“And there appeared a great wonder in Heaven.” The abbess began in a quiet voice to describe the details of the painting as they grew more distinct. “A woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars.
“The prophet says as he speaks of the Spirit: As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you. Look. Behold the Mother. Ecce femina! Ecce Columba qui tollit peccata mundi. Behold the Third Church. The true Church and in its truth the last. The Church of the Holy Spirit, whose law is love. Which will endure until the end of the world.
“Behold: Magna Mater, Panthea–Triple Goddess. The Regina–Queen, the Genetrix–Parent, the Creatrix–Creatoress, the Victrix–Victoress, Felix–Fortunate One. Divine Maiden, Virgo Caelestis. Behold the mother of nature, the ruler of the elements, astrorum Domina, eternal beginning of all things. The greatest of the goddesses, queen of shadows, master of radiant heights, of the sky, of the life-giving breath of the seas, of the silence of the underground. She, whose one, many-shaped divinity is worshipped by the entire world under manifold names and in different rituals.
“Descendet sicut pluvia in vellus. She will come down like rain on the grass, like the torrential rain that waters the Earth. During her days, justice and great peace will flower while the Moon shines. And she will reign from sea to sea, from the River to the very edges of the Earth. And thus shall it be unto the end of the world, for she is the Spirit.
“Bow down before her. Accept and know her power.”
Samson, scratching the scar on his shaved head, listened to the account, acquainted himself with Reynevan’s anxieties—as usual without commenting, as usual unemotionally and without the slightest sign of impatience. Reynevan had the overwhelming impression, however, that the giant wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the movement of the Builders of the Third Church, or in the cult of the Triple Goddess coming alive again. That he barely attached any importance to the division of history into three epochs. That, all in all, he was quite indifferent as to whether the abbess of the Poor Clares’ convent in White Church believed in and put into practice the theses of the Waldensians and the chiliasts, or if she also leaned towards the doctrines of the Brethren and Sisterhood of the Free Spirit. Samson appeared quite unmoved by the Beghards, Beguines and Guglielmites. While as far as Joachim of Fiore and Meister Eckhart were concerned, Reynevan had the feeling that Samson didn’t give a tinker’s cuss about them.
“I’m going away,” the giant quite unexpectedly announced, having listened politely to Reynevan’s reflections. “You’ll have to cope by yourself. I’m going to Bohemia. To Prague. You were present when I was wounded,” he continued, not waiting for Reynevan to recover from the shock or even utter a word. “You saw what happened when that ball hit my skull. You were a witness; you had the opportunity to see it from close up. I was prepared for something like that. I was told about it and even… Even advised to do it. Axleben in Prague, Rupilius at Trosky. They called it ‘returning through death.’ A means to return to my own universe and to my own… bodily—so to speak—form is to get rid of my present material shell. In short: the simplest way would be to kill this huge body. To destroy it, to permanently interrupt the physiological processes occurring in it. To put an end to its material existence. The spiritual element—my own—would then be liberated and return to its rightful place. That’s what Axleben and Rupilius claimed. What happened on the eighth of May appears to confirm that they were right.
“You can undoubtedly guess where the problem lies. You understand why the method they advise doesn’t especially suit me and why I’d prefer something less drastic. Firstly, I don’t want to have on my conscience the death of the monastery dullard, clothed in whose body I’ve been parading around the world for these three years. Secondly, neither Rupilius nor Axleben was willing to give me cast-iron guarantees that it would succeed. And thirdly and most importantly: I’m in no hurry to return. The main reason for that fact has copper hair and goes by the name of Marketa. And resides in Prague. Which is why I’m returning to Prague, my dear Reinmar.”
“Samson—”
“Not a word, please. I’m going back alone. You stay here. I’d be a poor friend if I tried to drag you away from here, separate you from what this place means to you. It’s your Ogygia, Reinmar, your island of happiness. So stay here and enjoy it as much and for as long as you can. Stay and act wisely. Separate what is subtle from what is gross. Then you will possess the glory of this world and all darkness will flee from you. I tell you this as your friend, the being known to you as Samson Honeypot. You must believe me, since vocatus sum Hermes Trismegistus, habens tres partes philosophiae totius mundi. Listen carefully. The fire wasn’t by any means smothered and extinguished, it only died down, the embers are smouldering. Any day now, the world will burst into flames again. And we will meet again. But until then… Farewell, my friend.”
“Farewell, my friend. Have a safe journey. And give my regards to Prague.”
At the edge of the forest, Samson turned around in the saddle and waved at them. They waved back before he vanished into the trees.
“I’m afraid for him,” whispered Reynevan. “It’s a long way to Bohemia. The times are hard and perilous…”
“He’ll arrive safe and sound.” Jutta clung to his side. “Don’t be afraid. He’ll get home safely without losing his way. Somebody is waiting for him. Somebody’s lantern will shine for him in the gloom, lighting his way. Like Leander, he will safely cross the Hellespont, because Hero and her love wait for him.”
It was the first of August. The Day of Saint Peter in Chains. For the Elder Folk and witches, it was the holiday of Hlafmas. The Harvest Festival.
Reynevan spent a week thinking over the conversation he needed to have with Jutta. He feared such a conversation, feared the consequences. Jutta had often talked with him about the teachings of Huss and Hieronim, about the Four Articles of Prague, and generally about the principles of Hussite reform. And although she could be quite sceptical regarding certain doctrines of Utraquism, never did she—not with a single word, nor even with the slightest allusion or suggestion—manifest what he feared: a proselytiser’s zeal. The monastery in White Church—the conversation with the abbess left him no doubt—was tainted with the errors of Joachim of Fiore, the Builders of the Third Church and the Sisterhood of the Free Spirit. The abbess, the nuns—and probably the converses, too—venerated the Eternal and Triple Great Mother, which linked them with the movement of the followers of Guglielma the Czech as the female incarnation of the Holy Spirit. And of Maifreda of Pirovano, the first Guglielmite popess. On top of that, the nuns clearly practised white magic, thus linking themselves with the cult of Aradia, the Queen of the Witches, called in Italy La Bella Pellegrina. But although Reynevan hovered around Jutta as vigilantly as a crane, seeking a sign or a hint, he never caught anything. Either Jutta was skilfully disguising it, or simply was not a fervent and zealous neophyte of the Joachimite, Guglielmite or Aradic heresies. Reynevan couldn’t rule out either the first or the second possibility. Jutta was both clever enough to be able to disguise it and sensible enough not to throw herself headlong into something. In spite of the feelings they appeared to share, in spite of their frequent, enthusiastic and inspired lovemaking, in spite of the fact that their bodies appeared not to have any secrets from each other, Reynevan understood he still didn’t know everything about Jutta and was a long way from deciphering all her secrets. And if it were true that Jutta hadn’t utterly thrown in her lot with heresy, that she was hesitating, doubting or simply that she had a critical attitude, he oughtn’t to bring up the subject.