A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy)

by Linda Lambert

  “Temporarily, we hope. But if you like, I can call the University and get you in. Would Wednesday work? I’m off at 12:30.”

  “Perfect,” she said, amazed that Bill was so helpful when he knew nothing about her. For all he knew, she could have been an ordinary tourist. Not quite, she mused. “I’m working at home on Wednesday. But I don’t want to bother you. I could just drive out there. . . .”

  “No bother. That’s what I do with visitors. How did you get interested in Lawrence?” It was a simple question without any flavor of interrogation.

  “We all have our stories, don’t we? Let’s just say I’m a fan.” She gave him an enigmatic smile, which he readily accepted. She already felt that she didn’t need to explain herself to Bill, which of course would prompt her to do so. Grabbing two containers of Cherry Amaretto Coconut Bliss, Justine accompanied Bill to the front of the store.

  On Wednesday afternoon, Bill set two bottles of pomegranate juice in the passenger side of his old Dodge pick-up and held his own coffee mug. Justine left her Prius on the northern end of Cid’s parking lot. He’d told her to dress warmly, bring a hat, and wear sturdy shoes. She had obeyed. In jeans, black sweatshirt with red lettering announcing her a San Francisco Giants fan, and her caramel-toned ponytail spilling out of her baseball cap, she looked much younger than her years. Bill appeared in his red St. Louis Cardinals tee shirt. They glanced at each other and laughed.

  Driving north, they fell easily into conversation as Justine asked about Bill’s story. She learned that he was from St. Louis and had lived for twenty years in San Francisco after the Peace Corps.

  “So how did you come to live in Taos?”

  “When I was in the Peace Corps in Africa, I ran out of things to read. A friend gave me Lawrence’s Women in Love. It changed my life.” His face was almost beatific.

  “Changed your life?”

  “It brought me out of my depression and taught me to love. In a way, it freed me from myself. The way Lawrence described relationships between men and women. The language he chose. It all touched me in some deep inexplicable way. Even now, I can’t explain it. All I knew was that some day I had to live where he was.”

  “Taos,” she said simply.

  “Taos.”

  Justine was so moved by Bill’s story that for a time she didn’t speak. They rode in silence. Leaving El Prado they traveled west along Highway 128 toward Hondo. “Mine is a love story too,” she began. “A story that began in 1927.”

  Bill shot an unbelieving glance at her. “1927?”

  She tilted her head, watching him closely and explained about her great-grandmother, her relationship with Lawrence. Italy. She paused, unscrewed the cap on the pomegranate juice, and took a drink, letting the pungent taste sit on her tongue for a few moments. “She became his friend during the last three years of his life. And his lover. They saw each other infrequently; his letters tell the story.”

  “Are you sure? I know nothing about this.” Bill’s skin turned a shade of grayish white. His muscles tightened around his eyes and mouth. He was stunned.

  “There are letters. I have them with me. In his last letter to her he speaks of the child, who was my grandmother. She was named Laurence.”

  “We turn here,” he said quietly, as though he was entering a sacred place. Unspoken thoughts appeared to wrinkle his forehead, he pulled onto the road near the Lawrence Ranch and remained quiet as the paved corridor gave way to a rough, gravel road leading straight uphill to a locked fence.

  CHAPTER 11

  JUSTINE SAT ON A BENCH in the Bent Street Plaza awaiting Mike and a surprise guest, someone he wanted her to meet. She stared across the street at the Bent House Museum, the home of Charles Bent, the first governor of the New Mexico territory. History tells that Bent was appointed governor in 1846 and murdered during an insurrection the next year. He was captured, killed, and scalped in front of his wife and children. U.S. troops took vengeance, shelling the Catholic Church at Taos Pueblo and killing more than a hundred Indians who sought sanctuary inside. Justine shivered as she recalled the heartbreaking history of Anglos, Hispanics, and Indians in this troubled time.

  She became aware that Mike was standing near her, although she could only detect his outline framed by sunlight and see that another man had come along. She rose to greet them. “Justine, meet Pablo. He’s with the Bureau of Land Management. An old archaeologist, like me,” said Mike.

