parables and golf in the forest

And then the trees shifted. The mushroom lights dimmed. The windmills of the forest bent like reeds, and out stepped a figure in a robe, humming with the low vibration of a lightsabre.

A Jedi.

Now, to the armoured golfer, this meant little. He was no fan of their stories, no devotee of space operas. But even he could not deny the presence before him. The Jedi spoke in riddles that sounded suspiciously like parables from Olympus. “The ball you seek is not the ball you strike. The course you play is not the course you see. Love, like golf, is never won by force — only by aim, and by patience.” It sounded more like Apollo than Obi-Wan, more like Delphi than Death Star. But the message struck. The golfer realised the armour he wore was Hephaestus-forged pride, heavy and loud, built to withstand but never to connect. The putter in his hand was no weapon, but Hermes’s staff — meant to guide, not to conquer. And so the forest became a temple. The mini golf course is a labyrinth. The woman he admired, not a damsel nor opponent, but Ariadne, holding the thread that could lead him out of himself.

The Jedi raised his sabre, glowing not red nor green, but the silver of moonlight on water. “Play on,” he intoned, “but remember: every hole-in-one is only a beginning.”