He did not stop, nor the horse at his side.
— We passed in front of the house longingly, reading, throughout, by the light of the river, the writing made by the horse’s hooves — Saint John of the Cross’s feet left his sandals, rose up into the air — A woman in a large vestment appeared to us, the sun enveloped her and twelve stars crowned her head. She shouted painfully when a second sign covered the sky: an enormous dragon, red as fire, with ten horns on each of its seven heads, its entirety ornamented with a diadem; its tail lashed the stars and plunged them to earth; we returned to the horse’s back. Thomas Müntzer went on foot and we held his hands as if they were reins. We shuddered at the idea of entering the desert where the river and the forest — …before we came, they were already there. — (Ana de Jesus, in the laundry, ironed, the embers, lucidly, crackled. From time to time she read a few lines of the manuscript left in front of her atop the peaches. She heard them move away without opening the door to the courtyard or running to the window but, in thought, she began to accompany them, to go to their meeting, or even overtake them on the desert path; she folded the clothing, as “with this positive hope that descended on them from above, the nausea of work diminished,” or a mantle of sand, the noise she heard was that of footsteps approaching or moving away, she realized she was ironing with Thomas Müntzer’s head, his eye sockets burning. She read without stopping, confused by the book the earth began to surround her, she breathed in the fire with delight, lions, prayers, and crowds lingered in Thomas Müntzer’s skull, which he kept in his hand and on the ironing board.)
The boat finally moored and, from within, Thomas Müntzer’s body emerged. He went over to Saint John of the Cross, who was a man of moderate stature, face grave, venerable, burnished and attractive. On this bank of the river he was sitting by the water’s edge. A shadow drew the rest of the body he lacked, so they could talk:
— Nothing satisfies me when I am far from your company. — He put his hand in the water, which was then two hands seemingly severed at the wrists; he wanted to meet Thomas Müntzer — all he had to do was turn his head to see him. — Today, nothing satisfies me when I am far from your company. I went out to the island any number of times until I remained in this place. The crowd has moved away and no one will be able to prevent us from writing, we will penetrate further into the depths. — He had a pleasant manner and conversation. That same day he had reentered the community, after escaping from the prisons of Toledo where he had absconded down a rope.
— In this strange privation I have fallen into… — But when he saw Ana de Jesus leave the house through the trees with his skull in her hands and close to her mouth, and approach him, he leaned over in the position of someone reading:
— Those who feel weak should write to me with 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