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

by Linda Lambert

  An ominous sight. Justine was flushed with excitement. Of course she had read about them in textbooks—and their meaning—but never encountered one in the flesh. She stared at the kaleidoscope of faces radiant with delight and mischievousness, knowing she too could be a target for a Trickster prank.

  With graceful stealth the Tricksters sliced through the crowd, teasing, whooping, touching. Improvising at every turn. In the plaza, vendors from the other nineteen Pueblos covered their wares to protect them from the marauding Tricksters, who could steal their turquoise and silver, blankets, and precious artifacts: baskets, arrowheads, belt buckles. But the gods must be satisfied, so the vendors placed distracting tokens—food, water, woven reed bracelets—atop the covers. Merchants believed that gifts to the Tricksters brought blessings to themselves and sustained their own youthful spirits, yet their generosity had limits.

  Two Tricksters approached a circle of small, trembling boys, each picking up a child to throw into the river situated a hundred feet to the south. One boy of about five began to wail in fear, yet behind him stood his proud father, complicit in this rite of passage. One after another, boys were thrown into the frigid water, most wading out to run rapidly back to their mothers—others basking, splashing one another, in the sheer pleasure of getting wet, of paddling about in a river off limits during the rest of the year.

  A rotund, comical Trickster prowled through the crowd, passing near Justine, then rapidly turning to face her. He grinned lasciviously. Heart pounding, she returned his grin with little-girl innocence. He extended his hand and motioned to Justine that he wanted to take her to the Sacred Mountain beyond. Puckering and smacking his lips, he pointed to his cheek, insisting on a kiss. When she coyly resisted, he took firm hold of her hand and pulled her toward him, reaching to take her backpack from her back and flinging it into the river. The crowd gasped as they and Justine followed the arc of the backpack flying through the air. A young Indian girl quickly waded into the river, pulling the backpack out of the cold, rushing river, setting it on the bank. Taya. Relieved to not worry about her belongings, she turned back to her tormentor and reluctantly stepped forward to kiss him. Whooping with delight, the Trickster became a jumping jack. The crowd roared with delight.

  Suddenly, Justine was being pulled north toward the mountain, when another man burst out of the crowd, a stranger significantly larger than the hefty clown. For a moment, she thought he was native, but no, more Mediterranean, his dark, oval face marked with dimples. He stared playfully at the Trickster, wrestling Justine’s hand from his grasp, pulling her away, his eyelids sinking into a sultry stare. But the Trickster was quick and ran after them, grabbing the unclaimed hand. For several moments, Justine felt as though she was being stretched on a rack. Amused, a bit giddy, she turned to the stranger and whispered, “It’s really okay, but thank you.” She knew that to resist the will of this divine creature was a bad omen. The interloper winked, bowing to the omnipotence of the Trickster, released her hand and stood back, a slight grin forming in the corners of his mouth.

  The Trickster now reclaimed her and resumed his march north toward the Sacred Mountain. As soon as they were out of sight of the crowd, he kissed and freed her hand ceremoniously, speaking to her in Tiwa. She nodded graciously and followed some distance behind as he returned to center stage, stomping and pounding his chest in victory. Picking up his abandoned bottle of orange soda, he shook it and sprayed the laughing crowd. Nearby, Taya handed Justine her backpack and said, “You were a good sport, Miss Justine.”

  Some of the marauding Tricksters corralled women of all ages into a circular dance, some leaving the dance to climb the grandstand and furiously tear it apart, handing limbs of gold to nearby Indian women.

