It was August, and the dawn-age marshlands felt hot and damp. Feydyom, the clan Cheftian, tensed, feeling the veins and rills of a wooden cudgel held tight in his fist. Around him, Clan Feydyom's warriors stood their ground. Dressed in skins, they held only such clubs and cudgels as the bogs provided, for the working of iron was not yet known.

Only the Hetman, old keeper of the clan's wisdom, was kept apart, hidden beneath a pile of reed deep in the treacherous marsh. Driven from the highlands, hounded through dell and wood, there was nowhere else for the tribe to go. Still, the Tartan tribe hounded them, unrelenting.

Suddenly, leaping through the mist, scores of knobby kneed warriors howled down upon the Feydyom, with fierce red and blue faces. Arms raised and lowered in a bloody rhapsody of death. Clansmen, women and children alike died fighting, sinking to embrace the semi-liquid ground. It was not a merciful battle, with such weaponry. It was a gory and taxing work, and vile beyond conception. The conclusion was foregone, for the Tartans were many, the Clan few. Genocide concluded, the Tartans returned to their villages.

The Hetman struggled free of his concealment among the reed. Appalled by the carnage, he searched the field for survivors. One child remained. A chieftain's son, beaten, all but pushed into the sodden marsh. The pair limped up the one dry mound the bloodied marsh provided, to wait out the night.

The bog around them, every beetle, microbe and worm in it, lay sodden in the blood and corruption of the clash. Gassy corpses of clan dead surfaced in the following day's heat.

For ten days, the Hetman and child clawed graves into the soft loam of the mound. Painfully, the two dragged slaughtered corpses up it, to inter the remains beneath its red silt. The last buried was the clan chief, from whose chest, the Hetman pulled a ragged sliver of iron; a fragment of a fallen star. Part of some Tartan's club, broken off within the Warrior-chief.

The child wept.

The Hetman felt pain for the boy. "Eye canna return yer father to ya, but, an fate have it so, perhaps ye may walk sometimes with his spirit. I'll try m' best for you, lad."

For afortnight, the Hetman poured into the shard all the dawn knowledge he had claim to, and bound the chieftain's spirit with it. He fashioned a charm of it, and hung this about the child's neck. He taught the boy a chant, to call forth his father's spirit from beneath the shallow cairns. "Lay the shard over yer father's resting place at night. No other place mind ye, and say the words. The spell will call him forth, until the moon sets."

****

Moldenjaw pushed Greentooth's head down, to get a better look. "Naw, it's just another hole. Like the other ones."

"S'not right. They's all metal lined onna bottom. Not proper holes."

"So anyway, looks like no gopher guts fer dinner; not good."

Moldenjaw pushed up from the even plain of green to shake his head, and squint at their surroundings. He had felt compelled to wander to this town, but the area held nothing special. A few rolling mounds fronted by occasional patches of sand. The surrounding acreage, flat and uninteresting. A few fish-forsaken ponds dotted it. A new constructed building, some sort of lodge, sat on a small part of it.

"Nothing in this whole patch. Looks like goats overgrazed it an' moved on."

Greentooth listed to his feet, one shorter leg giving a left lean to his posture on the unnatural sward. Grudgingly, he lowered his right shoulder to compensate, which made him look even odder than he was. While easy to repair, ghouls never knit, and these two had been around a while.

"Thought we had it made when we stumbled on'ta the new cemetery," Greentooth groused. "But alla' corpses was burnt ta' ash an' jarred up. What's wrong with these people? Ain't no respec' fer th' dead these days."

"Hard times," Moldenjaw agreed. "Means if we're gonna eat, we're gonna have ta' get us work somewheres. All this outa-town development stuff is new. Place usta' be a big bog, as I remembers it. Anyway, they's gotta be somebody hiring around here."

"Aragh. Not again! You remember th' last time we got jobs."

"This time it'll be different. Feels it in m'bones. No crazy priests, princesses, or sorcerers. Just some kinda work what we can handle. Forget about checkin' the classifieds."

