw. Wild Turkey bites his tongue and the penny flips on the ground.

"Oooww!" Wild Turkey moans.

The ferryman looks at the penny at his feet for a few seconds before he deigns to pick it up. He holds the three coins in his gnarled hand and jingles them a little. Then he points imperiously at his boat.

We know what to do. We've been told. We grab our clubs and set them down in the back of the boat. Our guide nods encouragingly. Then we lie down next to them. The ferryman offers our lovely guide a hand and she steps aboard. He helps her settle herself safely up front, then he picks up his huge ebony oar and uses it to shove the barge free of the tee box. Once we're clear, he begins to paddle.

I'm so tense I might as well have rigor mortis. It's morning still, but when I look up, the sky is as black as the darkest hour of a moonless winter night. I've never seen so many stars. Instead of a star here, a star there, it looks like a sea of stars, an ocean of stars. The stars overhead form an endless pattern of frozen, rippling waves. I hear the ferryman's oar dipping in the water. I'm cold. I turn my head slightly to see my friends. Single Malt looks resigned, his face might as well be carved in stone. Wild Turkey shoots me a pained, panicked look. He's sticking his tongue out a little. It obviously still smarts where he bit it. The best I can do is raise my eyebrows and kind of leer.

At a certain point, the boat bumps aground.

"All right boys, up and at 'em." I've never heard a more welcome suggestion.

The barge is rising and falling alongside the green. The ferryman helps the cart nymph climb out. He doesn't look back at us, which is fine with me. I've seen enough of those dead eyes for one lifetime. Single Malt manages to climb out and we hand him up our clubs and then we scramble off the barge after him. The green has a severe slope to it and I lose my balance for a half-second. Wild Turkey grabs my arm and saves me from I don't know what. Our guide watches all this with bemusement. Easy for her to muse.

When we get up onto the actual green, it's fairly level, and we can see a path leading away from the far side to what must be Hole No. 2. It's a relief to think we might not have to catch another ferryboat ride with Mr. Congeniality. The sun is shining and we're all feeling a little slaphappy.

"Hey, let's get Beer Boy's ball."

"Let's see if it's really in the cup."

We walk over the pin and peer into the depths. Sure enough. There's his ball.

"Who wants the honors?"

Wild Turkey reaches two fingers into the hole and slowly, smoothly extricates the hole-in-one ball of the beer drinker. We crowd around to admire it in all its glory.

"Look at all the asterisks."

"Hmm. Some design."

"What kind of ball was he playing?"

Wild Turkey turns the ball over and over in his fingers until he sees the name of the manufacturer.

"Mulligan."

"He was playing a Mulligan."

"Never heard of it."

"Helluva ball, that's for sure."

"Well, put it in a safe place. He's going to want to frame that baby."

"I'll put it right here in my bag for safekeeping," says Wild Turkey.

When not writing about golf, Richard Voorhees is a novelist, filmmaker and lexicographer. His novel, "Shooting Genji," and his dictionary of occupations, "The World's Oldest Professions," are available on Amazon.com and at his website, www.rgvoorhees.com.