The Religiosity of Evil

By James L. Whitmer

The Religiosity of Evil explores man's struggle within himself, balancing good against evil, and arriving at outcomes that oftentimes are difficult to explain. This compilation of short stories from the Wasteland requires the reader to delve into the inner confines of his own soul and weigh his or her own concepts of good and evil in assembling meaning from the actions of the characters. When dealing with religiosity, one must keep in mind that one man's religiosity is another man's evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475984880

James L. Whitmer

MR. WHITMER is a retired special agent of the FBI and practicing criminal defense attorney. He bases his stories on personal experiences from the many criminal investigations he has conducted and clients he has defended, as well as from his understanding of the police subculture and the psychology of evil and criminal behavior.

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Copyright © 2013 by James L. Whitmer.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-8487-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8488-0 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 04/15/2013

Cover design by Carla Scornavacco, C-S designs, Chicago, Illinois

Table of Contents

Introduction: (The Wasteland)

1)   The Religiosity of Evil

2)   The Captain’s Daughter

3)   The Open Sea

4)   The Woman in the Mirror

5)   The Last Florentine Sculptress

6)   Anjana (Epiphany)—The Sequel

7)   The Contessa and the Cabinetmaker

8)   The Criminologist and Mrs. Brice

9)   The Sylvan Huntress

10)   The Psychopath, the Sociopath and the Psychotic

11)   The Execution of Jonathan Smart

12)   Forests of Seduction

13)   The Whore’s Face

14)   The Word Thief

15)   The Woman with the Yellow Scarf

16)   Evil-101

17)   Buried Untreasures

18)   The Cross of St. Andrew

19)   House of Depth

20)   The Verdic Garden

21)   The Definition of Evil

22)   Eve’s Choice

23)   The Dream Stealer

24)   The Rank and Promotion Committee

25)   The Reality Tour

Introduction:

(The Wasteland)

For those who believe in Heaven and Hell, and certainly in God above, the existence of Evil cannot be dismissed as a mere fiction. And for those believers, Evil does exist. It cannot be simply quantified or measured. It simply is or it isn’t. Some will argue that there are degrees of Evil, and certainly in the course I teach entitled The Psychology of Evil and Criminal Behavior, that is exactly what the students are tasked to do, quantify Evil. But as we try to cope with the existence of Evil, we must understand the players involved. When considering Evil, one must first focus on the Trinity of Evil, Lucifer, Satan and the Devil. Lucifer, the fallen angel, is the primary Godhead and Ruler of Hell; Satan is the son of Lucifer and Ruler of the Wasteland, Earth; and the Devil, the most inferior aspect of the Evil Trinity, serves Satan and lures the souls of the unwary from the Wasteland to their ultimate demise. The following stories deal with man’s ultimate conflict between Good and Evil, a conflict that dwells within man’s very soul, the battleground of which is the Wasteland. Some individuals don’t believe in Heaven and Hell. Some don’t believe in Limbo or Purgatory. One man’s religiosity is oftentimes another man’s evil. Some simply have discounted the Wasteland. What do you believe in?

The Religiosity of Evil

By James Whitmer

CHAPTER 1

For the Kingdom of Heaven is as a man traveling into a far country, who called his own servants, and delivered to them his goods. (Matthew: 25.14)

He wasn’t concerned with the psychotics. They were so out-of-touch with reality that he was convinced that they would eventually be found out, apprehended, or that they would simply succumb to their own disjointed machinations and thought processes. Psychotics could be problematic at times, however, and although their actions oftentimes led to unnecessary carnage, mass killing and the like, it was more often than not a one-and-your-done situation with them, suicide typically taking its toll. Leave them to the plethora of psychologists, psychiatrists, social workers and religious zealots that were employed in the field that he had succinctly left years ago. If they dropped the so-called proverbial mental health ball, mixed at times with religiosity, so be it. It would be on them, not him. The province he sought out now was that of the psychopath, and more specifically, its big brother the sociopath. That is where he intended to devote the remainder of his life’s work, characterizing, cataloging, and exposing these miscreants of society. Eradication was simply impossible. He had learned that simple fact from the esteemed criminologist Emile Durkheim who had postulated that crime is inevitable.