  As the afternoon began to fade, several Tricksters gathered at the base of the sixty-foot greased ponderosa pole erected in the plaza just for this celebration. Near the top, gift bags, and a sheep hanging from thin wooden poles. Justine turned into the sun, shading her eyes, just as the first Trickster attempted the climb. He came very near the top, then began to slide, losing his footing. He fell several feet to the ground and lay there winded for several moments before jumping up, opening his bloody palms, and prancing before the crowd to display his trophies of suffering. The next Trickster barely made it to the top, straddled the protruding branches, then used loops of rope to lower the gifts. The successful climb would bring health and prosperity until next year’s events. The pulsing crowd scrambled toward the bundles, a climactic end to the day of celebrations. The crowd dispersed slowly; some aimed toward the vendors or sought out a Navajo taco, its makings piled high on fried bread. Taya was nowhere in sight, so an exhausted Justine walked back to her car, failing to notice a Chevy pickup perched under a nearby tree, the occupants awaiting her return.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE NIGHT FROST BLANKETING Lobo Mountain evaporated under the rays of the morning sun, sparkling like scattered diamonds. Moisture darkened the ends of her hiking boots. Once again, the beauty nearly took her breath away, yet she forced several deep gulps of thin air into her lungs. It was Saturday, September 28, the day after San Geronimo Day, and Justine was returning to the ranch alone. This time in secret; she hadn’t even mentioned it to Bill for she knew that he was such a decent man, he would not approve of her entering the ranch without explicit permission. Yet it was Bill’s comment during their visit about hidden manuscripts or letters that compelled her to return.

  She knew that Nico’s son served as the ranch’s caretaker and resided in the house Frieda’s Italian lover had built for her. Justine parked on the side road leading up to the Hawk Ranch and waited until she saw him drive his battered pickup down off the mountain. Bill had mentioned that the young man went for the mail in San Cristobal each morning. As she began her ascent on foot to the ranch, she found Taya sitting under a sycamore tree just off the road, picking patiently at dandelions. When Justine had unwisely shared her mission with Taya, the young girl had insisted on coming along. Justine had been emphatic, “No, absolutely not.” Getting myself arrested for trespassing would be bad enough—but I could hardly defend getting Taya arrested as well. But here she was, gazing up at her mentor, glowing at the thought of an adventure.

  The two women climbed the last hundred yards to the Lawrence Ranch, a crowbar protruding from Justine’s heavy backpack. Taya carried a satchel with water and lunch snacks strapped to her back. Justine wondered again how the young girl could be so agile in moccasins, then realized how ridiculous the question was. Indians had negotiated difficult terrain in moccasins for thousands of years.

  Justine’s passion, to pry open the cement slab in front of the fireplace, could not be extinguished. Ever since she’d noticed the carved-out slab on her last visit just a few days ago, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. While she didn’t expect to find anything, she had to know for sure. The caretakers seemed disinterested, as they had been when she’d asked if there hadn’t been more possessions left behind in the cabin…books, a typewriter, pictures? It seemed unreasonably bare.

  “Not much of a ranch, Miss Justine. Looks like it’s falling apart,” Taya said as they crawled through the barbed wire. She jumped when a black lab-mix mutt stuck its head through the roof of a dilapidated outhouse and barked ferociously. “That’s weird!” she exclaimed. “Can he get out?”

  “Don’t mind the dog. He’s harmless,” said Justine, touching the girl’s shoulder. “And, you’re right about the ranch, Taya. It’s very old, and falling apart. Lawrence’s cabin is back here,” she pointed, walking west around the house and shed. The mutt watched them go, barking intermittently. “See this little house? It was used by Lawrence’s friend, Lady Brett. And, there’s the main cabin. Our goal for today.”

  Taya stopped to admire the hand-painted buffalo drawn on the south side of the cabin. “Painted by a Tiwa, I bet,” she said. “Why didn’t your great grandfather live in the big house. He was very important, right?”

  “Right you are
about the buffalo. Lawrence had several Indians who worked for him. He considered them friends. But he didn’t live in the big house because it wasn’t there at the time. After he died, his wife Frieda had her new husband, Ravagli, build it for her.” Justine didn’t mention that the two hadn’t married until 1950, twenty years after Lawrence died and only six years before her death. “She moved back from Europe and lived here for the rest of her life.”

  “In this house?”

  “No, they lived here for a few winters, then built another house near town, on the road to the Millicent Rogers museum.”

  “Oh.” That’s all she said. She’d never heard of Millicent Rogers.

  “Millicent was a rich socialite who designed extraordinary jewelry and collected Indian artifacts,” Justine explained. “They’re now housed in her museum north of town.”

