Great gobbling gargoyles, my maladroit misfits! I expect you must be feeling somewhat the worse for wear as we discover you still in the surrounds of a monastery in a remote mountain fastness, a ghastly and tedious place from which it seems impossible to dislodge you, I must say. You were left last time with egg on your face as you completely failed to solve the mystery of the disappearing monks, the ones you thought had fleeced you of your funds and left you to die. Except they hadn't and didn't, as you discovered.
It's all a matter of expectation, isn't it! Perhaps if there had been more pamphlets on the phenomenon of human honesty in the school where you were educated, you may have had that touch of foreknowledge that would have allowed you to anticipate this surprising outcome. After all, we know that pamphlets, in and of themselves, can change human behaviour and, indeed, the course of human history. The sheer weight of numbers of them on topics of import would tell us this. How could we know anything upon any subject at all without a pamphlet from some unspeakable society, devoted to the doing of good, shoved in our letterboxes?
Great gods alive and dead, what am I saying! I can't sit around all day, wittering on about the meaning of pamphlets! I have prognostications to get on with! Vile prognostications! Bitter prognostications! Prognostications pertaining to jaundiced July, which, if I remember correctly, is the month we're currently in! Hmm! I had better get on with the business then, hadn't I! Otherwise it will be awful August and then where will we be? A month behind, I suppose. And perhaps that wouldn't really make a difference. What do you think?
Eek! There I go again, wasting time, asking you questions you're bound to answer if I give you the chance. Egad! That's a risk I'm not prepared to take. Be silent, air sign loonies! I am Asperitus! And this is the oracle of bitter truth about the ghastly month awaiting you. It begins with a New Moon in neurotic Cancer and your solar second house. Control of your finances is now restored, though you continue to contribute to the great cause of silkworm liberation. Each tiny wriggling thing shall have its day, I suppose! But, as jolly Jupiter wrestles in unseemly fashion with Uranus, you find yourself wondering why you live as you do, without trust and without the seemingly normal capacity for believing anything people say, even when you are one of the people saying it. The simple honesty of the monkish folk, coupled with their earnest desire to do good in the world has set you wondering. And, to tell the truth (a novelty in your world), you are still troubled by the visionary figure that urged you to find the mystic rose within.
You somehow feel the two matters may be connected. As they have occurred in the same place and time, that is doubtless so! You feel the urge to consult the abbot on what now seems to be a spiritual matter, one of great philosophical import. After all, that's what abbots are for, is it not! You rise to do so then sit down. You rise to do so then sit down again, unable to make up your mind as to how to unburden your maidenly bosom (so to speak) of these troublesome considerations. All this is in accord with the delicate rhythm of the planets, farting in the cosmic winds. You are distracted, seeming to hear again the ethereal tones of that voice, echoing through the chill monastic corridors. You question the winds themselves on the matter of your gruesome past and it's meaning but hear no answer.
But what's this? Great gods alive and dead, it's a noise you can hear, tiny twits! It's the dreary clank of ancient knees as grim Saturn trumpets his passage (eek) into lackwit Leo and your house of thought and communication. And there's the rub, is it not, my supple addlepates! You're thinking! Yikes and double yikes! You're turning over deep and serious concerns in your mind. No longer the rough and tumble of hysterical mentation that leads only to verbal diarrhoea and brainless babble. You now have thoughts about life and morality and the meaning of human behaviour. The return of the monks has served only to highlight the topics of the inner debate from your days of silence and solitude. A Full Moon comes in the lugubrious sign of the Goat and you see your past laid out behind you, a rocky and twisted trail of greed, deceit and gross moral turpitude. How noxious were you in your other life? And how could such a creature as you were have an inner mystic rose? And yet you felt such a rose blossoming in your heaving breast!
Ye gods, little ning-nongs! Do you know what this means? Grim Saturn in Leo has condemned you to serious thought, contemplating the meanings and the possibilities of things, instead of just doing them and saying whatever comes off the top of your head later on to justify your actions! What will happen now? Well, I'll tell you. Just as mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse motion, one of the monks passes you in a corridor and inquires if you are well. You look confused and then reply, 'I don't know. I'll have to think about it.'
Eek! You panic! What a revolting development! Vamping Venus enters anal Virgo and your solar fourth house and you fly to your solitary cell, uncertain for the first time of what else to do or say as you just keep thinking about the endless possibilities. But, by my little brown bottle, there's even worse yet to come. By all the gods, who can bear the din of it! Marauding Mars, god of war and belligerent psychotics, clatters into your solar twelfth house. Aargh! This is a ghastly place of liars, drug addiction, hidden enemies and general soul-destroying debility! No one in their right mind would wish to go there. And the words 'right mind' are the key to what happens next, my diminutive dullards! For the war god embraces grim Saturn in a disgusting and ill-starred congress.
You lock your cell door. You fear you're threatened by hidden enemies and your worst fears are confirmed. Three phantom shapes manifest in the shadows. Dark cloaks frame dog-heads, each coiffured with a fetching collection of serpents! Three pairs of eyes, dripping with blood, stare at you from the stygian gloom of your lonely cell. This is all a bit grim. Perhaps it's only a bevy of maiden aunts, come to visit you from the other side. Or is it something much much worse! Click here next time and see, my deep-thinking wastrels. In the meantime, hail and farewell!