Valley of Flowers Read online

  VALLEY OF FLOWERS

  Chris Collins is the author of Nicolas Kumar of which

  Valley of Flowers is one part. Previous publications include his

  first short story that was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

  _______________________

  Copyright © Chris Collins. All rights reserved.

  Chris Collins asserts his right under the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act to be identified as

  the author of this work.

  ISBN 9780982394908

  ISBN 098239490X

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

  incidents are either the product of the author's imagination

  or are used fictitiously. For more on this book go to

  @CollChris on Twitter or Google+

  Book 1

  This Book Is Inscribed To

  Mr. Arnold Palmer

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  Valley of Flowers

  by CHRIS COLLINS

  a novella

  1

  The Valley of Flowers ahead looked awash in sunrays and colorful wildflowers. All seemed so expertly arranged and crowding the valley in thousands and millions there would be no counting their number. Dew-gilded gleaming flowers appeared in maximum bloom. The glare captivated him and his senses took flight. Nicolas Kumar had arrived.

  His trek had brought him to this mountain place on a crisp cool morning that was his birthday. The scene presented lent a warm ambiance to his interiors, yet he might have preferred his father had gifted him a brand new BMW.

  The 17-year-old Indian youth, pinch-fit from regular workouts, held up to take a breather as for couch potatoes. He felt the blunt chill of low temperatures. In front of his face, puff clouds formed and dissipated from his outgoing breath. His hope now was for a good solid round here, on first seeing this famed valley's primal beauty.

  Once more the school-going teenager breathed in deep that stretched his lungs to the utmost. In among the fresh, sweet open air was a fragrant scent he took in his lungs. Pleasures from this and the envisioned field permitted him a moment beyond measure. Gravity tugged.

  Nicolas bowed to this mounting pressure. He exhaled while setting down his pack in a freestanding display. Gradually his breathing became more normal and he felt reassured. Now he thought being up in the Indian Himalayas was a timely step for him, and one in the right direction.

  He took off his red fleece jacket, wrapped around his waist, and he laid it onto his standing rucksack. In a no-hurried manner he removed his cap and ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. His skin and wavy hair were a similar color brown with his skin darkened from the many hours out in the sun on the practice range, and while out on the course during play.

  Dark eyebrows shielded his curious and eager slate-gray eyes that were good and quick, sharper for sighting long wood and iron shots out of mid-air, and from spotting the errant ones lying in the long grass.

  Nicolas returned his cap atop his head and crooked it with finger and thumb. He added more bend to the bill’s center. He looked at the flowers. He received bales full of colorful garlands, as each frame-to-frame picture in his mind's eye without exception solicited and obtained from him a brief promise to stay, and never return to the jungle of concrete and commotion, roads or dividing walls, nor ever go back to the unholy rolling on juggernaut of live wire.

  He stared at this scene of immortal bliss and searched its tranquil wonders. Glee came through to make him smile. His readiness for the approaching contest suffered some from giddiness, as he stood self-consciously on the tee box square, gratification of the senses his highest goal.

  "Teledensity has certainly not reached here," whispered the mostly city-centric youth.

  Favoring pink Himalayan balsams, in a valley far from the maddening urban crowds, the plush sea of alpine flowers appeared in palpable excitement over the possibilities of this one fine day in paradise.

  Dotted here and there purple and blue, and raised from the Earth, here a blue poppy, there a cobra lily and edelweiss, the flowers in plenary portions seemed on proud, glorious display in an absolute must-have bouquet, and all looked nourished by a sparkling stream, rushing through a slight middling valley.

  The spill off came from an in-the-distance small lake. Its check-dams appeared filled to the brim and stemming from a spectacular waterfall, flowing like champagne and then, Oh! A rainbow! The rainbow added shape to this cut cake, ordered for the occasion of charmed magic. And all got his mind into feeling divine timelessness and just right disarray.

  Nicolas gazed at this sparkle. He took in the invigorating crisp clean air and view of a lifetime. He wondered who colored these many flowers. Consequently he fought for ownership of this prime piece of land.

  The battle within him, however, did not drag on. Inside, his immediate plan to claim this superb, untamed property was simply to roll out the world's best drive.

  He closed his eyes in a pretend moment. He put his right hand high. He rested it against his encasing chest, charged with protecting his fast-fluttering heart.

