The Guardian of the Mystical Rosary

By Adesoji Aderemi

This book tries subtly to drop a hint in the mind of its readers that, despite  'free will', the gods might still be at play in the affairs of humans, using 

their characters to influence them in this world of duality where opposing  poleheads persistently struggle to dominate the environment. While some 

cooperat

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writers Apex
• Release date: Aug 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639501366

Adesoji Aderemi

ADESOJI ADEREMI was born in Gbongan in Osun State of Nigeria. He joined the Nigerian Air Force in 1978 and retired as a Group Captain in 2009. He was a radar and navigational aids engineer and a paratrooper. Group Captain Aderemi holds a Masters degree in Public and International Affairs.

Book preview

CVR.jpg

The Guardian of the Mystical Rosary

The Guardian of the Mystical Rosary.

Copyright © 2022 by Adesoji Aderemi.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher and author, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

This publication contains the opinions and ideas of its author. It is intended to provide helpful and informative material on the subjects addressed in the publication. The author and publisher specifically disclaim all responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

ISBN: 978-1-63950-135-9 [Paperback Edition]

978-1-63950-136-6 [eBook Edition]

Printed and bound in The United States of America.

Gateway Towards Success

8063 MADISON AVE #1252

Indianapolis, IN 46227

[phone]

www.writersapex.com

Disclaimer

This work is fiction. Any similarity of names, character, and locations, even where such places exist or existed before, are just situational and may not describe the actual state of such places. Hence, such similarities are mere coincidences and any inconveniences brought forth as a result are highly regretted. Formulas and prescriptions that might be found herein are fictitious and are not recommended to be tried by any curious person.

Dedication

This work is dedicated to my parents,

late Chief Albert Folorunsho Aderemi Ogungbe

and Mrs. Emilia Wuraola Adewola Ogungbe,

and all the good people who have identified

themselves with the forces that fight evil.

Acknowledgments

A good piece of art work is not always the entire work of only one person. Contributions must have come from several sources, directly, but especially indirectly, in areas that concern the source of inspirations. I should greatly appreciate the encouragements and contributions of the following personalities in the way of constructive criticism and their candid opinions so honestly given:

Engr. Adelani Aderemi, Mrs. Oluseun Dada Aderemi, Air Commodore Ibidapo Shomade (retired), and MS Bolaji.

I should not forget the patience and endurance of my family members, especially my wife, Oluseun, and children, Adesegun and Adebolu, who proved much needed during the period of working on this project.

I should perhaps share a thought, sober, with the departed, master Adeyinka Oluwatobiloba, my second son, who though has gone but is devoted a reserved place in mind and so continues to be with us in the family. His memories have had a way of rubbing off in certain part of the story.

Prologue

Good Material

Adam is rugged, fearless, a hell of a fighter. Karl is craggy, never knew fear, fights like hell. One is good the other is bad . Both are noble and honorable. Each albeit is his own way. Both are qualified good material.

Adam serves nobody. Karl obeys no one, respects nobody. Totally independent, they are on their own.

Irrefutably, nevertheless, in the order of nature, no good material lies follow. Consciously or otherwise, a good material would be used by one or the other of the two seemingly opposing forces in nature.

And passion!? Could humans be enslaved by anything else stronger than passion? Rugged Adam and craggy Karl will not work with talk less for anybody, but both were soon delivered by the captivating hands of their own passions into the itching waiting hands of the respective forces that have chosen at the present period in time, two particular organizations for their ultimate expression.

These two organizations, each powerful in its own fashion, were soon to find themselves in a protracted conflict and battles that centered around the possession of a certain legendary mystical Rosary.

Adam suspects there is more to this façade of holiness in the organization that is trying to enlist his services; and he is set for that reason alone, curiosity, to go along, if only for a while and see the bottom of it.

Once Karl finds himself indebted, he never forgets, for he owes nobody, and when he willingly gives his loyalty and support, he gives nothing but his best. Karl’s best is the best in hell.

The sudden death of Adam ushered in a strange enigmatic man in black, always in mask. And just then, as if to balance the sides in one of nature’s equalization games, came in a certain Fadi Zokalaus, like a perfect replacement for Karl, whose identity for now must be hidden for reasons very soon to be made obvious. This story distinguishes between the maskman and any other masked men or men in mask.