"Look there!" MoldenJaw snapped his hand up to point at a small sign before the lone building. The finger kept moving after the hand stopped, and fell to the lawn in a lazy arc. Greentooth retrieved it and handed it back, attention centered on the building's banner.

"Says, MacDivot Downs an' driving range. Means nuthun' to me."

"Not that one, the one staked in front"

"Oh. Eh, Now hiring: Groundskeepers an' Caddies. What kinda minions are those?"

"Dunno, but nobody knows dirt like we do. Gotta be a natural match fer ground-keepers."

"Better hope it doesn't involve lettering, or drivin'" noted Greentooth, eyeing his friend's finger-deficient hand.

"Well, there's a light on at the window ta the rear, let's peek inside."

****

Ratsnark MacDivot bent over the grounds plan of the new links, chortling. "They said I could'na build a course like this on a bog, but I done it anyway, an when it sank, I built another right on top of it. After that one sank, I builded this one over it, an by the rock, it be here ta stay! I've only ta' staff it, an' it's off ta town, ta' gae sign-up some members."

His eye roved over the hunchback's hump with proud, if watery gray eyes. In some perverse way, the fellow reminded him of the rolling greens he had worked so hard to bring about. Snottle, whose last position terminated with the burning of Freckville's Church Of The Gooey Death and Fried Chicken Franchise, felt it best to agree.

"Ath you thay, mathter. But the townth people thort of avoid the bog, even filled in. They lost a lot of boyths out here over the yearth."

Ratty MacDivot rose like an unleashed spring, causing his tartan skirt to flounce before settling back against legs so furry, they obscured where his kilt ended and flesh began. This went without remark by the hunchback, who fresh out of bell-ringing rehab was just happy to be employed again.

"Now ya hear this. Ye just go on an' hire the first pair a bodies what comes around fer Caddies, and no nonsense about it. All they gotta do is carry bags n' hand out clubs ta' the members. Taint carriage science. Besides, I canna' afford ta' be choosy until things pick up. Fact, I'll be off ta' town now, ta' put up fliers. I'll not wait till the cock crows ta' get this place started up right an proper. See to the hiring, Snottle."

"Ath you thay, masther."

φ

Peering in the window, Greentooth's jaw dropped, allowing MoldenJaw to see some of the room through the gash in his cheek. "Cripes! It's Snottle!"

"The hunchback from our last gig?"

"How many hunchbacks named Snottle do you know?" Greentooth hissed.

"Eh, Maybe he's looking for work too. Maybe he won't remember us."

"Sure. It's possible. Clinging to the top of a flaming church steeple, madly whacking the bell while his ass burned, might have affected his memory."

"It wasn't our fault," whined MoldenJaw. "We was comrades in arms. Not our fault the priest's hobby was turning parishioners into giant chickens, or ended up in vendetta with an insane bug worshiper."

"True." Greentooth's stomach issued a tortured balloon sound. "Tell you what, you explain it to him as he chases you around in a homicidal rage, and I'll see about work."

MoldenJaw frowned. "I hate job interviews -- Too much stress. Let's go around front. You first."

The pounding at the whitewashed entrance brought a premonitory twitch to the hunchback. The bell-ringer did not expect any early evening visitors, and McDivot had his own key. Curious, he opened the door anyway. Snottle's eyes narrowed at sight of the two ghouls who stood fidgeting on the stoop.

"You two! Thought I'd theen the lastht of you in Freckville." An echo of flames scorched up his backside in a tremor of memory, which he admirably controlled.

To MoldenJaw's surprise, their former supervisor seemed calm, save for an occasional twitch. The hulking hunchback did sub-vocalize some sort of chant, but all in all, a better welcome than Greentooth expected.

The ghoul blurted out a short speech, ending "So you see boss, the fire - it wasn't our fault, and we really need the work."

Snottle, disinterested in excuses, completed the Mantra of Bellringer's Anonymous, "and my handth will never touch brath anymore," then heaved a heavy sigh. He stared woodenly at the pair.

"I'd rather thee you hung, but according to my spethific instructions, I'm to offer you positions to caddy."

"Ah, yes, caddy. Good stuff, all that," nodded MoldenJaw. "And what does a caddy do?"