And so as he travelled alone into the foreign and distorted realm of the sociopath, having rid himself of all unnecessary earthly possessions, he dwelled not on the evil that existed in the world, but the evil that he was about to eliminate.

CHAPTER 2

But he that had received one went and dig in the earth and hid his lord’s money. (Matthew: 25:18)

His name was Abbot Fitzhugh McGlenn. At the time the investigator had first made his acquaintance, he was the main abbot in the large Catholic Church in lower Manhattan known as St. Stephen’s. How exactly the good abbot had stumbled onto the contact information for the investigator remains simple conjecture, but one would guess it was through the confidentiality of the confessional. That is where secrets were not really secrets at all, but plaintive admissions that were, more or less, dispelled as cheap anecdotes at quaint dinner parties by men of the cloth who simply had had too much to drink. But, nonetheless, on a warm and sunny day in August of last year, contact with the investigator through one of the abbot’s young and innocent emissaries, an altar boy with the face of a saint and the rectitude of a martyr, had resulted in the initial meeting between two unlikely compatriots.

It’s the Cauldron of Ardagh, the abbot had said, handing the investigator a photograph depicting a silver chalice.

It was a two-handled silver cup, gilded and decorated in ornate gold and bronze. As evidenced by the inscription below the image, the investigator noted that lead, pewter and enamel were also necessary constituents of its construction.

Ardagh? asked the investigator.

"It means high field. It’s in Ireland. The name refers to several villages in Ireland, the most prominent of which is Ardagh, in County Limerick where the Ardagh Hoard was found in 1868. A couple of altar boys digging up potatoes in a barren field, the abbot laughed. The chalice that you are looking upon is part of that hoard."

The investigator turned over the photograph and read, National Museum of Ireland.

It’s in the National Museum of Ireland, it appears.

Yes, but only a replica. The chalice is not the issue. It is well accounted for; it is the other items of the Hoard of which I am concerned.

Other items?

Along with the chalice there were discovered several other valuable items. Certainly the metalwork of the chalice is not to be surpassed in craftsmanship, its three hundred and fifty or so separate pieces fitted intricately together. The Christian-Irish metal work of the period was not to be outdone. As you can see on the chalice, the names of the various apostles are inscribed like a litany in a frieze around the bowl, and panels of animals and birds are interlaced with various geometric patterns. The other items of which I spoke are intricately designed, as well, but in their own right, and pale with respect to the chalice.

And what are those other items? asked the investigator, returning the photograph to holy hands.

Along with the chalice there were several plain-stemmed cups, smaller in size, and made of a copper alloy, which date back to the 8th Century. There were also several silver brooches of the thistle type found with the Hoard, four brooches in all, at least that’s what the record indicates, but legend has it that there is a fifth that was stolen, and never recorded. Hence, all are accounted for, save one. That singular brooch is what I am interested in reclaiming, and returning it to its proper place. And that, dear sir, is why you are here.

He certainly wasn’t a museumologist, and he wasn’t an archeologist or an anthropologist either. And he certainly wasn’t a dear sir. What he was, and what he favored himself as, was an independent contractor, a so-called hired gun, whose mission in life was exposing the underbelly of decrepit and corrupt acts, and the dregs of malevolence that dwelled at the well bottom of deceit and human suffering. There he would conduct his business, like a simple cost accountant tallying a spreadsheet, and exacting figures from ledgers of sin, in the cesspool of what he imagined as their present domicile, the wasteland, and from the defilers who dwelled therein. He envisioned himself as the last true sentinel between heaven and hell, keeping guard on the edge of the abyss. And that is exactly how his business card read.

And this brooch, have you any idea where it may be found?

The abbot, with ancient hands, opened a small wooden box, which was devoid of ornamentation. From it he removed a singular folded document, previously sealed with red wax, which now appeared the color of dried blood. He re-broke the seal and opened the document, gently laying it on the table in front of the investigator.

It’s in Latin. I’m afraid my altar boy days have long passed, said the investigator.

Forget your altar boy days, said the abbot. You are a defrocked Christian Brother. Certainly you learned some Latin while in the monastery.

He had never been good at Latin, nor had he been good at vows, and he certainly hadn’t been good at being a Christian Brother. And that, in part, was why he found himself in the inauspicious position of being seated with the good abbot, as if his confession were about to be heard.

