friendship; I, in response, will console them. If I make an error, I will abide by a friendly reprimand, in broad daylight and in front of a community, provided they do not subject me to force. But, under no circumstances, will I accept being criticized or judged without sufficient testimony, behind closed doors. Through my actions, I intend to improve the teaching of the evangelical preachers, as well as not scorn our brethren from the Church of Rome who are heavily burdened.
I want to demonstrate the justice of my principles; it would please me, if in your ignorance it does not seem ridiculous to you, it would please me, then, to be publicly confronted by my adversaries in front of men of all countries and all beliefs.
That’s what I was like — said Thomas Müntzer. The weather had changed so completely that they seemed to be in another day; fog had fallen over the river, although without obscuring the visibility of the banks; it was cold but did not raise goosebumps, Thomas Müntzer studied Saint John of the Cross’s face through the fog, his face moved smiling and uneven in the mist. — “But it is night.” — No, it isn’t night — replied Thomas Müntzer who had never read what Saint John of the Cross had written. — It is only the weather, which has changed unexpectedly: the temperature fell and condensation hovers over the river, rising over the mountaintops. My battle is already lost, I can throw my severed head into the river. — They watched Thomas Müntzer’s head glide in the water; fish described swift circuits around it, the shadow had been completely lost when the sun went away; its motion produced a white foam that, at a certain point, taken by the wind, fell onto the banks of the river, disappearing in the place where it is said what the dark night consists of and how necessary it is to pass through it.
Place 6 —
Müntzer (Thomas), founder of the Anabaptist sect, born in Stolberg, beheaded in Mühlhausen, Thuringia, following the Battle of Frankenhausen (1490-1525), at the age of thirty-five, he took his place in the procession. He had lost sight of Saint John of the Cross, and everyone was speaking softly.
At the door to the house, Ana de Jesus kept her hands on her dress and tried to listen to the rustling of the voices which moved away. Abruptly, the continuation of the river and the boat — the desert, no one knew what it was: desert, that which pertains to the desert, that which has the characteristics of the desert.
Uninhabited, arid place, deserted, abandoned, desolate stopovers; lowlands, inaccessible to the damp winds blowing in from the sea and subjected to a perpetual drought. Resulting in the total absence of trees and other plants and a drift that forms according to the nature of the winds and erosion (rocky dunes and slopes). A climate subject to sudden changes in temperature, absolute solitude, except in the oases and on the fringes of the desert regions.
Place 7 —
Thomas Müntzer stopped below the balcony where Saint John of the Cross was writing, remembering that it was time to leave. Ana de Jesus closed all the doors and windows, except the one where he was, unmoored the boat tied to the tree, ready to drag it by its towline throughout the unknown length of the journey. John of the Cross sketched a gesture of farewell and stood beside Thomas Müntzer. They looked back and also saw him at the window, arranging several precious objects on the table, including the inkwell and Müntzer’s head. Müntzer turned around to say goodbye or retrieve his head. He appeared at the threshold of the door, brought by Ana de Peñalosa.
But John, sleeping or in ecstasy, had fallen onto the table, the threshold of the door had become impassible. He made a movement of farewell and the procession departed, lamenting the one who was absent.
Place 8 —
Always on the verge of writing, Saint John of the Cross walked with them for days and days, without having time to sit down on the ground and write. The place they passed through had been taken by a progressive dryness and the light had acquired the quality of
Bluish light, reminiscence. They hadn’t even opened the sacks of provisions, fearing the path would become immobile or dissipate. Before long there was nothing to see, they followed only the horse in front of them and within him John’s desire
Always on the verge of writing
he was a desert horse,
Pegasus.
Flying over the sand, and the oases, no other living being was there, aside from him; he moved quickly across the vast yellow expanse, he sought its bounds; but his own velocity seemed to create space and he had never put his hooves down where the desert ends. He knew he had hooves, a muzzle, eyes, a tail; but he had also never seen his entire body. In the desert, the rain that fell was immediately absorbed. To survive, he had learned to drink in the air, away from the seeps of water that did not exist and in which he could not see himself.
Nonetheless,
he had often witnessed the violent atmospheric disturbances
storm,
thunderbolt,
roaring,
lightning
always lying down in the same place: close to the dunes, drifts formed according to the nature of erosion and the winds. He was lying on the sand, a persistent order spoke to him about his closed wings:
— Try and keep in mind that even though visions or words brought by the storm may be true, they can, despite everything, deceive.
During the storm, a woman and living being sat down on the sandy ground behind the horse; the whole length of her legs was covered by a long skirt, her bust on a pedestal of black or slate stone. With the first flash of lightning, her skirt opened up into a rose: the petals multiplied, as numerous as the grains of sand in the desert. Man must relinquish power and woman must relinquish man, thought the woman who was cooking on the sand and was a master in the art of thinking; a thought that passed through the head of the horse who impatiently awaited the storm’s manifestations.
The smell of the woman’s cooking began to spread out through the space to the fringes of the desert. Teas, vegetables, grains, charred meats.
As she cooked on the grill, the master in the art of thinking experienced the feeling of being a rose, of continually opening up into petals and perfumes, of being the lady where the monstrous hunger ends, and of the ability to quickly bear children, take them out from under her skirt, only a moment between making love and producing children.
It is a mirage, was the idea that came into the horse’s forehead. But when a thunderclap echoed, as if his hooves were pounding in the distance, the woman continued to disassemble into roses. Made only of petals, her skirt had an impressive color and a desert perfume. The horse, when the lightning bolt that burned the petals struck, called the lady the lady of the roses, the perfume the desert perfume, and the food that the woman prepared everything and nothing.
Giving them these names was a way to traverse the sky.
Wind rose up, which the woman found very aggressive; night was slow to come, the closed darkness she would like to walk in at the horse’s side; she had not anticipated what the desert night would be like, if there would be stars, whispers, perfumes, any brightness. Since the sand wasn’t fragrant, she imagined the perfumes of Pegasus’s body, especially those exuded by his hooves, which surpassed anything she might presume of flowers.
When night fell, the woman walked at the horse’s side, Müntzer and Saint John of the Cross were near but invisible. The woman was sweet but tough.
— Think — Pegasus said to the woman.
