The peal of the bells of the monastery was faintly heard in the chapel during the dimming hours of dusk. A lone figure in the attire of the orange robe of the Order of Kikimora was there in the quiet of the hour kneeling in prayer. His head was cowled and his face was turned to the image in stone of the abbey's patroness, the gentle Saint Dziewona, the divinity of joy in the arch of heaven. The monk's lips were open to silent prayer.
"Cover me, O Virgin, with thy veil and protect me from my enemy the Pheromone or Pherien or whatever; its odour drove me to into the arms of sex-crazed women of all sorts. Oh, I was forced to copulate with those maddened maidens in various positions, some beyond those known, and practiced in ecstatic delight. You are the saint of the light of day, the conqueror of shadows, and the banishment of cold and misery. Dear Saint Dziewona, hear my confession, O my guardian and protector." Then excited, whispered words, mixed with prayers, poured in a torrent.
The good monk's words told of his humble birth to righteous parents who blessed him with the name of Yarilo in honour of Prince Yarilo of Pyerum known to be handsome in features and fair in skin. He was born healthy and strong and his growing years were vigourous in spirit. Like his namesake he grew tall, muscular in strength and rugged in body. The monk told without the sin of pride that he was blessed with handsome patrician features; that his bright blue eyes under a canopy of blond hair and his smiling lips were set on a square jaw.
The monk told of how they made their home in the city of Bronx in that benevolent country after boots tramped through their town in the old country. There was no gold in the streets and Yarilo joined with his father in the trade of ironwork. They worked hard in the welding of iron, in the joining of steel into forms and the repair of heavy machinery and other articles crafted in various metals.
They had the gift of their hands and they were busy with demanding orders for their craft. Until that fateful day when that creature Pheromone, known as Pherien or Khorovod in Slavic myth, entered his body, and covered him throughout with latent sensual odour.
The devilish god blessed him with an excess of sensual scent that, upon release in the heat of his body or of the day, would influence the behavior of the opposite sex. In simple terms, when maidens in all shapes and age would inhale with a 'sniff, sniff' in his presence, they would go bonkers in sexual craving. Then Yarilo would have to submit to their desires, or rather, accept the swift plunging of his thick yum yum into their inviting cunnies.
"Wherever he sets his foot,
Wherever he glances,
Wherever his legs are spread,
Women would be intoxicated
And filled with his sweet odour.."
The monk cried out to Saint Dziewona as he told of the fateful day that eventually led him on the path to seek solace in the monastery of Kikimora.
The good friar told of how he had been blessed by that infernal god Pheromone or Pherien whatever. It happened one day in the recent past in some cosmetic laboratory where he had been called to do a bit of spot welding. He wasn't aware that the chemical flask he broke accidentally in the course of his work contained the elixir of that genie. Yarilo was baptized with the liquid of the god throughout and within.