Snottle sighed again, lumbered to a closet, and pulled out a set of golf clubs. "You carry bagths like this one around for the patronths. Hand them the stickths inside as they ask for them. You help find, but do not touch or move, any stray ballths they may loosth track of. You count how many strokes the player takes to complete all 18 holths. It'ths a game. They will try to hit the ballths so they fall into holths in the turf. Otherwise, I may find an odd chore or two for you when things get thlack."

Greentooth looked worried. "One of my uncles had a stroke once. Nasty, it was. Died of it. Vigorous game is it?"

"No."

"And our pay?"

Snottle sighed again, hand twitching around some ghost of a bell's handle. "The playerth give you money for your help."

"Er, how many players are there?"

"Ath many as the masther can dig up."

Greentooth looked happy. "You know, we're good at digging up people, maybe we could..."

"No."

"But..."

"No. Moving on, there's shorts you are to wear and lucky for you two," he said, noting the empty spot where MoldenJaw's second eyebrow used to be, his missing ear and the rent in his cheek, "capths as well. I would conthider wearing dark glathes and keeping your collars up, the pair of you. Maybe a hoodie."

****

Time passed, and the Hetman cared for the child and passed on all the lore he knew. Years and advancing age reversed these roles. On a certain day, the child, now grown, saw to the Hetman's burial.

The young man, now alone, often called upon the spirit of his father, as the Hetman had taught.

Sole survivor of his tribe, the forlorn son wove further charms, seeking to raise him. But none of these ever returned the chieftain to life, beyond the setting of the moon. His work did bring more solidity to the called spirit. In the end, he could feel the comfort of his father's arms around him in the too brief interludes between dusk and dawn. Together, they often walked the fens.

The boy grew to manhood, married, and with the passage of time, also died. The iron charm passed from father to son.

All the while, the souls of the clan slept in discontent beneath the Fey Downs.

****

Kurdle Brownbottom, Last High Protector of the Fey Downs, ground both his remaining teeth together. Out his apartment window spread a new Put-The-Ball-In-The-Hole course. It wasn't, he raged, only that the bandy legged developer drained the bog, and befouled the Sacred Barrows with grass. Not only that. His apartment manager raised the rent, claiming an increase in property values due to the "improved view". There was even talk of ...Condominiums.

The sacrilege seemed endless. But, he vowed, an end of it would come for the defilers and, he spat, that godless developer.

He reached a clawed hand for the Shard of Resurrection, symbol of his ancient office, dangling from the chain around his neck. If necessary, he would call out the barrow dead. Yes, even unto that ultimate apocalypse. According to family lore, the amulet had passed to his family from ancient dwellers beneath the cairns. It was also said it passed to them when an ancestral thief choked the life from the true owner in a dark alley.

In either case, it had come down the generations to him. As did the dues paid by the Fey Downs Cult, a rather nice stipend.

The greens must not stand.

From his apartment vantage, he'd noted a place where a tuft of shrubbery substituted for the course's fencing. The plan was simple. Knotting a hand around the amulet, he made his way through the tuft, and into the hilly greens of the course. Between the darkening hills, it was easy to lose direction, but that mattered little. As long as he remained unseen, anywhere on the former fen's land would do.

****

Greentooth stood nervously next to MoldenJaw, uncomfortable in their new outfits, as Snottle inspected them.

The capths, thought Snottle, did cover their mangy hair. With collars turned up, their torn flesh was not as noticeable. Anyway, with luck, MacDivot will fire these two on the spot, and I'll be off the hook. He couldn't exactly accuse them of burning him out of his former town, exactly. You couldn't exactly tell if a particular duck could float either. But letting nature take its course in this case, might serve him just as well.

"The owner will be here shortly, and we'll thee whath's to become of you. Thand thraight, and prethent yourthelves," admonished Snottle.

Moldenjaw pushed at Greentooth's shoulder till he took a more or less vertical position and pulled down on his new jacket.