Sooner face-to-face, hands to throats, these two toughies soon find themselves in a fierce struggle for a spoilt millionaire’s leggy daughter, a ransom, who was soon going to become a sacrifice to Bwallangwu, a legendary monster deity, Lucifer’s personal foreman on earth at that particular period.

Several other events, which will bring these two roccos together, will reveal still a lot about their strange fate. And for the mysterious Rosary, it proves soon to be the most comprehensive archive of the expressions of natural laws ever compiled, so compact and yet so complete and all embracing and, most of all, self-protecting.

Here we witness the good and the bad at it again, and this time in a somme nulle, the winner takes it all. The human race might just be saved if the good triumphs; otherwise, it is certain doom for humanity. And for the good to triumph, it must beat the bad to the mythical Rosary and Bwallangwu, the Agbaamole, the monster must be destroyed in the ways of the triple Rs(RRR); otherwise, it would be doom for humanity.

Orisha, the god himself started it, and by God, he must finish it.

1

The Good Material

T ime for prayers! Wake up! Time for God!

Time for prayers! Wake up, son of man! Time for God!

It was 0500 hours on this blessed day of July 7, 1777. Bible in his right hand, silver bell in the left, dressed in his aging white ankle-length caftan, evangelist Raphael Alabo was at it again.

Wake up! Son of man, wake up and pray to your Creator. Pray for forgiveness of your sins. The kingdom of God is at hand!

The young man had been waiting rather impatiently. He had opened his door as soon as he heard the clergy man’s monotone early morning shouts. He had gotten out of the house, crept after him, whip in hand. The clergy man did not know at first what had happened to him. Complicating the issue for him was his long robe, but simple matter, reflex action, he threw away the bell and, with the same move, reached down to pull the robe up to waist level just as he deployed reserved energy into a race that would have been meant for Olympic competition.

Chief Barl Enlaye watched the scene on the street from the window of his towering house with utmost satisfaction borne of intense pleasure and seeming gratitude.

Wonderful! Very good! he exclaimed, followed by a typical kind of indescribable epileptic-like laughter that drained the saline juices out of his tear ducts.

Obviously, Chief Enilaye had not been the only person concerned about the disturbance of his early morning sleep—that sweet half-sleep, half-waking state that has become a special blessing from the gods to the rich elders. There was one young man who had just moved in into a room in one of those apartments called face-me-I-face-you and, at times, face-me-I-slap-you for the fun of it. Karl was particularly irritated. He couldn’t even tell whether it was the activities of the clergy man or the sight of the man himself. Right from his first night in that neighborhood, he had been so disgusted and promised to do something about it. He had gone out in the afternoon of the second day to secure a horse whip. Just when Chief Enlaye was thinking in frustration what to do about the matter, he suddenly saw the young man issuing some well-measured whiplashes on the back of the clergyman. The scene had been very pleasant for him and most satisfying.

Chief Enlaye did not feel like sleeping again. He just paced up and down his long room until the young man returned from his chase. He took a long satisfying look at him and nodded in a whisper, Good material. Smiling briefly, he picked up the bedside phone, dialed, and issued some instructions into the mouth piece. Jobilah! Come and see me immediately!

*****

Millions of people are in this world, each with his own whims and caprices. Addicts and sadists alike, some can bring their dreams and intents to reality by themselves alone to some reasonable extent. Some are not able to as much as lift a finger on their own. This latter kind of people need people and would always need people to help them and, in several cases, to use as tools. These categories might just be the most dangerous. Chief Barl Enlaye needs tools. He has many tools, of course, but in this present moment, he needs a special tool. Ruthless is not enough. The tool must have brains and know how and when to use it—a GISFA. The tool must be a GISFA. GIFA is a well-known acronym in the camp and which obviously a very handful of people possess: Guts, Intelligence, Smart, Fast, and Anticipating. Making it harder to obtain is that such a person must be a man to be trusted. Very odd combination. A last virtue that has complicated all. A very rare gem such a tool must be, a very special tool.