  Pablo was at least six foot five. A giant teddy bear. At five eight, Justine came only to his shoulders. A slight breeze ruffled her hair like slender plant tentacles, blowing it into her open mouth; she tucked it behind her ear as they walked toward the tall white coyote cutout lurking under the Bent Street Deli and Café sign. The lascivious canine held a board announcing the day’s lunch specials.

  Inside, orange, yellow, and turquoise chairs hung from towering rafters across from a mammoth blackboard announcing wine and beer specials. A large painting of a stately Holstein cow signaled the homey character of this local gathering hub. The waitress quickly recognized Justine, picked up a third menu, and led them through the café’s glassed-in porch into the patio. “I’ve asked for an outside table,” she said. The three maneuvered among uneven flagstones, finding chairs around a stone table shaded by a green canvas umbrella.

  “I brought Pablo along because he and his kids do a lot of local field work. And he works with Severn in the early summer. You know, the man from Columbia University I told you about. Thought he might be helpful,” said Mike. “This big guy is retiring soon but that won’t mean anything. . . can’t keep him out of the field. Right, Pablo?”

  “Right,” mumbled Pablo, staring at the menu. He grinned slightly, clearly expecting to say little at this gathering. He’d come along for lunch. And to meet Justine.

  Justine observed the new acquaintance and ordered the spinach quiche. Both men asked for burgers and sweet potato fries. “Tell me about some of your projects near Taos,” she asked of Pablo.

  Mike started to answer for him, and Justine gave him a quick glance that arrested him before he began.

  Pablo couldn’t miss the gesture. He looked mildly surprised, as though saying ‘How could she know Mike so well already?’ His beard and graying mop of hair moved softly in the breeze. “Well, over the years I’ve worked with hundreds of middle and high school kids. We look for petroglyphs—the technology for recording and categorizing has become very advanced. They catch on real quick,” he said, his eyes tearing up, “I’m proud of the kids. They inspire me.”

  “Super project!” interjected Mike. “Been out myself a few times. Smart kids….”

  “Next week, I’m meeting a group of fifty seventh graders from Santa Fe at the Hupobi site near Ojo Caliente,” explained Pablo. “You could join us if you want.”

  “I’d love to,” Justine grinned, blinking with pleasure as she realized that Pablo reminded her of Gary Cooper. Style rather than looks. She paused and turned to Mike. “Would that work for our schedule?”

  “I supposed so. . .sure,” said Mike. “We’ll be in Santa Fe at the first of the week, then I’ll be working on a report at home. So sure. Pablo claims it’s bigger than Pueblo Bonito at Chaco, but I have my doubts. Been there a couple of times myself.”

  “He doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s amazing,” said Pablo, his eyes sparkling like a kid with a new bike. “Huge kiva, plaza outline, pottery sherds everywhere, evidence of dry farming. Deep river valley below.”

  “Pablo has outlandish theories. Pure speculation. I say, ‘Show me the evidence. Just show me the evidence,’” said Mike. “My friend here has quite an imagination.”

  “Mike requires a sworn affidavit from God,” teased Pablo. “Too hard to please. No imagination, if you ask me.”

  Justine was having a grand time. Clearly these men had a long and tangled history of mutual respect and affection—taking pleasure in poking fun at each other. “What theories, Pablo?” she urged. “What are your speculations abou
t this Hupobi site?”

  “Whoa…” interrupted Mike. “Wait ‘til you get there and judge for yourself. I think you’ll support my skepticism. No real evidence to support this old coot’s ideas.”

  Pablo nodded and held up both hands, palms out. “Okay, Justine. We’ll wait. Meet me at the Bureau offices at eight on the third. Turn east at Walgreens and go past the Kit Carson Electric offices. Can’t miss it. BLM.”

  Later that evening, Justine arrived at the Taos Community Theater for the viewing of Easy Rider, a 1969 film introduced to her by her father before she was sixteen. She hadn’t understood it then; she couldn’t feel the cultural impact others around her felt. Now, seemingly a lifetime later, she would try again. Easy Rider brought Dennis Hopper, Jack Nicholson and Peter Fonda to Taos in the late 60’s, their characters feverishly moving through disjointed lives on motorcycles, drugs, and frenetic music, seeking undefined freedoms. The counter culture film energized the “hippie” movement in New Mexico by creating an array of communes in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains where dropouts raised goats for milk and cheese and planted alfalfa while temporarily steering the art community into psychedelic media. All of which raised local ire. Hopper purchased Mabel Dodge Luhan’s home, and established what he considered the heart of the movement, drawing visitors from the hills above.