Yes, bits and pieces come back to me at times. But, please, Abbot, do tell me what it says. Besides it looks quite old and the expressions may simply not have the same meaning as they do today.

Lifting up the parchment, the abbot read aloud. It was an edict from the then Pope Sergius I. In no uncertain terms it gave unlimited power to the recipient to reacquire the missing thistle brooch by any, and all, means possible.

Including murder? asked the investigator.

It is a special indult. It is a faculty granted by Pope Sergius I to deviate from the common law of the church, said the abbot, the congenial expression gone from his face, a staunch and severe look now emanating from his eyes, in which the word deviate swam in a cool mist.

Including murder? repeated the investigator.

Reaching into the wooden box, the abbot removed a small silver cross, which was suspended from a silver chain.

You will need this, he said, handing the cross to the investigator. It is a pectoral cross worn typically by church canons, bishops and humble abbots like myself. Your adversaries will be wearing the same cross.

Adversaries?

Most assuredly a man and woman, but in form only. Do not be deceived by their appearances.

And the brooch I seek?

Ah, yes. He may be wearing the brooch, as well, but it may also be worn by his paramour, his harlot, or another slattern from hell. Do not be deceived by their appearances, as I said before, or by their albs, their colorful stoles and their black cassocks adorned with the Cross of the Scriptures. Their surplices may be white, but their countenances are as black as the unholy night. They are demons and must be dealt with as demons.

The abbot then handed a hand-drawn depiction of the mysterious, missing brooch to the investigator.

As you can see, it is quite ornate. It is six inches long, and in the shape of a thistle, with a circular loop at the top. It is indicative of Celtic and Insular art of the period in which two layers of gold thread have been laid on top of each other; and it is typically worn by monastic clergy to fasten their holy vestments. How exactly, and on what garments, it is presently being displayed may only lead to conjecture. But be forewarned, it will not be an easy task to secure it. They will guard it to death.

"To death? You mean to their death?"

They are already dead. They are not alive as you or I. The death I speak of is your own.

The investigator was not concerned with easy tasks, nor was he concerned with death. The abbot’s proclamation was an arrow devoid of momentum, a trigger pull from an empty revolver, a rubber ball that didn’t quite bounce right. It really was of no matter to him. As the good abbot placed an envelope full of one thousand dollar bills on the table in front of the investigator, the difficulty of the task before him seemed to become much more pronounced.

Do you have any further questions? asked the abbot.

Just two. Why me? We’ve never met. Maybe I’ll just find the brooch and vanish.

"Not likely. You care nothing of earthly rewards. You are a defrocked and excommunicated Christian Brother. Your adulterous affair resulted in the death of a young girl, in a drunken automobile accident in which you were the driver. You have resolved yourself to the path you now find yourself upon. You are slowly crawling up that steep precipice of the abyss trying with all your might to regain your dignity and self-respect. No, you will not steal the brooch, if you do find it, that is. But you are simply our best opportunity to do so. You are an entity with no personal agenda, a lost soul seeking to rescue other lost souls. You have been to the bottom of the abyss, and you have experienced the wasteland firsthand, and that is where they dwell. You will have something in common. And what, pray, is your second question?"

Where will I find them?

The abbot handed the investigator a business card. On one side was the word Religiosity, on the other side the word Evil.

They are in this city. Seek them out where religiosity melds with evil, said the abbot. The cesspool of inhumanity would be a good place to start.

CHAPTER 3

The lord of that servant shall come in a day when he looketh not for him, and in an hour that he is not aware of. (Matthew: 24:5)

New York City is a big city. Ten million or more people live there. And so when the abbot handed the small card without an address neatly printed upon it, the investigator seemed to become a little more complacent with his newly assigned duties. Where to begin was the problem. Certainly locating various and sundry cesspools of inhumanity in the naked city would not be a problem. But there was more to it than that. Evil, at least on the scale purported by the good abbot, would involve significant monetary considerations, lofty professional positions, and intricately woven political connections. That simple assumption would lead the investigator to that part of the city where those idiosyncratic types congregated and propagated their false propaganda, the upper eastside.

Several hours on the computer searching Internet sights advertising, or associated with, evil and / or religiosity, focused the investigator on exactly what he had been searching for, the trifecta of evil, wealth, power, and invisibility. His target’s name was Dr. Armando Natas Severes, Distinguished Professor of Anthropology, at Brent College, and the course that the investigator had yellowed-out in bright and elaborate lines simply read: The Religiosity of Evil.