From outside, a sound of drunken caroling made its way to the door, and a blurry eyed MacDivot banged through it, followed by a gaggle of staggering townspeople. He tramped onward till almost leaning against the hunchback, and poked a free hand into Snottle's chest. With his other, he made a sweeping backward gesture with a half empty bottle."They're all here fer th' game. All-a-em, fer th game...Here. Sign 'em up, membership firs-month-free." Swaying back he boggled at the two ghouls, and whispered in Snottle's ear. "Who're these then?"

"Thesth would be the caddith you told me to hire, thir, with your approval, of course."

"Eh? Oh. Lessee then."

MacDivot slewed about to face the pair, tipping heavily leftward. "Straighten up, you two!"

Greentooth relaxed, taking on his normal left-canted stance. Moldenjaw leaned left to match.

"S'better." The potted owner squinted briefly at the pair. "They'll do jus' fine. Everbody ta the lounge!" he cried, and lead the party on with an over-deliberate tromp.

Snottle looked at the Ghouls in resignation. "It theems your employment sthands approved."

Greentooth looked pensive. "Er, so we should go get the bags out then?"

Snottle shook his head. "Ith's too late for the game. He'll just walk the playerth around the greenths until they run out of booze. Meanwhile, motht of the ladies will likely park in the clubhouth lounge. So it's up to you to keep them from getting bored. I'll make thum tea and put out bisthcits."

MoldenJaw frowned a little. "Thought we was ta tote bags fer the players. Anyway how do you know the ladies won't go fer th' tour?"

Snottle raised a thick digit. "And to do odd chores. The only bagths on the links this evening will be brown paper ones that slosh inthide. There are thum board gameth and card decks on the lounge's sideboard. Ath for the women, most I find, while up for a good party, draw the line at roaming drunkenly around in the dark. Call it intuition."

"Yer th' boss."

Most of the men staggered out with MacDivot onto the now moonlit greens. The rest, a couple of older gents who'd had enough, and most of the bored women, took seats at the various tables dotting the room.

Greentooth picked up a couple of card decks from the sideboard, and sat down at an occupied table. Two brown haired girls who obviously didn't know each other well, and one of the silver haired men, looked up in curiosity.

"Hows 'bout a game a'cards while Snottle rustles up some tea an such?"

The gentleman raised a brow. "What did you have in mind?"

"P'raps a Rubber O' Bridge? There's four here, so's we could play regular contract style."

"A card game? How does it go?"

"Well. You play as partners, - wit the person across th' table from ya. Ya win by making yer bid , an' taken the number o' tricks youse settled on. Now as ta how many tricks ya take, -"

"Oh,"one of the ladies spoke up, a small spark in her blue eyes. "Like in Whist?"

" A bit, a bit. There's four parts ta' it. The deal phase, the auction or bid -- the idea is ta take tricks an score points o' course. The deal is clockwise, thirteen cards each..."

MoldenJaw set out a couple chessboards, but noting that Greentooth's new game drew the interest of the bored ladies dotting the room, left to help Snottle with the tea and pastries.

*

MacDivot and cadre rambled on through the course under the bright, if distant moon. "Therrrs sandy-trrraps on the fourrrth, sixth an tenth holes. The eleventh's landing is across a wee strrream."

Well past sobriety's reach, the tartan clad MacDivot rolled his "R's"hard, and punched each word into the night with a fisted bottle. In this area, the grass covered cairns loomed like black shadows, blocking sight of the clubhouse.

Unseen behind one of the taller mounds, Kurdle Brownbottom squatted, digging a hole in the smooth turf. Under the grass, soil remained spongy and slipped between his fingers as if glad for release from the fibrous growth above it. I'll put an end to this, once and for all.

He mouthed words of an ancient call, in a language he did not understand; a dialect lost in time. The syllables fell like glue from his mouth, reluctant to leave the lips that chanted them. A warmth built in the shard around his neck. He grasped it , jerking the icon from its chain. He fondled it briefly, hating to part with it, but thinking, It's for the greater good. – My greater good, anyway.

With the final syllable, he thrust it into the hole, deep into the soft loam of the underlying bog. Far below, a sluggish rivulet that once fed the bog-lands, quickened beneath the hills, pushing at newly compacted earth. Those gifted with second sight could have heard the stirrings of dead souls beneath the grass.