So many had been recommended. So many had been brought forward, tested. So many had failed. Chief Enlaye performs the final test called TOT, the Test of Trust. Up till that particular moment, all but one had been washouts. The last one that just could be managed, for want of any better tool, has just blown it. To begin with, Ojo had been allowed to see a little in the chief’s security arrangement, all which must be kept secret. Afterward, he was sent to deliver a bag containing one million naira to some people in a location described to him. He had proceeded with three men as escorts. Josh Ojo had surprised his escorts, knocked them cold, and had taken off to his village where he buried the money. He was later picked up by some guys in a bar where he was having a beer. He put up a fight but was eventually overpowered. They took him to a place where they tortured him into revealing some facts about Chief Enlaye’s security setup in the organization. He had failed woefully. Only if he had known that everything had been setup, including the money that is fake. He was brought back to the chief, who shot into his mouth with a Dane gun, saying as usual, A mouth full of hot pellets is too busy chewing to tell tales. Quite many had been thus wasted.

This might be the best day in the chief’s life as his chief commander, Jobilah, strongly opined that the special material he had been looking for is sure to be that young man who had just moved into a room among the block of rooms close to the chief’s compound.

"Haah! My chief, ohun ti a nwa lo Sokoto, apo sokoto yin l’o wa,"¹ he had declared enthusiastically in Yoruba witty saying.

Unknown to chief, Jobilah had been watching Karl for quite a long time, even well before now when his boss was seeing the tough young man for the first time. Jobilah had watched with admiration and a tingle of jealousy this young boy, tough, craggy, in the free-for-all fight at the recent Gbomoja² bazaar. Gbomoja bazaar seems, for all intents and purposes, to have been organized for the sake of those kind of people that itch to beat people or to get beaten up. People rarely go there with any serious intention of purchasing anything. Of course, there are as well few items on display, none of which for sure is breakable for obvious reasons. Anything can spark off a fight, and within the twinkle of an eye, the whole bazaar venue has turned into an arena where blows are traded for blows. Apart from that, the local government chairman is always kind to provide a puppy, purportedly to raise money, for laudable development of the local government area. The puppy, of fine breed, goes to the highest bidder. It soon turns out that virtually everybody wants the puppy but rarely does anybody want to part with money. Hence, a stampede is another opportunity to steal the puppy. In most cases, the poor thing gets eventually torn into several pieces, marking the end of it. The police only hang around to amuse themselves. Also present would be managers and handlers that make their annual visits to Gbomoja to fish for talents. A man like Karl couldn’t have failed to be noticed by a man like Jobilah.

Jobilah had been watching and tailing the boy. Shortly before, a man named Obembe was reported to have committed suicide. Jobilah had watched with his binoculars how it actually happened. Mr Obembe had stooped over the Ishasha River to wash his face that fateful morning. A young man had appeared from behind and, in what seems like out of mere but malicious curiosity, had tapped the old man’s balls from behind. Jobilah had watched with unflinching amusement how Obembe had made something like a good forward roll into the river. Curiously, he had also watched the young man left without taking Obembe’s watch nor his fat purse.

Gbomoja and several other events had shown how good a fighter Karl is. And come to think of it, a yet unparalleled boxer if only he could keep to the rules. Jobilah knows exactly how and why he was banned from boxing. Banned for life from the rings. Karl’s fights never ever ended in the rings. He does not recognize towels. He just keeps punching, and he takes the fight all the way as far as the opponent’s home. The meanest of his fight on record was his fight with Lakula, the Boy Thunder. The events that led to Karl’s disqualification were remarkable, of course. He just refused to stop pounding the poor champion even at the sound of the bell signal. Karl still found his way to the hospital where Lakula was admitted to go and issue some more blows, and in the process, manhandling some nurses, ward maids, and one doctor. He got away before the police arrived, only to proceed to his victim’s house to go and dish out to the wife and children their own little fair share. He got off the hook on medical grounds: temporary insanity bordering heavily on paranoia schizophrenia that makes him to run amok with a tendency to continue like a robot whatever he might be engaged in at the very moment. So much for the medicals. Karl, of course, has no money to give anybody. No savings, no steady jobs. He lives off the ground. He lives on the impulse. He takes what he needs wherever he could get it. That is Karl.

I want to know everything about this young tiger! Chief Enlaye had exploded on Jobilah that fateful morning. Karl, or what do you say his name is?

Well, my chief. Jobilah opened his file and commenced. Karl’s presence was first noticed in the free-for-all at Gbomoja. He immediately caught the attention of greedy boxing managers who did not know on time that the boy is never one to make money for anybody. He fights only because he wants to fight, and he does not stop until he is satisfied, referee or no referee. And his fight does not end in the ring, he—

Background! Family, etc.! the chief interjected impatiently.

