Weirdworld

 

“There it is,” Dalton said, pointing ahead. 

“That look like a teeing green to you? Nothing but gravel.” 

“Well, there's the hole, way out yonder.” 

Thaxton shaded his eyes. “Where?” 

“Out beyond that herd of animals.” 

“You mean we have to play through a herd of bison?” 

“I don't think those are bison.” 

“Yes, there is something strange about them.” 

“They have six legs apiece.” 

“Well,” Thaxton said, “they're an improvement over gryphons and basilisks. Do I have the honor, or do you?” 

“You.” 

“Look at that bloody fairway. Full of rocks.” 

“It's a challenge.” 

“Right you are.” Thaxton chose a driver and teed up. 

They played the thirteenth. The herd moved off the fairway for the taller, more succulent grasses of the rough, and the men made their approach shots. They were on the green in three and two-putted for par. 

“That was an easy hole,” Dalton said as they followed a path away from the green and up a little hill. 

“Yes. I hope they're not setting us up for something really dicey.” 

“We've pulled through so far.” 

“So far, so good, the man said as he fell thirty-nine of forty stories.” 

“I wonder who designed this course,” Dalton mused. 

“You think someone actually sat down and thought out this madness?” 

“It has its inspirations, and there's a method to it all, however bizarre. Recurring themes, too.” 

“Oh, yes, and I'm just about fed up with the strange beastie motif.” 

They had come to the top of the hill. Below lay a shallow valley shrouded in impenetrable fog. 

“Well, we're not going to be playing through that.” 

“Looks like there's no getting around it,” Dalton said. “Next tee's bound to be somewhere in there.” 

“I'm worried about what else may be in there.” 

“What's a little fog to two seasoned hell-golfers?” 

Thaxton hoisted his bag over his shoulder. “Right, what could be worse than ... I won't say it. No telling what could be worse.” 

They descended into the mist. A blanket of whiteness enveloped them, bringing a moist, muffled silence. They walked down a gentle grade for a good stretch. When the ground leveled off they stopped. 

“See anything?” Dalton said. 

“Not a bloody thing. Are we still on the course?” 

“I think we missed the tee.” 

“Then this must be the fairway. Let's retrace our steps.” 

“Wait a minute,” Dalton said. “I've lost my bearings. Is that the way we came?” 

“I dunno.” 

“Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. We'll have to wait for the fog to lift.” 

Thaxton eased down and arranged himself so that he was half reclining, elbows resting on his golf bag. 

Dalton squatted on his. “How's the leg?” 

“Coming along. I'm a fast healer.” 

A sound like the moan of a dying man came out of the mist. 

“Good God, what was that?” 

“He must have a bad lie.” 

Shrieks like the tortured screams of the damned. Then the flapping of great wings. 

“That bloody roc again,” Thaxton said. 

“Or something else.” 

“Maybe a harpy. Actually I wouldn't mind. That barbecued harpy doesn't sound so bad now. I'm feeling a bit peckish.” 

“That salamanderburger didn't fill you up?” 

“Like Chinese food,” Thaxton said. “You know, an hour later...” 

“I'm rather fond of Chinese. Moo shoo with plum sauce.” 

“Not my cup of tea, to coin a phrase.” 

“Of course, nothing can beat French cuisine.” 

“As a general rule I don't fancy wog food.” 

Dalton looked at him. “Wog?” 

“Well, you know, the wogs begin at Calais.” 

Dalton glanced around. “Fog's lifting.” 

The mists took a few minutes to clear. Shapes in the distance came into view, craggy peaks against a black sky. Something was howling in the rocks to the right of the fairway where remnants of fog curled. To the left, a bloated yellow moon was rising, casting eerie light and purple shadows. In the sky were faint stars and glowing spectral clouds. 

They had been sitting, as it turned out, right in front of the tee. The grass both on the tee and in the fairway looked like green crepe paper. 

“Strange,” Thaxton said. 

“Yup. That moon's throwing enough light to play by, though. So...” 

Dalton drove deep and straight. Thaxton teed up, swung, and sliced, sending the ball into the rocks. He cursed skillfully and at some length. 

They hiked out onto the narrow fairway, Thaxton detouring toward the stony “rough.” 

“Take the stroke,” Dalton called. “You'll never get it out of those boulders.” 

“I can try.” 

It was dark among the rocks, the weird moon throwing weirder shadows. Thaxton searched and searched, and was about to give the ball up for lost when he heard a bone-chilling howl, very close. 

“Good God.” 

Suddenly feeling very alone, Thaxton threaded back through the passage between the boulders, retracing his steps, whistling tunelessly. 

He rounded a bend and stopped dead. A pair of eyes regarded him from the shadows ahead. 

