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

by Linda Lambert

  “When will I see you? I’m doing well—the new job is underway.” She avoided saying it was still vague; and she was still just a volunteer. Instead, Justine chose to imagine her handsome Egyptian archaeologist intertwined with her on the couch.

  “Things are moving fast here. Since April I’ve been advising a group of young activists working with Wael Ghonim. He’s with Google, North Africa.”

  “I don’t know Wael. Sounds like a youth movement of some kind. About time. What’s it about?”

  “Wael and his supporters are forming a political party to challenge Mubarak. The Middle East is a seething caldron, Justine.”

  “I know it is, Amir, but good luck with challenging Mubarak!” she exclaimed, kicking off her boots and curling her legs under her. She had just walked in the door from the Hupobi trip. “As long as he controls elections, and follows past practice, he’s apt to jail whatever candidate you choose.” Noting her own cynicism, she asked herself, Who am I to be telling him about Egypt?

  “That’s what I say. Some days I think they’re just Pollyannas, but on others…many youth are with him. Educated young men and women talking constantly through the social media. It could be different this time. I know politics isn’t my field, but everything is political here, even archaeology.”

  “Especially archaeology. I still have frightening images of Omar Mustafa.” Mustafa. The Supreme Director of Antiquities who masterminded the first theft of the Virgin Mary’s diary. “How could I ever forget his arrogant stance, his syrupy grin?”

  “Well, he’s still the Supreme Director of Antiquities, in spite of his involvement in thievery, lying, misusing funds . . . but enough about my charming life. How is my Justine?’

  My Justine. She rolled it over in her mind, caressed it. “Truthfully, not much is taking off with the archaeology office, but I just got back from an unexcavated pueblo with Pablo William from the Bureau of Land Management and a couple of his colleagues. He’s convinced that it’s a site to which the Mesa Verde peoples migrated.”

  “Pablo?” Amir asked, a slight tension creeping into his voice. “Bureau of Land Management? I don’t know of it.”

  “Pablo is an archaeologist,” Justine had started to say ‘older’ or ‘near retirement,’ but decided not to assuage his imagination. “with the Bureau, a government agency charged with protecting public lands. Along with fifty 7th graders from Santa Fe. Great kids.”

  “Mesa Verde, huh? Sounds a little far-fetched. One of the greatest archeological mysteries of all time. Wouldn’t we have heard more about it if there were any substantial evidence? Of why they left, that is.” He softened his voice, dropping instead of lifting it at the end of the sentence.

  “I would imagine so, and there is less contention about the migration than why they left and exactly where they went, but the evidence sounds persuasive.” Justine was immediately aware of his self-editing, catching himself in the midst of a cynical response. But the resonance of that rich, slightly British-accented voice reached her senses and she began to lose her train of thought. A compelling wave of desire flowed through her body. “I’ve missed you, Amir,” she whispered seductively.

  He paused, quietly absorbing the changing moment, as though desire could float through cyberspace. “I’m coming to Taos for Christmas, Darling. Will you be there?” he asked, his thickening Arab accent taking precedence. A British-educated Arab.

  “Of course I’ll be here,” she replied. “I’ve so much to tell you. Amir—you’ll love it here—the high desert reminds me of Egypt. The people are just as warm.” She paused. “Amir, I lie in bed and imagine your touch. Remember Cerveteri?”

  “The day we found the tomb? How could I forget? You wore my good white shirt and tucked in the tail for underwear!” He laughed softly. “I want to see you so badly. Gaze upon you. See your eyes, your smile. I can Skype you next week from Wael’s office. Would Tuesday night work?”

  What a full day, Justine mused, as she lay in bed, hair splayed out across double pillows, legs propped up in front of her. Moonlight beamed through a small opening in the muslin curtains. Hupobi and the kids. That snake scared the hell out of me. Amir. She scrunched down into the sensuous comforter and the honey-colored satin sheets and closed her eyes. Not to sleep, but to review what had brought them here, to this place in their relationship . . . a short journey in cosmic time, a lifetime in experiences.

  She silently voiced her thoughts to Amir as though he were there next to her. When we met on the felucca that first day I arrived in Cairo, I fought against my immediate attraction, considering you rude and arrogant. Then as the intense work on Mary’s diary brought us closer, that view slowly began to change. At first, I think it must have been the respect and affection you showed for your elderly grandfather. Of course, when you rescued me from the kidnappers, you were somewhat more appealing. Eyes still closed, she grinned to herself. In spite of her lust for this delicious man, she was not about to marry an Egyptian. Her mother had nearly guaranteed that decision. After all, even as an Egyptian herself, she knew she could never have a liberated life if she did so. Ironically, her own father, the celebrated Berkeley archaeology professor, turned out to be unable to break with his conservative Nebraskan roots and his need to protect—or control—the women in his life. She shouldn’t have been surprised that they divorced when she went off to graduate school. She’d accepted her mother’s reasoning and remained clear that she would never marry an Egyptian. However, when Amir showed up in Italy she couldn’t resist a torrid affair.