  Justine had been advised that getting a ticket for Easy Rider would be a problem, and yet she had made no effort to secure one ahead of time. Starting a new job, getting settled into an unfamiliar place—and Taya—had kept her incredibly busy. She parked in the lot adjacent to Kit Carson Park and headed for the concrete terrace that ran the length of the theater, surprised to find that the terrace mosaics could have been painted during Hopper’s era. More Hindu than American Indian, with the exception of the Masonic emblem on the far left.

  Justine’s eyes found those of a slender woman with curly black hair and pixie face with freckles. Playful eyes and a classic Romanesque nose in a devilish elf-like face. Italian? Jewish? Russian? Her denim skirt and flowered blouse under a short western vest bespoke the blended Southwest style of Taos that Justine was beginning to admire. Giovanna Paponetti stepped forward and introduced herself, handing Justine a flyer, an announcement for a book talk at the Moby Dickens Bookstore on Saturday for Kateri, Native American Saint: The Life and Miracles of Kateri Tekakwitha.

  “Who’s Saint Kateri?” asked Justine without formalities.

  “Kateri Tekakwitha isn’t really a saint –not yet,” Giovanna answered, “but she has a chance to be the first real Native American saint. She was beatified thirty years ago and is now awaiting the Pope’s approval of a recent miracle in order to be canonized. We are hopeful.”

  “Remarkable,” said Justine, “I had no idea. I’d love to know more about Kateri—I’ll be at the book talk. Now if you will excuse me, I’d better get a ticket before they’re all gone.”

  Giovanna grinned. “Actually, that’s the real reason I was standing here. I have an extra ticket,” she said, digging it out of her purse and handing it to Justine.

  “Thanks,” said Justine, claiming the ticket as she drew a ten-dollar bill from her wallet. She looked up to see a vanishing Giovanna walking rapidly toward the park.

  Justine entered the crowded theater and found a single seat near the center just as Cheyenne, the woman she’d met at Mable Dodge Luhan’s home, climbed the stairs onto the massive stage and stepped to the lectern. Apparently, there was no need to introduce herself; Justine would later learn that Cheyenne served on the community theater program committee.

  “Since the death and burial of Dennis Hopper in Ranchos de Taos in June,” Cheyenne began, “our community has honored our friend and resident ‘bad boy’ who directed and starred in the film, Easy Rider. Like myself, many of you in this audience are old enough to remember the feeling we had when we first saw this provocative movie. Personally, I felt camaraderie and shock; fascination and aversion; a desire to be a part of such a counter-culture rebellion, and yet a real fear of doing so. I was devastated and alarmed by the ending. Many of us felt as though voice was being given to a deep sense of disquiet in the shadow of the Viet Nam war and a decade of tragedy as well as liberation. Tonight we will revisit Dennis and his friends in the most famous film of his career. Thank you for coming and please stay for the conversation at the end of the showing.”

  Lawrence and Hopper, Taos’ bad boys, she thought. At sixteen, Justine had been bored by the film, but now she blinked in anticipation and settled back in her chair. Her dad had tried to explain it to her, but she just couldn’t feel it in her personal ethos. Born in 1980, she’d had her own iconic films—Thelma and Louise, Pulp Fiction, Wag the Dog—and generational struggles. Her paternal grandmother, Grace, spoke of Ozzie and Harriet, Doris Day, and the confinement of the ‘50’s, the liberation of the ‘60’s—then the assassinations of two Kennedys and Martin Luther King shook the world.

  Justine never had a love affair with government, unlike her parents who had come of age in the days of Kennedy and the race to the moon; the Cold War and Iron Curtain held only intellectual, rather than emotional, currency for her. Clinton’s high tech boom and Bush’s wars of choice didn’t quite do it either, although 9/11 did bring her face to face with the failures of 20th century foreign policy. At the University of Chicago, interpreting history through a cultural lens, she began to understand how human behavior was shaped. How culture, environment and genetics conspired to create the humans we study. Whether in Berkeley, Chicago, Egypt, Italy or New Mexico, similar factors were in play.