CHAPTER 4

And many false prophets shall arise, and shall deceive many. (Mathew 42:11)

The personage that entered the investigator’s dream thoughts was not that of an ordinary college English professor, and wearing dull brown shoes that needed a severe polishing, nor was it a simple lecturer in mathematics whose wavy and flamboyant hair pinioned about his ears, as he covered himself in chalk dust during a lecture on parallelograms, but rather it was the austere presence of a figure, with neither face nor countenance, lurking in the shadows of his classroom behind where the students sat, and whispering his lecture in a monotonic and hypnotic manner.

The investigator sat in front of this mysterious shade, feeling his hot and fetid breathing undulating over his shoulders. It was breath that reeked of manipulation and falsehoods, conjuring up thoughts of absolute submission. The mysterious figure’s words rambled on in a somewhat incoherent fashion, as he railed against the belief in a true god, but at the same time cautioned against the dismissal of factoring religiosity into the equation of human suffering. And it was an equation that emanated from the figure’s swollen innuendos, but not containing x’s and y’s and other sundry variables. It was not written on a blackboard, as Einstein was wont to do when considering relativity, nor was it a three-dimensional view of the universe of particles and masses. There were no slide-rules at work here when calculating evil. But an equation of sorts did float above the investigator. It was spelled out in the frozen and decrepit breath of the assassin of purity that lectured incessantly and methodically behind him. It dripped with icicles of chaos and floated in the tepid and rank air where the hot breath of death and destruction pooled above him in a halo of falsetto images. And as the ramblings of the figure faded into nothingness, the investigator looked around the lecture hall and found himself seated alone, a stagnant and frozen script in a cesspool of inhumane thoughts and silent innuendos of moral destruction circling above him. It was an unsolicited warning: Leave this place.

CHAPTER 5

For we know that the law is spiritual: but I am carnal, sold under sin. (Romans: 8:14)

It wasn’t exactly the same classroom that the investigator had dreamt about. And it surely wasn’t the same mysterious and base entity that hovered in the darkness dispelling virulent oaths. It was a smaller room, fourteen students neatly ensconced in fourteen neat little writing desks, each with a laptop computer within arm’s reach. And she stood in front of them; she, with her sleek laser pointer with its tidy red beam flickering over her power-point demonstration. As the investigator seated himself in the back of the classroom, his movements caught her eye. Stopping in mid-sentence, she turned toward him, and inquired as to the meaning of his presence.

Just auditing the class, the investigator said.

Hm, auditing? And what class may that be? she inquired.

She was tall and slender, and dressed in deep violet. From his days as a Christian Brother he recognized the underlying meaning of her garments: power, spirituality and sublimation. Her dark, onyx hair was pulled back seductively, exposing a face of extraordinary intrigue. It was spectral in a sense, conjuring up visions of space and dimensions untraveled, of mysteries not as yet unveiled, but at the same time there was something curiously missing, something unholy and base, a hidden theme that contrasted with the spirituality of her violetness. Her eyes were spheres of self-confidence floating in a mist of missing information. The investigator was confused, and felt ill at ease, in not being able to recognize subtle clues as to whom she really was.

May I please see your audit slip? she asked, having approached him in a nonchalant, matter-of-fact way.

I seem to have misplaced it, said the investigator, a slight reddish color appearing in his cheeks.

Oh, I’ve embarrassed you, she said, her eyes gleaming, as if that had been her intention in the first place.

And then looking at her watch, she announced to the class that adjournment was in order. And as the students slowly exited the small classroom, she remained in front of the investigator, as if giving him a second chance to amend his lie.

Lying is seldom a profitable occupation, she said. Perhaps you are simply mistaken.

Her blouse, a slightly lighter shade of violet than her skirt and covered with a vest of an even lighter shade, was opened at the top. A silver chain around her neck was visible, but the investigator detected not the presence of a silver cross, though it surely could have been hidden in her ample cleavage below her neckline.

"Auditing, yes. I misspoke. I would really like to audit your class. I’m sorry if I confused you."

And which class is that? she asked, her black high heels tapping out a cadence that somehow made the investigator feel uneasy.