One of MacDivot's guests squinted at his bottle, seeming to realize that darkness was obscuring the print on it. It was also mostly empty, so he shifted his attention elsewhere, realizing that the clubhouse was no longer in sight. A ghostly green glow seemed to rise like a nimbus over several of the course's low hillocks. He pulled Macdivot's attention to one. "Whats all that then?"

"Eh?"MacDivot lurched about, focusing one then both eyes on the phenomenon. "Ach, tis' probably just a wee bit a foxfire. T'was a bog here at one time ya know."

"As you say, MacDivot, but perhaps we ought to return now. Canna see much of the course inna dark, but the downs seem playable." He harrumphed and slid the now empty bottle into a jacket pocket.

*

Snottle thrust his arm deep into a box of pastry puffs, coming up with only a handful. "It theems Masther has been depleting the guest fare. We'll not have enough to go round."

Helpfully, MoldenJaw grabbed up a half-loaf of bread, and waved it at the larder. "Saw a ham hung up in the cupboard. Mebbe we can fill in w'some samaches."

The hunchback pulled the substantial ham off its hook, looking dubious. "Not enough bread for that many sandwiceth, I think." The tea kettle began to sing, so he thumped the meat down on the counter and turned to finishing the tea. "Do what you can, then."

MoldenJaw found a kitchen knife, and wielded it with practiced speed, slicing the ham thin, and managed five decent sandwiches from the half loaf. The result did look meager considering the dozen or so guests they were fated for. They didn't add much bulk to the small pile of biscuits.

Maybe if I cut 'em up inta' small pieces, they'll go further.

Snottle returned with a full tea urn, and blinked at the pile of sandwich slivers now covering the table. As he watched, one, then another tumbled forlornly over, being too high for their smallish footprints. Also, one sliced bit seemed out of place. He reached down and pulled up a rotting piece of finger. "I athume this belongth to you?"

MoldenJaw did a quick finger count. "Oops. Geeze, sorry boss, got carried away. I'll sew it back on later. Look, I can run a splinter of wood in the samach pieces, ta' hold the bits together." Suiting action to word, he carved a few splinters off the counter edge and speared together each of the forlorn sandwich shards.

Snottle rolled his eyes, giving up. "Put them out with the puffs on the small plates. "Maybe they'll be too potted to notith. I'll Therve the tea."

"So the Opener is the Responder?" The older gentleman looked bemused.

Greentooth shook his head. "Naw, the Opener is the first to make a bid. The Responder is the Opener's partner. Ya can catch on ta it as we play a dummy hand through. Thats th' easiest way."

Several tables had been shoved closer together, and by the scatter of cards across them, the guests were following the opening plays, and learning the game.

MoldenJaw arrived at the table with small plates of sandwich bits, a puff centered on each plate. The service seemed to delight the ladies, who waited politely for their tea to be poured.

"Ooh, what are these?"

Snottle raised a brow at MoldenJaw, who shifted his eyes about guiltily.

"Em, er, I calls it finger food. - 'Cause I lopped..."

Snottle grabbed the ghoul up by the back of his jacket and pointed at the waiting tables. "Perhapth you could therve the rest of the ladieth."

****

Gracie Tubers wasn't quite sure how she had ended up at the clubhouse. She had been walking Pickles, her terrier, when the enthusiastic party of MacDivot had caught her up. One of the women said something funny to her, and passed her a drink. A boisterous gentleman with bright eyes laughed, and picked up Pickles, rubbing the dog's head. Pickles responded with enthusiastic tail wags.

The group joined together to cajole her into joining the party "at the new clubhouse on the greens".

Another drink came her way. And now here she was, puzzling out some game. A card game in which she was "West", and partnered with "East", the lady who had first spoken to her. "North" seemed to be the instructor, and she muzzily wondered if wearing a hoodie and dark glasses was part of the game.

