No wind.
I felt the hair on my neck rise.
The designation wasn't a model number or a serial code. It was a dare. A legend whispered in the damp, linseed-oil-scented gloom of the North Berwick Golf Club’s caddie shack.
“There are no flags,” I said. “You hear the pin. It’s a shepherd’s bell, hung six feet high. You’ll know it when you ring it.”
Above the bog, the aurora had leaked out, but wrong. Green and violet, yes—but it swirled downward , coiling into a vortex over the pin. The bell rang again. Ding-ding.