  Tonight, Easy Rider took on new meaning, ironically becoming a metaphor for the clash of cultures that still existed in Taos, although more peaceably now. Parallel lives. Strangers to each other. Indian and Chicano, Spanish and Anglo, farmer and artist, Taoseño and others, all negotiating their own spaces and roles. Many cultural territories, often overlapping, but infrequently corresponding. If the community ever united, it wouldn’t be an easy ride.

  CHAPTER 12

  “RUN LIKE A WILD MUSTANG,” Justine told Taya. “Be a mustang.” The two women stood on the edge of the raw desert west of the Casino. A tangerine-tinted sky cradled the setting sun, a chill swept the barren soil. “Hey, wait for me,” she called as Taya took off, her black mane streaming away from her shoulders.

  Already in flight, Taya couldn’t hear her. To the north, the sacred Taos Mountain towered above the desert in undulating hues of lavender.

  But Justine soon caught up with the younger woman. They didn’t speak, running side-by-side, Taya’s moccasins a blur. She’s a natural, Justine realized.

  After a couple of miles Taya’s breath became more pronounced; she stopped abruptly, slumping onto the cooling ground. “Look, I can hardly see the pueblo! I can’t believe how far we’ve come!” cried Taya, stretching her slim legs out in front of her. She giggled. “Indians run all the time, but not just for fun! We women dance. Our dancing prepares the earth to receive the seeds. Very important.”

  “I find that fascinating. Women preparing the earth, waking it up to grow.”

  Taya nodded, her chin moving slightly upward. “Why do you run?”

  “Well. . .” Justine began. “Many reasons. Running is like a quest. When the endorphins in my brain are released, I see things more clearly, feel a sense of well being, lightness. I feel good.”

  “But I hurt all over. That’s good?” Taya raised an eyebrow in a disbelieving stare.

  “Ah, good. Yes. The hurt will pass. And the more we run, the more we feel our beautiful selves. Your body will lose its stiffness and you’ll get a sensation of inner strength. Confidence in yourself.”

  “I’d like to feel stronger! But I’m not comfortable talking to people, telling them what I think. What I want.”

  “Do you always feel like that?”

  “At home. At school. When I’m with Ricardo.”

  “Whew. . . .” Justine released her breath slowly. “Lots to talk about. But for now, we’d be
tter run back; it’s almost dark. Can you make it?” She extended a hand to Taya who gratefully grasped it, then took off, a graceful young filly running into the night.

  Justine met Lucinda at Elevation, a popular coffee house in El Prado. She had so many questions, yet didn’t want to shape the conversation; she had learned by trial and error that the natural flow of genuine interaction was the best way to learn what she wanted to know. In fact, humans construct themselves through relationships. When she’d first met Lucinda at Blue Lake celebration, she’d experienced an immediate connection that would eventually transcend mere acquaintance. Today, she hoped to learn more about this Tiwa woman and share herself as well.

  In truth, she also yearned to make sense of her own spirituality, such as it was—or wasn’t. Justine had never been traditionally religious. If anything, her studies in anthropology had led her further away from religion, casting its claims as mythology and metaphor, yet opening the door for spirituality. Woman, you are full of contradictions! She convinced herself that she had no intention of guiding this conversation.

  Like her mother’s family, Justine had been drawn to Epicureanism, but her father was raised in a Midwestern Methodist church, occasionally attending a Unitarian service. Some of her friends and lovers insisted that Epicureanism meant pleasure, indulgence. For her it meant balance, happiness, avoidance of fear of death and whimsical gods. Yet, too, she felt a profound respect for friends in Egypt and Italy who seemed to find wholeness in faith. She was spiritually hungry and wanted to find what Lawrence found here. Admittedly, she hadn’t yet been significantly tested, although life had been challenging in recent years. And she wasn’t sure that her interest in spirituality wasn’t more academic than personal. I do tend to intellectualize.

  Lucinda smiled broadly as she saw Justine in the back of the room. Stopping by the counter to order a cup of Elevation’s tempting brew, she walked to the table, placing her notebook and computer on a chair, gave Justine a hug, then moved across the room with the aplomb of a dancer. Short and stocky, her black hair flowed down her back and moved in rhythm with her stride.