Pickles seemed happy to dodge back and forth smelling at everyone in the room. The dog had picked something up from the floor, sending one of the two servers to chase after it, saying something about "needing that finger back." Something to do with the "finger food" he had served up? She felt a little numb about it all, and was glad the beverages had changed to tea. Besides, Pickles was having fun, and the animal was capable of taking care of itself.

****

The glow over the mounds shifted, rose and coalesced. Several of his new members appeared worried, and that would not do. MacDivot rattled his bottle blurrily. I've na' enough ta keeps em distracted anymore." Well, ya can sees th' rest come tomorrow, so it's back ta the clubhouse then. Follow me!"

MacDivot drew in the night air through his nose and expelled it. Through the miasma of alcohol, a taint of mouldering peat, a wisp of corruption intruded. "Right! Up the hill then, should see the clubhouse from there, as it's lit."

Up the swell he marched, heedless of the eerie glow, with his usual stone determination. Behind, the cadre stopped and pulled back, pointing atthe hill top.

MacDivot lifted his head from assessing the legwork of stomping one foot after another to squint at the rise top. There, two club bearing cadavers faced him dressed in desiccated furs, eyes glowing a dead yellow and shrouded in green fire. Genetics came into play, and without conscious thought, his feet swiveled 180 degrees to pound down hill, surprisingly passing up the equally intimidated party-goers.

There was shouting and screaming.

****

Kurdle Brownbottom, scrambled back as the advancing ripped and gruesome remains of a giant approached. Hate poured from its eyes, and the cudgel it dragged behind dripped blood. The club swung up, and the apparition pounded down slope, a ghastly scream echoing from the remains of a mouth.

The cult leader raced around the hill, and pounded with uncharacteristic verve towards the lit clubhouse. Why are they after me?

Kurdle screamed at the figure behind him. "I'm the Grand master, guardian of the amulet! Keeper of the – ."

There was a whump, and behind him a cudgel smacked turf, barely missing his flying heels.

A hollow basso rose from the glowing cadaver. "You are a thief, progeny of thieves. Where is my son? Who are you to disturb my rest? Tartan dog, scion of my enemies, persecutor and murderer of my kin, die. Return that which you have stolen -- my amulet!"

Kurdle picked up the pace, shouting over his shoulder. "It's in the hills! Under the loam behind one of them. I can't tell where, in the dark. I don't have it...need time to find it. Give me time!"

Another whoosh, and the form appeared before him. In his haste to break the headlong run, Kurdle fell, skidding in the grass. He rolled over, his hands flying by reflex to his face in abject fear.

The green glowing mass bent over him, and breath from its black maw washed him. The lines of a strong face resolved within the glow. "In burying the amulet, you have risen not only me, but my whole Clan. Here, upon our final battlefield, in our place of pain and ruin."

"It was given me by my father, I've done nothing to you. Give me a chance, I'll find it, return it, I swear!"

"You pulled us from our graves, ye worthless snot. I sense a clansman among the living here. Some descendant of mine, living kin. Find th' charm, return it to my descendant, so that me Clan may rest."

"Who? Where?"

"As he does not wear the shard, I canna' tell, boy. Just that he be near. Till then, the dead must walk, and continue ta' live out their final moments till each dawn breaks. As wull the necks of any tartans here. As wull your neck, as I'll walk with ya, and strangle you meself, an' you do not return it and end this. A bit of extra ability gifted by my son, ages agone." The fey visage drew closer yet. "Unless ye be knowing some spell to put them back ta rest." Kurdle felt the scorch and prickle of the spirit wash him.

Kurdle blanched whiter, if it were possible, and scrambled away, to gain his feet and make pell-mel for the lights of the clubhouse.

****

MacDivot managed to slow the wheel of his legs and eyed the empty fifth warily. The granite-like gears in his head chunked stubbornly.

"Good stuff," he noted to no one in particular. "Apparently better booze than I thought, at first. T'was a good value." Wouldna hurt ta stay in th' keg another twenty year, but there's a solid kick to it.

His guests huddled together issuing sounds of fright and discontent. He wielded the empty bottle like a scepter. "Ignore alla that. Canna be rrreal ye pansies. Jus' foxfire 'n liqueur, on a dark night, is all. We'll keep offa the hills, an, wind around betwixt. Canna be verry farr. Stay together now, stay together!"