Well, this one, he said, removing the business card that had imprinted thereon the words Religiosity and Evil.

Hmm, where did you get this? she asked, the expression on her face serious, the cadence of her toe tapping more incessant.

I am in the right class, am I not? asked the investigator.

Sir, you are neither in a class, nor are you a student here. I suggest that you reevaluate your position, and leave these premises before I call the authorities, she said, abruptly turning and walking away, and as she did so her velvet vest flailed out like birds’ wings taking flight, propelling a silver cross from underneath her blouse, and revealing the true nature of what she really represented. Tucking it back into the silent repository between her bosoms, the investigator’s voice halted her departure.

I have one too, said the investigator, her back facing him as she stopped, a stale and eerie silence filling the room.

Turning back toward the investigator, she strolled up to him as if on a Sunday walk to choir practice. She seductively toyed with the silver chain with long, slender fingers. And then, holding the pectoral cross, similar to his, between thumb and forefinger, she massaged it, as if she were summoning a genie from a lamp. Her lips, glossed over slightly, but giving a fleshy appearance, began to throb in a feral sort of way.

"Who are you?" she sensually asked, one hand tinkling with her silver chain, the other hand slowly unbuttoning the second button on her blouse.

I am like you. I recognize that the law is spiritual, as you do, by your velvet dress. But I too have been sold into sin. I am a defrocked Christian Brother. Why exactly I was defrocked is irrelevant. But what I seek is the understanding of the religiosity of evil.

She was rubbing up against him. Her blouse was fully opened, and the silver pectoral cross on the silver chain held center stage between her swaying breasts.

You are correct, my esteemed, defrocked Brother. I too have been sold under sin. Now expose your cross, and let them intertwine, as we carnally enjoy each other’s pleasures. For though the law is truly spiritual, as you said, it is of no meaning here, as we both are carnal and sold under sin. That is the way of the wasteland.

CHAPTER 6

"For to be carnally minded is death, but to be spiritually minded is life and peace.

(Romans: 8:6)

Power, spirituality and sublimation, those are the factors that meld religiosity with evil, but you knew that anyway, didn’t you? she asked, playfully unzipping the investigator’s trousers.

Most assuredly a man and woman, but in form only. Do not be deceived by their appearances. The abbot’s words came hauntingly back to him. They embedded themselves in the cortex of his brain where the epicycle of enzymatic and hormonal reactions mixed uncontrollably, giving rise to unremitting urges of lust and depravity.

The urge to enter her was planted deep within him. It was like a seed germinating at the speed of light. It gave no quarter, exhibited no temperance. It simply was, and it was growing more intense as her lips surrounded his, her tongue in his mouth, lapping up the flowing juices of sexual stimulation. She grabbed his pectoral cross with eager hands and wound it around her own. She held the intertwined crosses in midair between them, as he felt the heat from her body and the melding of the crosses assuage his face. Her flesh was upon the investigator’s now naked and hairy chest. But the slamming of the classroom door in the front of the room interrupted her carnal advances, as a flock of students entering for their next class now appeared.

Her eyes danced in fury, as she hurriedly redressed, and forced the investigator’s rumpled shirt back upon him. She righted herself, smoothing back her hair, tucking everything back in place where everything belonged, but still clutching her own pectoral cross.

Please, students, give us a moment, she said in a voice that was as charming as if she were about to dispense good grades to all of them. Please, wait outside in the hall for a few moments.

When they were alone again, she picked up the business card that had fallen to the floor during their abbreviated sexual foray. She displayed it to him, and then tucked it neatly between twin pulsating bosoms of lust.

I know what you seek and I have your answers. I will keep them safe for you here, she said, patting her cleavage ever so gently, her voice raspy and throaty, like a harlot’s in heat. If you are interested in retrieving them, then I will see you tonight. It’s a small dinner party at this address, and there will be some most interesting personalities present, she continued, writing out the information on a small piece of paper she had fished from a desk that stood nearby.

She then handed the small missive to the investigator and turned and walked away.

I will be there promptly, he said, as he looked at the note, his inner urges receding, and a semblance of balance returning to his soul, his breathing slowly normalizing.

She turned to face him, her eyes pinpoints of dead reckoning.