  Yet when Amir returned to Italy after the trial of his grandfather’s murderer in Cairo, he was more distant. They were both cautious, intent not to get too serious again. Tossing and turning as she tried to relax her muscles, sore from climbing the Hupobi mesa. She missed him in a way she didn’t anticipate. The intimacy of a closer friendship, as well as the pleasure of being lovers. Gradually, the tension between them had heightened until last June when they drove to the Amalfi coast. She halted her thoughts momentarily as a wave of desire moved through her. Even though they had re-ignited the passion, they also agreed that marriage wasn’t in the picture. Thankfully, it’s a question I don’t have to resolve because he’ll never ask me.

  Opening her eyes, she stared at the log vigas, barely visible in the dim moonlight, and traced the timbers end to end, wondering where her relationship with Amir stood now. The men in her life demanded so much attention—her father, Amir. Lawrence.

  It would take another Carl Jung to figure it out. She turned and sank into a dream-filled sleep.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE MABEL DODGE LUJAN HOUSE, TAOS, APRIL, 1925

  “Mabel is gone to New York, some sort of surgery,” Lawrence says to the tall stranger helping himself to a cup of coffee in the massive dining room.

  “So Tony told me. I am, of course, disappointed to miss her. You must be D. H. Lawrence. She speaks highly of you.”

  Lawrence is silent for a few moments, keenly observing the stranger’s face, carriage. “You’re the psychiatrist from Switzerland. Student of Freud, I believe.”

  “Jung. Carl Jung. Hardly a student of Freud’s. We were colleagues at one time, but we went our separate ways.”

  “But a psychiatrist still,” Lawrence insists, his fiery turquoise eyes flashing. The two men walk to a long wooden table without ceremony. “Mabel is captured by some of your ideas. Not for me, I say.”

  “Psychiatry isn’t for everyone, but novelists sometimes tell me that archetypes help them understand and develop their characters.”

  “Humph. Archetypes are little boxes. Man alive cannot be diagnosed, analyzed, and explained. He is whole, yet ever-changing.”

  “Ever-changing, yes,” agrees Jung, “but tied to fate. Archetypes arise from the collective unconscious—your ‘instinct,’ if you will. The unconscious accompanies us into life. Unavoidable.”

  “What is fate?! Fate is pre-conceived by psychiatrists like yourself. Philosophers and scientists as well. You
take a little piece of man—the mind, in this case—and think you have him. You don’t have him. You seek to still our souls so you can label us.”

  “Isn’t that what a novelist does? ‘Still our souls.’ Affix us on the page?”

  “A novel is a living instrument. The characters are whole and live out their lives in the context of the novel,” Lawrence insists. “They take on a life of their own and live beyond the man who holds the pen. Man is indescribable except as he comes alive in the novel. If you want to understand the living, read a good novel or play…Homer, Tolstoy, Shakespeare.”

  “And D. H. Lawrence?” Jung’s eyes twinkle. “And Lawrence,” he nods, amused by the perceptiveness of the man. “Modesty is not one of my virtues.” Lawrence observes the morning light enter the eastern casement windows, coming to rest on Jung’s coffee cup. Lace shadows dance on the table. “What are you looking for?” he finally asks. “Why do you come here when Mabel is gone?”

  “I want to understand the Indians. Their ways. Their beliefs. They are the most ancient of peoples and have much to teach us,” Jung continues searching Lawrence’s openly curious face with something like amazement. Here is a man with many answers, yet who seeks to know more.

  “Ah, we find a common interest. The Red Man is a religious man. Not that he can’t be annoying, even savage at times, but when he enters his reverence, he is with nature. He is whole, one with his body. Movement is prayer to the Red Man,” declares Lawrence with the assurance of a man who trusts his own insights.

  “He needs no intermediary.”

  “Quite right. No god or gods to do his bidding. No Jesus to intercede with God for his salvation.”

  Jung nods and stares at his large hands, pondering whether he should share his meeting at the Pueblo. “I met with Mountain Lake yesterday. You know him?”

  “Tony introduced me. A wise man.”

  “Mountain Lake claims that their rituals keep the sun moving in the sky, the seasons coming and going. Our very existence depends on them. What meaningful lives!”

  “San Geronimo Day is in the fall. You can see it all on display. Will you stay?”

  “I cannot. I’m expected in Bern in a couple of weeks.”

  Lawrence prepares to leave, stepping toward Jung and offering his hand. “For a psychiatrist, you’re not such a bad sort.” He grins.

  The towering Jung smiles in return and rises to take Lawrence’s hand, patting the shorter man on the shoulder, then sits back down to finish his breakfast as Lawrence takes his leave. They never meet again.