  “Does she still live here?”

  “No. She died in 1953 of complications from a childhood illness. Rheumatic fever, I think. You see, she only lived in Taos for six years. Her sons created the museum.”

  Taya nodded, fascinated—and a little confused—by Justine’s interest in all these dead people.

  Justine grinned as she watched Taya’s face contort in puzzlement, turning to lead the way to the northern door of the cabin, one that was rarely used, although it opened into the living room. Digging a small metal file out of her backpack, she proceeded to jimmy open the locked door.

  Taya’s eyes grew into perfect orbs. “Wow! Miss Justine, you could be a safe cracker! Rob a bank!”

  Justine was embarrassed and disconcerted, her cheeks reddening. “I don’t make a habit of this, Taya. I do know this is University property, but in a way it belonged to my great-grandfather,” she said, weakly justifying her actions.

  Taya just grinned.

  “We’re in! Now, let me show you the carved-out piece on the hearth. It is so obvious that I don’t expect to find anything. But yet. . . .” They stepped into the living room, the fireplace directly in front of them. Justine dropped her backpack on the wood plank floor and withdrew the crowbar. “See what I mean: a deliberate cut-out.” She leveled the crowbar into one of the notches and pushed down. Nothing happened. “Ummm, it’s going to be tougher than I thought.” She withdrew the metal tool and re-situated it into one of the other three notches. “Come here, Taya, and sit on this handle.”

  Taya enthusiastically placed her bottom on the crowbar and began to bounce.

  “Careful!” cried Justine. “We don’t want to break it into pieces. Just push down slowly and firmly and I’ll push too.” Justine placed both hands on the end of the crowbar and the two of them brought their full strength to bear on the lever.

  The slab squeaked as though it was suffering from the assault. Slowly, it began to lift on one end. “Now, just sit there, Taya. Don’t move. Keep it suspended.”

  Taya did as she was told, holding her breath and easing her eyebrows into a look of intense concentration. No words passed between them.

  Justine drew a metal trowel out of another backpack compartment and frowned as she found it not up to the job. She reached for a short metal rod in the same compartment and inserted it. Slowly the weighty cover, about three inches thick, began to lift. Leaving the rod wedged between the cover and the hearth, Justine looped a bungee cord over the slab and pulled it away from the opening—then slid it onto the hearth.

  Taya and the rod fell to the floor. Still wordless with excitement, both women crawled on their knees and peered into the opening. “Darn!” said Justine. “Nothing! Only the ground below. There might have been something once, maybe a strongbox of manuscripts, but they’re long gone.” Not yet fully accustomed to the altitude, she sat back against the hearth and breathed deeply.

  “Don’t give up so easily,” urged Taya, dangling her head into the opening, black hair covering her face, falling toward the earth below. One hand carefully patted the underside of the opening on all sides. “I found something!” she cried, withdrawing her hand, and prying it open for Justine to see. A large, furry wolf spider crawled across her hand and leaped from her fingers onto the hearth near Justine, who jumped as though on cue. Taya giggled from sheer pleasure.

  “You devil!” accused Justine.

  Taya resumed her search while Justine watched her with new appreciation. Minutes passed and Justine leaned back against the hearth, her attention wandering to Lawrence’s giant pine outside. How prolific he was, she mused, a sense of wonder and pride moving through her. One of the most productive writers of all times, and all by hand. Then she noticed Taya sitting upright and looking thoroughly smug. One hand was closed.

  “Another spider?”

  “Better than that,” Taya said proudly. “A key!” she said, holding up a small, rusty object that barely resembled a key.

  “A key!!” cried Justine. “How? Where?”

  “On a ledge inside. It’s very rusty. What do you suppose it is for?”

  “I have no idea,” said Justine. Then, hearing sounds of a truck rattle up the drive, both women stiffened. “Well, it’s time to go,” she said calmly. Taya helped slide the cement cover back into place and stuff the tools into the backpack. They made for the door, closing it quietly behind them. “This way,” motioned Justine, “we’ll have to go around.” They ran to the sheep fence on the eastern side of the property, jumped the fence and scurried down the hill toward the gate and parked car.

