Friar Otto realized upon his first hearing Sprenger discourse that the Inquisitor’s battleground was both in the sunshine and in the dark. In the dark where dreaming so often reveals more about the sunlight than reasoning in the sunshine does about the Dark Night of the Soul’s quest. Often, at night, to strengthen his mind and heart before venturing on the ethereal battlefield, Friar Otto reads, once again, the wise words of the Malleus.
“But the natural reason is that she is more carnal than a man, as is clear from her many carnal abominations. And it should be noted that there was a defect in the formation of the first woman, since she was formed from a bent rib, that is, rib of the breast, which is bent as it were in a contrary direction to a man. And since through this defect she is an imperfect animal, she always deceives. For Cato says, “When a woman weeps she weaves snares.”
Often, almost every night, he dreams about Luther’s Black Mass. Through this dream he believes that he knows Luther better than Luther himself! Such is the blessing of mystical insight.
Luther’s Black Mass. Never being other than able to lay himself upon her as he has lain his hands upon the altar. Never, other than being there, is he here, again consecrating. For how had the revelation come to him but in this way? That only upon her was the true Sacrifice of the Mass enacted. That while within her so had he grasped the truth of “the priesthood of all believers.” Verily, while deep within her, did all that she did, all which was called lowly and domestic and housewifely—Just as with the Blessed Mary herself!—so has it been shown to him, this, a third Order of Creation. Inside her is not just his private, not just the appendage of his lower self. No! Never again! For his privy part was his tongue. Tongue of his Christic Body. And as Jesus Himself had suffered in His Body and so rose as the Christ, so does Martin, has Martin, will always Martin so humbly understand that it is in this way that the conversation with the Divine is held. How the Word is truly and fully spoken—Incarnatus est!—while inside her. Locked within the embrace of her legs and privy parts, he is all eyes and arms and breath and desire and will and sense—there dreaming and so One with Her and Him.
Oh! Sighing to himself, Martin slowly reaches out, touching a wayward strand of her hair. Kathernia sleeps. Heavy breathing. Like his prized cow. It is an image which pleasures him, makes him reflexively rub his stomach. For in his dreams he has mounted this cow...mounted and mounted and mounted—again. In his dreams, his rod never weakens, never shrinks and recedes away. Katherina sleeps. He breathes in the goldenness of her fulsome thick braids. His hands playfully wrap the ethereal lines of her body around his wrists: looping and wrapping like a child at aimless play. Stealthily, heat from her buttocks close to his knees blows a warmth backwards so cloaking his southern maleness. Oh! how he longs to wake her. To have her touch him again. Simply look into his eyes, touch his face, desiring to be Moses striking water all day long!
Katherina von Bora, now, Luther, heavy with the presence of him inside her, she goes about the evening’s way...preparing supper, setting the table, setting out candles: ones thick and virginal, for him to read by...setting beside his chair: slippers, a blanket if a chill sets in...a glass of wine she pours, decanting and offering it from within herself. “Martin, I love you,” does not need be spoken.
Martin sips his wine. His mind races, forming new doctrine.
Even in this dream, Friar Otto stoppers his ears, not to drink in the name—Katherina.