“I know where your ball is,” a soft, epicene voice said. 

Thaxton swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “See here. What do you mean by accosting people in dark places?” 

“Sorry, didn't mean to scare you.” A figure detached itself from the shadows. It was a hairy, generally man-shaped thing with yellow eyes, pointed ears, a snout, and canine fangs. Long claws tipped its pawlike fingers. “Thought you might want to know where your ball is.” 

“Well ... actually, yes, I would like to know. If you don't mind awfully much telling me.” 

“Oh, I don't mind,” the creature purred. “You might be able to do me a favor.” 

“Oh? What would that be?” 

“Have any blood to spare? I won't take much, just enough to tide me over.” 

Thaxton said, “I beg your pardon?” 

“I never get enough. Not many golfers get this far. You won't even feel it, just the tiniest pinprick on your skin. I wouldn't go for the neck. No, not that. Your wrist would be fine, just so I can get at a good artery.” 

Thaxton looked down his nose. “See here. Are you actually suggesting that I let you drink my blood?” 

“As I said, I won't be greedy. You'll never miss it. Most folks go around with more than they need, and your body will replenish your supply in no time. So, you see, you'll be gaining a stroke and not losing very much at all.” 

“Good God, man ... or whatever you are. Do you actually think I'd do such a disgusting, degenerate thing?” 

“It takes all kinds, friend. Who are you to criticize people? We're born the way we are, and we have to do what we have to do. It's that simple. You shouldn't be so judgmental.” 

“On the contrary,” Thaxton said indignantly. “I bloody well should be. Somebody's got to stand up for decent standards of behavior. Why, it's getting to the point where nothing's taboo anymore.” 

“You have to keep an open mind about these things, friend.” 

Thaxton harrumphed. “Bugger an open mind.” 

“Whatever makes your day.” 

“Well, my day's been sheerest hell, and it would please me greatly if you'd bloody well get out of my way. If you don't mind.” 

The creature bowed mockingly and stepped aside. 

Thaxton strode past, then stopped. He turned and said, “Wait just a moment. You're a werewolf, aren't you? Werewolves don't go around drinking people's blood.” 

“Who told you?” the creature replied. 

“But everyone knows that.” 

“Well, everyone's wrong, aren't they? I'm AC/DC. I just happen to like a little blood now and then.” 

Thaxton opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. He turned and left. 

“Have a nice night,” the voice behind him said. 

Thaxton stalked across the fairway grumbling, “Have a nice bloody night,” all the way. He came up to Dalton, who was sizing up a seven-iron approach shot, and threw his clubs down. 

“I've bloody well had it.” 

“What's up?” 

Thaxton delivered a mighty kick to the golf bag. “I didn't mind the weird stuff, didn't bat an eye at the volcanoes or the earthquakes or the acid hazards or even the bloody mythological beasts.” Another kick sent the bag rolling and the clubs flying. “But when scrofulous horrors insinuate disgusting things at you out of dark corners, that's when I bloody well have to draw the line.” 

“Whoa, what's this all about?” 

“Damn it all to hell. They've just got no right.” 

“Take it easy, old boy.” 

Thaxton smoothed his ruffled hair. He drew a couple of deep breaths and let out a long weary sigh. “Sorry. Didn't mean to go on like that.” 

“We have problems on the green, if you haven't noticed.” 

Thaxton pivoted. 

“Don't look at it!” 

“What?” 

Dalton reached and whirled him around. “Don't look at the face. It's a basilisk.” 

“But how can you—?” 

Dalton glanced over his shoulder. “It's turning the other way now. Take a quick gander.” 

Thaxton took a gander. The magenta-skinned hulk sprawled alongside the green was a lizardlike creature about thirty feet long with a semicircular sail or crest running along its back. Its birdlike head was proportionally larger than a lizard's. 

“A bloody pink iguana, that's what it is,” Thaxton said. 

“It's a basilisk. Look it in the eyes and you're a dead man.” 

“I wouldn't give it a second glance.” 

Thaxton retrieved his bag, took out a new ball, and threw it over his shoulder. He picked up the scattered clubs and rebagged them. Having scoped out his shot, he chose an iron and addressed the ball. He swung. Clinically eyeing the ball's trajectory, he picked up his bag and made his way toward the green. 

The basilisk was lounging in the grass near the greenside bunker, into which Thaxton's ball had dropped. When Thaxton, wedge in hand, came trudging into the sand, the creature lifted its head to watch. 

“Pretty good lie,” the basilisk commented. “But that's packed sand. It can be tricky.” 

Thaxton ignored it. 

“I'd say your best bet was to use the pitching wedge, not the sand wedge. You're not going to get very far just trying to blast it out.” 