Heads on swivels and eyes wide as saucers, it was an unnecessary instruction for the group. The gaggle bunched about MacDivot like sharks around chum. Blurry effigies on hill tops charged and swung cudgels at empty air. A vaporous moaning drifted across the sward.

****

Most in the clubhouse had picked up the gist of the game, and began their own rubbers. Mild arguments broke out over the rules, which Greentooth made himself available to mediate. Over all, the grim pawl of gamers everywhere involved in winning, swept the room, weaving its own spell. The tables became islands of concentration, each a country unto itself. Time passed into a mode known otherwise only to practitioners of the dark arts.

Snottle rolled on through the thickening air with a shuffling gait. He passed between the tables, like an ocean liner through a still sea, dolling tea, oblivious to the change. MoldenJaw kept his eyes on Pickles, who now seemed obsessed with the doors leading onto the greens. The two half-dead seemed the only ones to note the change, save for the mutt, whose agitation was hard to fathom.

Pickles started to bark and bounce at the doors. In the distance, moaning and screams penetrated the room. The ruckus ended bursting through the entrance and onto the carpet, in the form of a frightened Kurdle, who tumbled onto the floor. Pickles, in typical good spirits, gave the man a thorough sniffing. Surprisingly, all of this had little effect on the preoccupied gamers.

Only a few breached an inattentive glance, before returning concentration to their cards. The barbaric form of the clan chieftain followed, along with several semi-transparent warriors. The chieftain bent over the shaking Kurdle. "You've the evening to retrieve it. Dunna waste the time you are given. I'll be wait'in here."

Pickles pranced up to smell at the chieftain, sneezed, then retreated to sniff at its owner's ankles. Gracie, lost in the players' mystic concentration, halfheartedly nudged the dog away. The terrier whined and trotted off through the door and onto the greens.

Greentooth pulled in the thickening air, and whispered to MoldenJaw through his slashed cheek "I don't think them's invited guests. Do we give 'em a plate anyways?"

MoldenJaw frowned. "I don't like this. The air's all glowy like."

An ominous flap of cards filled the room.

The horde chieftain abandoned Kurdle. He seemed attracted to the bridge tables, and loomed over a few mesmerized, while the players continued to take tricks and play out their rubbers. He gravitated to Gracie's table. Kurdle scrabbled off the floor and ran back onto the greens.

Greentooth returned to the table, in time to be pushed out of the way by the giant apparition, who took his seat, picking up the cards there. The players paid little attention to the change, and continued to game. Snottle poured the apparition tea.

"Don't like it. Kinda Dojo-Voo thingy," muttered Greentooth, eying the tattered giant's spattered club parked against the table.

"That's Deja Vu, and yeah, like, we been here before," noted Moldenjaw. "Not good." The other warriors too, waded slowly through the molasses atmosphere, to occupy open tables. Cards riffled.

****

Pickles, nose poked into the turf, zig-zagged his way onto the green field,stopping behind one grassy hillock. He began to paw a hole in it. Soon, only the terrier's hind feet and wagging tail showed above the greens.

Kurdle pounded on in aimless fright through the darkened course, eventually smacking into MacDivot's inward wandering gaggle, bowling him over. MacDivot glared up cross eyed at the intruder. Red faced, he pushed Kurdle away, and scrambled to his feet. "Watch where yer goin yer pike'n sod! Who are ya anyways? What're ya doing out on me course?"

Kurdle made incoherent noises, and pointed back in the direction of the clubhouse. Moans like rushing wind mounted around them. Kurdle gibbered and ran off.

Macdivot brushed himself down peremptorily and squinted in the direction Kurdle had pointed. "Well, Seems we're headed the right way. Onward, Lads!

The terrier's hole was half filled with muddy water by the time it pulled free and shook itself. It clenched a chord in its teeth, knotted to a shard of iron. Beneath the loam, the underground rivulet had become a torrent, carrying away vast amounts of silt to some unknown reservoir. A cavern grew beneath the downs.

