Throw it into the sea

In one of the villages of Hejaz, between the valleys and mountains, on the morning of a certain day in mid-2003, at its farthest point, Sheikh Saleh stood still for a moment in front of the black iron door of the dilapidated wooden hut's fence. He felt the scratches on the edge of the door, touched the wires surrounding the door, and muttered the protective supplications. The only sound he heard was the creaking of the jaddaaj (wooden shutters) emanating around the hut's wall. At that moment, he wondered, what brought this shaman here to our village! Why do the villagers now go to him for treatment? And praise him as a skilled healer. What did they find in the shaman's hut that they didn't find in legitimate ruqyah (Islamic healing)? And why does he live in a basement under a wooden hut with iron doors? What is the secret between him and my cousin Harith, who closed the apple orchard off from the villagers? And we don't know where he takes all the apples or to whom he sells them! Many matters happen because of this cursed shaman! And I am watching him closely.