Hmm, Chief, no traceable background. No family, Chief.

What do you mean!? Did he drop from the sky?

My chief, I have investigated this boy for quite a while now, thoroughly. You know me, Chief. If he had any family, I, Jobilah Okworikwo, would have found out.

I want to test this boy. Make arrangements!

Hmmm, not an easy issue, Chief. This boy is an unusual problem.

Solve it! Or what do we do with problems!? How can anybody even be a problem to you, Jobilah?

My lord, this boy does not submit himself to anybody. Not for money or any other reason whatsoever. Evidenced in his case with the boxing merchants. He is nothing but like an animal, totally uncontrollable. He will not work for anybody. He makes no deals, Chief. He won’t deal. He doesn’t listen, so how do you get to test him?

Chief Enlaye turned red, red hot. And Jobilah, out of experienced, knew what to do. He moved back as his chief exploded like a musket.

Jobilaaah! For Goood’s sake, Jobilaaahhh! Why do I pay you!? Is it for you to c-c-come and be asking me questions which I employed you to provide answers to!? Jobilaaahhh!

Easy, easy, my lord. I, Jobilah can find a solution. Jobilah will surely find a solution. But, Chief, I have to think deeply, reach deep down inside of me to find solution to this uncommon situation.

Then think! What are you waiting for? Think! Think! Start thinking!

Yes, my lord, and Jobilah has started the process of deep meditation, but… Cunning Jobilah. Hmmmn, a trouble-free mind is tantamount to correct productive clear thinking and deep meditation.

What is causing obstructions?

If I can secure my chief’s promise as concerns Agola’s properties, my chief, nothing would constitute a better stimulant to deep concentration and meditation the type that could call to the deep where the solutions to this type of problems reside.

Hmmn. You just solve this problem, and Agola’s properties are yours.

With Agola’s properties assured, Jobilah’s journey to the deep and back to surface didn’t take much time, and he came back with something quite practicable and easily translated into a workable strategy by his now trouble-free mind.

Chief, my lord, Knowledge is power. This young toughie might not deal, but one thing is known for sure about him. He does not forget a favor, however small…and once he becomes loyal, he remains loyal.

You are just preaching. Give him whatever he wants. I will provide.

No, not like that, my lord. Karl’s loyalty is not for sale. We must earn it. The first task is to get him to accept a favor from us. He avoids being indebted, which is surely why he does not accept favors. My chief, I have just conceived a good idea.

Talk, Jobilah.

We are going to do this young man a great favor, a favor he will never forget, then he becomes ours!

Mine!

Oh yes, yes, yours, my chief!

*****

New Weyos is full to the brim. New Weyos is the newly commissioned archers’ club situated along Ife Road in Gbongan. Friar Maria marveled at the ease with which Adam was getting bull’s eyes. Every single shot was bull’s eye. He fixed an arrow, and as he took aim, he asked, Young man, how long have you been shooting?

As long as I could recognize a bow, old man.

You are very good, exceptional.

He pulled, aiming carefully. Just before he released, a man staggered by, oozing alcohol, and sniggered, Hey, Pastor, are you as good a shot with bows as you are with women?

The ex-clergy missed even the board, in what could be recorded as the worst shot of the season. The two then had some more rounds, in silence, before they retired to the bar to have some drinks. They both settled for the local stuff sekete,³ sweet and very dazing if care not taken. Friar Maria was just wondering the best way to broach the conversation when Adam said, somehow curiously, with a smile, Father Maria, you make me curious.

In what ways, my son?

Many ways. Firstly, Maria is a woman’s name. How come you bear…?

Smiling with a sign of relief, the old man replied, Long story, son.

You can summarize, Father.

I don’t know any of my parents, having grown up in an orphanage. My mother was said to have come from Bembe with me as an infant. I think I heard that my father deserted us for a reason nobody could tell. Well, not to be long winding, my mother died when I was two years and some months. The orphanage, not knowing much detail about me except my mother’s name, Maria, put it down as my only name on record. You know, they put a tag, ‘Omo Maria,’ tied to my wrist for recognition. Looking hard into the eyes of the young man, he continued, And I am not ready to change that name for anything in the world, boy.