  Nicolas resumed telecasting from this mountain place and great advertising space. He remembered with pleasure then one remarkable achievement. And what he recalled was qualifying for the Open Championship, only a fortnight back. This story of success repeated in his mind. He was pleased with himself also for making it up here without hiring a piththoo, or porter with a basket, to carry his pack or even himself.

  Nicolas peered out at the flowers and his eyes moistened. The valley looked peaceful, strikingly ablaze with sizzling pinks, stimulating blues, elegant electric greens, plus all-accompanying sunbeam yellows with a smart sporty feel, and gone forever here it seemed were the big city’s basic beiges.

  Whoever drafted this course must have seen the brighter side, he thought. And look, what colors! Nothing I have known can compare with this! He then added a bit from the weatherman in him. And what a day this is too! The sky is nearly without blemish. You don't get many days like this, I should think.

  Nicolas sensed something was missing. The presence of his father, his classmates and teachers, the city he always said he owed his success, were now all on his mind. But then he was taken in wholly by this many-flowered valley, while feeling strangely apart from it too.

  He stood on the 1st tee as any nervy freshman on the first day of school. He felt it would take some time to come to terms with this illustrious new environment, believing any would need an orientation session here, akin to receiving a handheld walkthrough of the area.

  The thought of getting help reassured him. This ignited in him the strong wish to make it back home, preferably in one piece and not too far off into the future, and that his father would no longer be angry with him. This jogged his memory into recalling his spoiled days of childhood.

  Nicolas Kumar, a destiny’s child, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, recalled the seventh-heaven habit of being picked up after by doting as well as adoring servants, as with last summer, when he received a Bullet motorbike to ride round on, but only under a servant's supervision and just in the family yard. Now he thought all summers were blemish-free cards, filled with oceans of love and happiness.

  He stood then in chilly wonder. He enjoyed this reli
ving of the happy days. Nicolas thought of his father at the time of qualifying for the Open Championship.

  2

  'Father, I have qualified for the British Open!'

  Before Nicolas came bursting into the clubhouse with his glad announcement, his father had been debating with friends on who was the best ever to play the game. The names of players past and playing today were mentioned.

  His father had even offered his gentle son.

  And while the discussion participants were accustomed, chained-to scholars of the game that provokes and maddens, immersed in solemn contemplation at one moment, then eagerly arguing a point in another, the question was going mostly unanswered.

  When one brought up the name of a player playing in the present, this was opposed with the argument that this player has enjoyed playing with better equipment than those who had come before. When a player from the distant or not too distant past was suggested, it was argued that this player had enjoyed playing at a time when there was far less competition as the game's popularity was not nearly so great.

  As the debate was heading this way, to a most uncertain conclusion, Nicolas, his admirers pleased with fame and victory and the crowd's loud voice emerging behind him, interrupted his father’s group yet again with his declaration. This stunned the crowd into a formal awkward hush.

  Only when Nicolas insisted on speaking out of place, by repeating his statement yet one more time, did he receive a response from his beloved father.

  His father smiled at first. He put on a fantastic 32-teeth display. He spoke his words clearly, firmly, to his son and for all to hear.

  'Nicolas! It seems your ego is getting the best of you! Go now, and give it to death!'

  Following this, the next several days at home were spent preparing for this departure. Nicolas Kumar, confused and heartbroken, begged his father's forgiveness and for some explanation.

  But none were given. In their place he was told where to begin his journey and which way to go. He was told what conditions he could expect once there, and to gather all the supplies he felt he would need and could reasonably carry on such a high mountain trip. He was also told to do it at once.

  Mournfully, he sat alone in what was now the punishment corner of his room. Sadly, he turned his head towards the wall as to join with an imaginary other. Nicolas remained this way in a type of commiserating huddle. He had the feeling of being fastened to this unhappy other character.

  Nicolas struggled to catch some understanding of his hurts, his feelings of brokenness and resentments, along with his marring bitterness.

  Some time passed before he rose by will. He went to his study table to make out a list of things he wanted to have with him in the mountains. When this list became too long he tore it up and threw it out.

  Again, Nicolas conjured up a catalog of essentials and this list too was made overlong.

  At about this time he pleaded out loud for the kitchen to come serve him. He called for a plate of croissants, along with a masala omelet with juice to be brought to him. Soon after he was enjoying another worthy entrée. He gobbled up precious pancakes, soaked in delectable syrup, along with hot-melted butter that was presented to him in his room.