*

MoldenJaw passed out a few more plates of finger-wiches then returned to Greentooth, who had ceased giving advice, and stood bewildered. "Never saw a bunch a folks catch onta' the game so fast. Ain't natural."

"Sumpthun about the intensity of alla em', powering up th' place. Dunno. How long does this game take?"

Greentooth shugged. "Sposta play just three rounds, fer th' evening. But some O th' new players offa th' greens, started late."

MoldenJaw swiveled his head around, taking in the glowy rotted aspects of cairn spirits eerily held to the gaming tables in unsettling single-mindedness, along with the rest. "We're gonna get fired again, aren't we."

The tables now radiated with a soft blue lambency.

"We didn't do nuttun"

"Never do, but doesn't seem to matter, most times."

Snottle, like some implacable automation, went on pouring tea.

****

Pickles ran back through the door, amulet bouncing in its jaws. The terrier made a bee line for its mistress, jumping into her lap. Gracie's eyes lost some of their cloudy sheen. She dropped a hand to her lap and took the amulet from the dog. The glow of the room dropped a noticeable amount.

Snottle stopped his rounds and lifted the teapot to eye it warily.

The players became more animated, some a bit unsettled at the presence of the new players, but attentive to their hands and scores, soldiered on.

The grizzled Clan chief rose his eyes from the hand he played, focusing on Gracie. "You be the one then. It is you, my great, great granddaughter. You are the Feydyom."

Gracie Tubers pulled back a little. "My mother's maiden name was Feydyom."

"We have much to talk of, then."

The boisterous MacDivot and his members made the patio outside the clubhouse just in time to miss a thunderous rumble from the course.

They turned, and watched, as the greens roared and slumped, to vanish into a bottomless hole. Somewhere within the din, a thin shriek rang out, to be cut off rather suddenly.

Macdivot's eyes bugged out. His hands clenched. "Naw, naw naw, it canna be! Me greens!"

One of the alcohol numbed guests raised an eyebrow. "Unplayable, it would appear."

MacDivoit slumped, and trod leaden footed into the clubhouse, along with his cadre. People were occupying every table, some glowed, but the place was full. "Snottle! What's all this then?"

Snottle, having recovered some of his senses, was listening carefully to the table talk where Gracie and the horror that was her forebear sat. He jerked as erect as his hump allowed and scurried forward. Around the room some players were finishing up their games, and likewise becoming progressively more animated.

Snottle nodded his head. "Thir?"

MacDivot waved hands at the room. "Well?"

One of the erstwhile course inspectors tapped him on the shoulder. "Sorry, MacDivot, but as you've no longer a course to play..."

"A moment, Robert."

Snottle looked around. "It theems, thir, that thumb complicated card game has overtaken the place. Almost, a spell-like obsession. The gentleman behind me thinkths iths a combination of thpellhs cast on the downth to raise the dead, and the abthsurd concentration of the playerth here. I think the energy calls to many of the...incorporeal warriorth and holds them to the game ath well, thir."

MacDivot squinched his eyes, thinking. So then, a guaranteed full house? He counted the tables, calculating, then turned to Roberts.

"Yer wife seems ta have found a new pass-time here at the club. As has most a yer friend's dates. T'would seem a shame ta be denying em, eh? I'll change the membership dues a bit, O course, but ye might want to consider the benefits, course or no. Outside, I'd say there'll be a jolly lake ,come th spring. What d ye think? Do Ya Sail?"

The clubhouse atmosphere had lightened considerably. Everyone was chatting and laughter sprinkled the room. Cards were being put away, and some of the barrow dead began to fade.

"Perhaps you're right, if you can stem the drain from the sinkhole..."

"O course I'm right."

Moldenjaw offered Robert a plate. Snottle poured him a tea. Roberts stared at the plate.

"So,"whispered MacDivot, "whose idea was alla this?"

Snottle bowed his head to MacDivot and mumbled, "The new caddieth came up with it, sthir."

MacDivot nodded, eyes bright. "The new caddies what we no longer need, bein' as there's no course?"

Snottle smiled. "I'll take care of it, thir."