Well—Adam shrugged—a name is as good as any other if it serves the purpose of identification.

She was the only parent I ever knew…wouldn’t change it for all the gold in this world.

Anyway, holy man, what did you say I can do for you?

Hmmmmn, the clergyman appeared to be weighing his words and making a final assessment of this young man. In retrospection, early that morning Friar Maria had nodded with satisfaction as he watched young Adam walked briskly cross the street, bent down, and set free a fowl that got itself entangled in a rope. He had watched, the previous fortnight, with a mixture of awe and respect, as this boy nearly got himself beaten to pulps fighting for charity. He remembered the scars all over his lithe body were sustained when he plunged himself into a burning fire to rescue a co-tenant’s wife. All efforts to trace his parental background, place and date of birth, have so far proved fruitless. He appeared to have just started, suddenly to exist. Could have dropped down with the rains from only God knows where, Jupiter. But one sure thing, parent or no parents, records or no records, here is a perfect prototype of a philanthropist. The fact that the young man is an exceptional archer, an acrobat with the agility of a cat, fearless, and a hell of a fighter makes the typical combination the clergyman had been looking for. It took him well over 270 days to convince himself beyond reasonable doubt that this is just the boy. There had been no other person like him. He was very pleased. His hunch is positive. Come to think of it, reflecting, the beauty of his neighbor’s wife might have been impetuous, but what about the helpless chicken? And surely this lad does not look like one to first set free a trapped fowl before setting about stealing it. He is just good to humanity and animals. Good to nature. A man of nature. He waited for the cue of traffic to flow past, murmuring to himself, Good material, as he crossed over to meet him. Good intention, he had commented. Noble ideals, young man. I wonder who pays you for all this.

Nobody has to pay.

I am Friar Maria.

Yes, I know you. The one removed from office at Akiriboto.

Yes…hmmn, you are right…with ignominy.

Em, well?

I have a job for you.

Who said I am looking for a job?

As a matter-of-fact, I ought to have demanded of you a favor.

What favor? Eyes glowed bright. It could be true—we are all sadist or addicts in our own individual ways. Adam really couldn’t resist obliging to help.

With a warm fatherly smile, the older man said, Can you come to New Weyos? We might even have a game or two of archery. Then we discuss, huh?

At the archery club, Father Maria actually saw and felt what he had not seen or felt about Adam until he was that close. There was something utterly sincere and relaxed about him, and yet there is that feeling of immense potential power.

What did you say I can do for you, clergy? Adam asked again.

Then Friar Maria spoke in a very solemn voice and the most cautious of manners.

Aaadam, for a quite a long time now we have been searching for a man, brave, courageous and daring enough to agree to help us and…hmmmn….trustworthy enough at the same time to confide in and entrust the mission.

Mission?

Em, task.

Task?

Risky.

What risk?

Telling you this much alone is the beginning of the risk.

What risk? Mission, task, risk. What da hell!?

Relax, son.

I’m relaxed, clergy, but you are the tense one.

Haah, you got me there.

So what is all this mission, task, and risk about?

We cannot afford to make mistakes…nevertheless, the enormous screening we have given you so far is extremely encouraging…enough to convince us to go this far. More and more would be divulged to you in necessary bits as we flow along.

Screening me? What for? What are you talking about?

At least, we can be rest assured that in the worst scenario whatever we tell you, you would never divulge to another soul.

I don’t understand.

Promise, to start with.

Clergyman is what I know of you…is there something else in the dark?

You promise before anything else, son?

And why would you trust me?

So far, son, you are the best we can trust. We are convinced of your integrity.

Okay, clergy, if you already know me, then go ahead and spill. I am no storyteller.

I take that as a promise?

I have given you my word.

The older man bent forward, looking sinuously all about him, and spoke in a low voice. To recover a very important item from the Valley of the Crocodiles.

An item in the Valley—

An artifact.

Valley of—

And to deliver it to a destination to be described later.

What da hell!? So much secrecy…and what…Valley of Crocodiles! Adam just burst out laughing.

No jokes, son.

I am laughing. You are the one cracking the joke, clergy.

It is not a joke, son.

Adam laughed again as he looked the older man over. Then that item must be very, very important. What took it there? A crocodile? He laughed again while the older man managed a chuckle this time around, but didn’t say a word for an answer.