  “Judy Lynn,” answered the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Judy. Bill Haller suggested that I call you. I asked him to recommend an attorney who might be interested in my dilemma . . . which ties in with the Lawrence Ranch. Actually, my issues concern the estate of D. H. Lawrence,” said Justine.

  “Judy Lynn,” she corrected. “Actually, it would have been Frieda Lawrence’s estate. Go on. I’m listening….” The heavy accent conjured up an image of the blustery Texas governor, Ann Richards, but Justine ignored that impression and explained her interest in D. H. Lawrence, her reasons for coming to Taos. She managed to summarize her position in less than three minutes, accurately anticipating that she would have little air time. She didn’t have to wait for Judy Lynn’s response.

  “Whew! I have so many questions, but can’t talk further now. How about meeting me at Graham’s today, around 12:30? Great Sunday brunch. I often go there after church.”

  Justine entered the rear of Graham’s restaurant through the kitchen, walked past the bar and into the main dining room. A banner on the wall of the connecting hallway announced the “Best of Taos” award for best restaurant three years in a row. She spotted the diminutive redhead popping up from one of the booths.

  “Judy Lynn?” Justine asked, standing by the table and gazing at the woman who had told her to look for red hair.

  “You’re tall!” Judy Lynn exclaimed, her freckles glowing above a little girl grin.

  Justine quickly slid into the seat across from the attorney, eager to reduce her height and get on an even footing. “So I am! Got it from my dad.”

  “Do you like dogs?” Thus began a recitation that went on for several minutes. “I have a dinner today for the SPCA. I’m on the board. Can’t eat much today. How do you get your hair that color?” She paused long enough to take a sip of ice water.

  Is she for real? Justine blinked. “My hair is naturally this color—at least for now,” she grinned. “And, yes, I like dogs—most of them anyway.” She picked up the menu and held it in both hands without opening it. Bill had said she was different, but he didn’t say she talked in non-sequiters.

  “I have four dogs. Unconditional love, I say. And a couple of horses. Do you ride?” Judy’s eyes were globes of innocence, the wonderment of a child.

  “I love to ride. My grandparents in Nebraska kept a horse for me when I was a kid. A beautiful bay.” She returned Judy Lynn’s smile and opened the menu, briefly staring at the list of salads.

  “That’s lovely. We’ll have to ride at my place. Out of town.” She pointed
over her shoulder to the west. “Almost off the grid, near the Earthships, but we like it. Can be a difficult drive in winter—but this is a lovely time of year. No problem now.” Justine listened while Judy Lynn continued without taking breaths, or using punctuation. “I was thinking about your case, or maybe I should say, your interests. Amazing story! Can hardly believe it. What are you really looking for?”

  Justine wasn’t sure which part of Judy Lynn’s oration to respond to first. “I know, amazing. It does seem unbelievable—but I can assure you—it’s true. I don’t really know what I’m looking for. Old manuscripts. Letters to Lawrence from my great-grandmother . . . perhaps whether he ever owned any property in New Mexico.”

  “Only the last thing you listed could come under my areas of expertise. If it concerns his estate or probate. Whether he owned any property here. Where was his will probated? Do you like blue cheese?”

  “His will was probated in England where he was from. Well, sort of. A will was never found. And, yes, I like blue cheese,” she grinned again.

  “Never found? Then as far as New Mexico is concerned, he died intestate—without a will. If he had owned property here, that condition would have to have been registered with the court. Do you think he owned any property here? The ranch was Frieda’s, I understand.”

  “True. Mabel gave the ranch to Frieda. In ’24, I think,” said Justine.

  “Were Frieda and Lawrence married then?”

  “Yes. For several years.”

  “Ummm . . . sounds like community property to me. If they were married, all property in New Mexico is community property. Unless it was a gift.”

  “It was a gift.” Disappointment washed over Justine’s face. “Well, just about. Frieda gave Mabel D. H.’s original manuscript of Sons and Lovers in return.”

  “I see. Perhaps a case could be made. How much was it worth?”