Promptness is to be expected when one is so carnally inclined as you are, she said. "But when it comes to the other side of the coin, and the meaning of that fleeting anomaly, religiosity, that you seek, well, spirituality to some means peace and life. But to me to be carnally minded, as you have just experienced, is not a death at all, but a rebirth of whom you really are."

And then she walked out of the room, joining her students in the hallway, as the investigator left from the opposite direction. He looked again at the small missive, 9:00 p.m. sharp. Your destiny awaits you. It was signed with a cursive L.

CHAPTER 7

And the king said, Thou shall surely die. Samuel (23:16).

Our encounter was quite extraordinary, the investigator said with a quavering voice.

Which one did you meet? responded the abbot, his voice as gentle as that of a cleric on sabbatical.

The woman. She was wearing the same pectoral cross as the one you had given me.

The same? But what of the brooch?

I did not see the brooch.

"It is with them. He must be wearing it then. What are your plans, my son?"

Silence permeated the connection, as if there were no solution to be offered, no plan to be executed.

What will you do next, my son? the abbot pressed on.

The urges were too great. I lost myself in her advances. If irresistible isn’t the word, then no word exists as to my attraction for her, said the investigator, his voice shallow and as desolate as the wasteland.

"Her? Appearances are to be rendered no credence with them. I cautioned you before. Do not be deceived by their outward countenances. They dwell in a world of broken mirrors and distorted imagery. Their thoughts will be upon you, their illusions implanted deep within your soul. You have entered the abyss and have pulled yourself out. You have that much in your favor. That is why I sent you to them."

But why not send a priest, a holy man, to deal with them?

"This is not an exorcism, my son. No evil spirit is being expelled from an innocent victim. There is no possession here. They are the possessors of evil. They and their propaganda of hate and destruction are your enemies. The brooch is the prize you seek, and the restoration of religiosity. Seize it from evil and return it to me. Damned be with the remnants of your battered soul. You were chosen for a two-fold purpose my son, retrieve the brooch and rescue yourself from the clutches of the abyss."

Silence as before stalemated the conversation. It was a different kind of silence, a silence that dwelled within the victim before the blade of the guillotine fell, a silence that grasped and clawed at the throats of the onlookers as the severed head fell from the lunette into the straw basket, the kind of silence that simply preceded a death that was fully ordained and sanctimoniously overdue.

And act at all costs, is that correct, Abbot? Including murder?

You read the special indult. Act as you must. If death is your companion, so be it.

I fear I shall die, said the investigator, as he hung up the receiver with trembling hands.

CHAPTER 8

"And he shall take all his fat from him

and burn it upon the altar." Leviticus (4:19)

The altar was in the back room where the guests were not allowed access. It was a small altar replete with the weaponry of their trade. The black candles were there, representing the earth, the wasteland of lost promises, and signifying the death of the soul. The dark blue candles, signifying darkness made visible, were at the opposite end of the altar. And the violet candles, representing the trifecta of evil, power, perverted spirituality, and sublimation, stood in the center. The candles would be lit in sequence, black to violet to dark blue, as the swollen meat and fat of the investigator were burned as an offering to the deity of hell.

The woman of the cursive L had dressed accordingly. She was draped in an evening gown of midnight black, signifying that she would effectuate the death of the visitor’s soul. Dark, black onyx pearls adorned her neck, which was perfumed with the essence of a myrrh-like fragrance. Her dress was severely low cut, and she had sprinkled delicate, black sequins onto her cleavage. Her dark hair was not pulled back as before though, but it flowed loosely, adorning her supple shoulders that failed to reflect the dim light of the room. The twinkling and desperateness in her eyes signaled that a soul was to be lost tonight, and abandoned to the purveyors of the filth she so desperately was planning to dispense.

Her pectoral cross was not to be seen on this evening. It was neatly secreted in her black purse, and would be reunited with her upon the destruction of the intruder. But around her neck a sheer, dark, velvet scarf was sensually attached to the strap of her dress by the silver brooch that the intruder undoubtedly pursued. It was positioned there in full view, a temptation to be pursued, like a coin to be plucked from a fountain, or an offering to be silently taken from a sacred bowl.

The chaos of disorder was soon to be released, as the others gathered in the room, waiting for the simple knock on the door that would announce that the victim had indeed arrived.

CHAPTER 9

"Now the serpent was more subtle than