Aaroneous Monk - opening scene

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
                                                                    -Genesis 1:2





He had seen it hundreds of times before, yet it fascinated him anew each and every time.

It was a burbling sea of pure white and from above it looked like a bowl of milk tremoring on a cherry table top.  Wisps of the soupy fog flicked skyward and dissolved in the warmer air above, the rising sun reflecting brilliantly off of the milky surface forcing it down layer by layer in the climbing heat.

A spire poked through the surface and grew steeple-like as the fog fell.  Next to appear, the stubble of treetops dotting the whiteness and outlining a large circular area within which the spire continued to grow and take the shape of a simple rocket with a port window, widening out in the middle then thinning at the bottom where wide fins flared outward and held the ship aloft.

The forest continued to fill out and spread in all directions as other structures began to appear within the treeless circle: a cluster of evenly spaced boulders, a bulbous headed alien with large eyes and small mouth, a silver saucer with spindly legs, and, at the dead center, a red dome that appeared to be a sphere half planted in the ground.  The last bit of fog flowed around these structures licking at their bases before dissipating to reveal the artificially greened fairways of a putt putt golf course.

***

Nothing stirred within the circle.  Thin red-bricked paths formed concentric circles around the painted dome to give the appearance of Saturn-like rings.  The circular paths interconnected the putting greens to funnel the flow from the outer entrance to the final green near the center.

A creaking sound disturbed the silence as the smooth surface of the dome was interrupted by the opening of a hidden door.  Out stepped a peculiar fellow who had to stoop slightly to get through the doorway.  He was tall and lanky with a red beard speckled gray, his hair in a pony tail poking out from under a faded black brimless cap.  A matching cassock flapped around his legs as he limped briskly to the head of the inner most green, using a putter as a cane.

A small painted sign marked this green as "The Shooting Star" and in smaller print reminded putters that this was the last hole.  He reached into his cassock and pulled out a golden ball which he placed on the designated spot.  It sparkled in the sun and absorbed his attention.  White lines on the green ran from the ball to a starburst pattern that surrounded the hole.  He used these to line up his shot, glancing repeatedly at the hole and then back to the ball.  He took a few practices swings, then scratched at his beard and adjusted his cassock.

He had made this shot innumerable times as a morning ritual, the swing more of a reflex than a thought-through thing.  As the putter moved downward to the ball a high hooting call escaped from the forest and disconnected the reflex.  He hit the ball in a slightly different spot than he'd intended and watched it roll down the long green.  The flow of his routine had been interrupted and his thoughts seemed to become more disorganized as the ball approached the hole slightly off-center.

He felt tears begin to burn in his eyes along with a rising sense of panic in his chest.  The golden ball blurred as it continued towards the hole, unaware of its role in the ritual.  It rolled right up to the rim of the bottomless cup and stopped, balanced between the sun and the black hole.  His mind touched the abyss inside himself and tottered.  A violent shudder seized him as a cold wind swept in out of the forest and up through his cassock.  It was enough to give the ball a gentle push, sending it down into the darkness.

***

Visibly shaken, he rubbed his eyes and smoothed out his beard, then made the sign of the cross over himself three times.  He rotated his putter and firmly grasped its head, making  his way over to the innermost bricked path.  A black knotted prayer rope appeared in his free hand as he followed the circular path and whispered softly to the still morning air, "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."  It was repeated carefully with each slip to the next knot, finding a rhythm with his steps, the tap of the putter-cane, and his breathing.  These words calmed him as he circled his domed home.  His eyes remained focussed on the path as he resisted the urge to look up, wrapping himself in the protection of his prayer.