  That done, Nicolas felt more or less ready to get down to the business of preparing. He directed his mind to a single task without mood swing and soon found a solution there.

  He would begin with a number.

  Nicolas began with the weight he knew he could carry, twenty-two kilograms. He added two kilos to this. As his clubs would be the heaviest items in his pack he went about seeing to them to start.

  Along with his three wedges, two woods and a putter, he logically considered minimizing his tote by taking with him only the odd-numbered irons, though not a 1-iron as he did not carry one. He reasoned that if a shot required an 8-iron, he could either jump on a nine or ease off a seven.

  As for retaining both woods, he hoped to take advantage of the added distance the thin air offered, as there would be no telling how long some holes might be up in the Himalayas. Driver included, he felt quite capable with his woods off the fairway. He felt confident too, given reasonable lies, he could achieve good height on most shots hit with them.

  Nicolas reviewed his club selection once more. He lingered on the idea of flat refusing one of his three recovery-agent wedges. Faced with the decision of leaving behind his pitching wedge, his lob wedge or sand wedge, Nicolas was not as certain as he had been with his standard irons.

  The difference in shot length between his sand wedge and his lob wedge was approximately twenty-two meters; the difference between his pitching wedge and sand wedge was another twenty meters, and not the concern.

  What he wanted from them most were their cutting blades, unique to each, with varied uses and customized for him.

  Finally he decided to retain all three. Nicolas determined he would not want to be faced with a greenside recovery shot when one of the left-behind wedges was clearly required.

  Believing his selection had been sensibly made, Nicolas pulled from his bag the chosen clubs of his regular set. He took them to the rice vendor for weighing at the outdoor market. When asked to weigh the clubs, the rice seller had given him a questioning look.

  'What is the use of these sticks?' asked the mustachioed vendor, placing the clubs on the weighing scale.

  One answer came from the vegetable stall next door that was the market hub.

  'Police truncheons,' said the vegetable seller, handing a bag of onions to a customer.

  'Made special for the Centre,' affirmed the happy customer accepting the goods.

  Nicolas explained the use of the weighed clubs. And while still distraught over his current bleak plight, he marveled too then that even in this mega city, in this modern day and age, there were still those who did not know the enslaving game known as golf, or even himself now, Nicolas Kumar, idol to hundreds of thousands and made famous recently by his name and image being broadcast round the world.

  The scale read four kilograms. And although he had the expectation of a higher number, he was not at all pleased with the amount. Savings in weight, he reasoned, would have to come elsewhere.

  Eventually, Nicolas would carry a modified-down pack (670g) that included other ultra-lightweight camping gear, such as a goose-down sleeping bag (960g), with liner and pad (400g), one silicone-flyweight tent, yellow, with soft pegs and weighing 1.2 kilograms, along with a mini-stove and fuel bottle (350g), a water bottle, full, weighing just under two kilograms, a less-than-a-liter cooking pot (120g), a bowl, a pint-sized cup with a spoon, 5x10 binoculars, a medical kit, a short rope and small knife, a 288 rupee grey umbrella, plus a torchlight and lighter, a fold-up shovel, sunglasses and sun cream, a sun cap to protect him from the burning high-altitude sun, a toothbrush, tooth powder, soap, and one quick-dry towel that would also be on his priorities checklist.

  He would have with him a dozen-and-a-half balls (45g each) arranged in the box as a truncated triangle, 3 4 5 6.

  Nicolas would bring with him cold weather clothing too, like a windcheater and gloves, an extra pair of briefs, dry-fast synthetic socks, black polypropylene tights, shell pants or overtrousers, a long-sleeved T-shirt, beneath a dark-blue pullover, coupled with his red jacket and clutch pack.

  And because he liked them, and since they were already well-broken in, the hiking boots he planned to wear would be the waterproof, Italian-made pair his father had brought back for him from Nepal.

  Nicolas always wore a watch on his wrist when he played, and for this trip too he would have with him round his neck a small compass in the form of a red whistle.

  As for food he would buy most of it in the hilltop village at the start of his trek. Altogether he judged the food to weigh around 4 kilograms. It would consist of muesli, flat round breads, two-minute noodles, freeze-dried veggies, pasta, beans and some rice.

  Powdered milk would also be incorporated. He would have his all-important tea, a mixed bag of nuts, a complim
ent of chocolate bars, all of which were readily available at the hill station's kirana store.