What is this item of, em, artifact? he asked.

The Blessed Rosary, the man replied, looking anxiously in anticipation of the young man’s reaction.

What did you just say? A rosary!?

Yes, my son. The Most Blessed Rosary, the Blessed Most Holy Rosary—that is what it is.

You want me to go down the Valley of Crocs just to pick a rosary!? A mere rosary!

No, no, son, not mere but the Most Blessed—

You don’t give me any of your holy, holy bullshits. I don’t share your fate. I hope you already know that! Otherwise, your research on me is not complete.

No, no, son, take it easy!

We are talking of my life! I don’t even know what to think of you now. More than being a clergy, hmm, clergy…in fact, I said you make me curious.

In what way again, son?

So many ways…queer.

Now you are insulting.

Tell me, reverend, pastor, evangelist, or whatever the holy, holy titles, tell me, were you able to screw the woman? I mean, ball her that day before they caught you? Adam asked, sniggering poignantly as he swung his legs down the stood, getting ready to leave.

But contrary to his expectations, the old man said calmly, undisturbed and genuinely fatherly.

I never knew you could be any vulgar, son. Anyway, I have never cared about what people think or say about that funny matter, and I never would, son…but for you, you are so important. You deserve to know because what you feel about me has become extremely important. So I will tell you exactly what happened.

How you were caught?

No, son, how I was framed.

Some women could be tempting. Lizzy is strangely beautiful.

I have no use for Elizabeth.

So what happened? God’s own truth, Adam demanded as the old man called the bartender for a refill of their mug of sekete.

Mrs. Elizabeth Alomaja Funwontan came to me after the Sunday service July 4, exactly four years ago yesterday. He cleared his throat. She confided in me the problems between her husband and her, and I duly offered advice after we had prayed together. Son, that sort of problems, em…Look, son, I did what I considered the best. I prayed for her.

Hmmmn, the usual.

A week later, the twenty-first, on my birthday, that terrible woman came back to my office smiling heartily to tell me her problem was solved. She said she came to thank me, and I was joyous for her, thanking God. She came forward. And, em, son, God the almighty in heaven knows, it was a fatherly hug. But at that instant, someone threw open the door and shouted that we were…oh Jesus! I have never been so embarrassed in my life!

Adam started laughing, gulping his drink. The sekete has suddenly developed better taste.

You know, young man, we humans are all too prepared to believe and propagate certain types of stories. Certain categories of stories appeal to us naturally. Before you could call JJ, the whole community had heard about it. Worst still, it continuously acquire new dimensions. Every mouth retelling it adds its own according to its mood and imagination, most especially our womenfolks. My dear, what was a simple hug in an unlocked office finally metamorphosed into a rape story. Just tell me, son, could you believe that?

Rape, I know you wouldn’t attempt that in your office, but the rest of the story, I wish I was endowed with the third eye so I could know what to believe. Sorry, old man, just being frank.

Then I must convince you because it’s so important that you have a reasonable measure of confidence in me. Otherwise, how could I ever convince you to undertake our assignment if you doubted me?

Convince me…with what? More laughter.

But if you eventually believe, regardless of what the rest of the world says, would you undertake our assignment?

How? With what? Some holy lawyers…more holy rosaries…c’mon, oldie.

But what if I give you a proof that gets you convinced beyond doubt?

Then I might really give genuine considerations to your mission, if you could just get me convinced. But remember, old man, I am not a toddler, and I am not stupid.

Then come with me, briefly. Taking him by the hand, he led the young man into the conveniences.

About three minutes later, they reemerged at the bar, the clergyman satisfied and smiling sadly, Adam fuming with rage. A long silence ensued with occasional glances thrown in each other’s direction while they quietly sipped their sekete, which taste now in Adam’s mouth he could not define. He just drank.

The clergyman broke the silence. I grew up to know. Nobody could tell me how it came about and the reason why for that matter. I was never to know who did it and the reason why. But the fact remains now that a castrated man has no sexual use for a woman.

But why didn’t you explain this to—

Explanations make sense only to interested ears. My son, what I just showed you has been known to some people in this town, yet some of those people are still among those who prosecuted me. Heeeh, if you want to hang a dog, you first give it a bad name. Who would even listen?

"I still don’t get it, old man. Is it that bad that justice cannot