Thaxton gritted his teeth and took his stance. He swung mightily. Exploding out of the sand, the ball ricocheted off the lip of the green and arched back into the bunker. 

“Damn it all!” 

“Told you,” the basilisk said. 

“Oh, go to blazes!” 

The basilisk chuckled. “Temper, temper.” 

Thaxton took a few practice swings, then addressed the ball, now nearer the green. He changed his mind and fetched another club, the pitching wedge. 

“Good idea,” the creature said. 

Thaxton mumbled something and swung. The ball bounded across the green and wound up a good distance from the cup. 

“Best you could hope for,” the basilisk said. “Not a bad shot, actually.” 

“Thank you,” Thaxton said sardonically. 

“You know, it's impolite not to look at someone when you talk to him.” 

“Sorry, busy day, you know. Can't stop to chat.” 

“Well, fine. No one ever does. Why should you be any different? It's still very rude.” 

“Look,” Thaxton said heatedly over his shoulder, “I'm bloody sick and tired of being chatted up by phantasms. So if you don't think it too awfully rude of me, I'd like to play a bit of golf without being continually bothered by something out of a bleeding nightmare.” 

“I bet you can't look me in the eye and say that.” 

Thaxton spun around. “Look here, I can bloody well—” 

The next thing he knew the bunker was in his face. He got up on his elbows, spat sand, and twisted around to see that Dalton had him by the legs. It had been a pretty solid tackle for an elderly man, and Thaxton was amazed. 

“I knew the thing would goad you into it,” Dalton said. 

“Oh. Uh, thanks. Thanks, old boy. Lost my head, I'm afraid.” 

They got up and brushed off sand. 

“One look at that fellow,” Dalton said, “and you die.” 

“Next thing you'll say,” the basilisk said peevishly, “is that my breath can kill, too. And then you'll repeat that old libel about my kind being hatched on a dunghill out of cock's eggs.” 

“Sorry,” Dalton said. “Nothing personal.” 

“Yeah, I'll bet some of your best friends are basilisks.” 

With a haughty shake of its head, the creature wheeled its scaly bulk around and slithered away. 

“The damnedest thing is,” Thaxton said, “they're all so bloody sensitive.” 

“Well, minority touchiness. Are you ready to putt?” 

Both putted, both for a bogey. 

Walking away from the green, Thaxton yawned. 

“Excuse me! God. Dalton, how long would you say we've been at this?” 

“I've lost all track of time.” 

“Seems it's been days to me. Couldn't be, though. We haven't even played eighteen holes.” 

“Time runs differently in different universes.” 

“Yes, but I'm speaking of subjective time. I think we've been at this for over twenty-four hours.” 

“Could be,” Dalton said. “It's been slow going. We lost a few hours resting your leg after lunch.” 

“Well, I don't know about you, but I'm bloody fagged out.” 

“Then let's book a room at yonder hotel.” 

“What?” Thaxton halted and looked. “Oh. Well, that's convenient, I must say.” 

“Told you this course was well designed.” 

“By an inspired psychotic. Look at that thing.” 

 

TARTARUS INN

Bed and Breakfast

All Gentle Beings Welcome

 

The building was a Gothic monstrosity with turrets and cupolas, widow's walks and rosette windows. Rolling moors surrounded it, wreaths of mist draping the withered sedge and gnarled clumps of grass. 

Lightning split the sky, and thunder rolled across the bogs. 

“Oh, I can see I'm going to get a lot of sleep here,” Thaxton said. “By the way, how do we pay for this?” 

“Well, I still carry my American Express Card, out of habit,” Dalton said. “I was going to flash it at the restaurant, until events obviated it.” 

 

“Why of course, sir,” the gargoyle desk clerk said. “We take all major credit cards.” 

“Good,” Dalton said. “A double with a private bath?” 

“We have a wonderful room in the east wing with a view of the Blasted Heath.” 

“How nice,” Thaxton said. 

Dalton signed the guest register while Thaxton inspected the gift shop. Talismans, pentacles, and other occult paraphernalia were plentiful, along with the usual scented soaps, inscribed mugs, and saltwater taffy. He stared in fascination at the Cthulhu dolls. The bellhop came and he had to tear himself away. 

The room was full of quaint furniture draped with lace doilies, and the beds had canopies. 

“Charming,” Dalton said. “You could have quite a nice weekend's dalliance here.” 

“No doubt,” Thaxton said, lifting up the phone and scanning a menu he'd found on the dresser. “Hello, Room Service? Yes, room 203, here. Is supper still being served? Breakfast?” He looked at his watch. “Fine. I'll take tea, toast, orange juice, and all that, two cock's eggs, hard-boiled, and the biggest basilisk steak you have, rare. That's right. Room 203, and be quick about it.”