  CHAPTER 21

  JUSTINE DROPPED OFF A summary of the Hupobi trip she’d volunteered to write at the Bureau of Land Management office. It was the end of the workday and Pablo wasn’t around, so she left it with the receptionist and returned to her car. She suspected that she’d offered to write this report, not only to keep a record of the adventure for herself, but in hopes of breaking the writer’s block keeping her from writing the grant proposal. She also wanted to discover what it was about Hupobi that fascinated her. The hidden secrets just below the surface, yet riddled with clues. A metaphorical terrain for everything that fascinated her: subterranean, subtle, historical. Yes, I must go back.

  She still struggled with how to define community from an archeological point of view—or perhaps her belief that understandings could be greatly enhanced by an interdisciplinary approach and recognizing that community was about reciprocity. A “reciprocity of tenderness,” as Lawrence described? Writing the summary had helped, so she’d decided to write the grant proposal the way she wanted and let the chips fall where they might.

  As she turned left out of the parking lot, Justine noticed a beat-up blue Chevy pickup of early 90’s vintage parked at the curb. The driver quickly made a U-turn and pulled up behind her at the stop sign. The Chevy full of young boys—three in the front, two in the bed of the truck, passing a bottle of beer back and forth through the window—turned right as she did and kept a close distance behind.

  Being followed was not new to Justine, so she became instantly vigilant. What others may attribute to coincidence, she didn’t. Of course, it was possible that she was imagining that they were tailgating, but she didn’t think so. The driver sat tall in his seat, and his deep auburn hair was undeniable. She recognized him from her first day on the pueblo, before she met Taya. Every fiber in her body was on alert and she trusted those experienced nerves. The pickup followed eight or ten feet behind. She speeded up, then slowed down; it was as though the Chevy were connected to her bumper by a tow bar. Fully formed memories of a similar situation vividly appeared: being followed on the desert road between Cairo and Alexandria. She glanced into the rear view mirror and saw five young Hispanic boys laughing with each other.

  Justine pulled into the Casino parking lot as the Chevy sped by, spinning its wheels, throwing up gravel. Taya was standing under the awning.

  “What kind of car does Ricardo have?” Justine asked Taya as she stepped from her own. Her voice was soft and unrevealing.

  “An old Chevy pickup. I just saw him go by! I wonder where he is going so fast? I know it’s not to my house!”

  “Ready to run?” Justine asked, careful not to register her concerns about being followed. She didn’t want to worry Taya with the misadventures of her boyfriend—at least not yet.

  “Sure,” Taya nodded, yet her eyes searched the road ahead. She was distracted.

  Justine pulled her running shoes and a sweatshirt out of the car, and sat down on the bright green concrete ledge around a planted area in front of the Casino. “Ok, what’s going on? Something with Ricardo? School?”

  “I go to school okay—that’s the only time I see Ricardo.”

  “Did you tell him about me?” Justine asked casually.

  “Sure. I told him you were helping me.”

  “And . . . what did he say?”

  Taya looked away, hesitating.

  Justine waited. “I want to hear your voice. Tell me directly.”

  “He said, ‘Fuck. Why would you want help from a rich white lady! She’ll just mess up your mind! Take my word for it.’ He thought he was done, finished. That I would listen to him. Do whatever he said.” Her tone was sarcastic.

  “And you said?”

  “I told him that I liked you. You were my friend and it was none of his business.”

  “I’m proud of you, Taya. You stood up for yourself.” Now she knew why Ricardo and friends were following her. Did he plan to do her harm or just scare her? It was hard to tell.

  “I did, and it felt good, but now he’s mad at me and won’t talk to me. I feel bad again, Miss Justine.”

  “Tell me how you felt when you told him it was ‘none of his business.’”

  “I felt strong. Confident. I could feel all this energy in my arms. But . . . .”

  Justine gently interrupted, “It’s the new you, Taya. The person who is sad because Ricardo is mad at you is the old submissive, obedient you. The invisible one. Does that make sense? Hang onto those feelings of strength.”

  “It does, but it’s hard, Miss Justine.” Taya jumped up and started to run onto the path west of the Casino. “Catch me if you can,” she called over her shoulder.

  “I’m coming,” Justine laughed, running to catch up. The two sped into the early evening, the cooling breeze catching their long hair. A sea of sage dancing in the air.

  Back home with no Chevys in sight, Justine made herself a thick tuna sandwich on whole wheat and poured a glass of ice tea, cut up an apple, even though she’d had a generous lunch with Mike and Sam at Café Pasqual’s in downtown Santa Fe. They had discussed the grant and the community project. Justine introduced the story of the trip to Hupobi Pueblo. That conversation had not gone all that well.

  “Pablo’s a romantic, God bless his soul,” said Mike, expecting support from his boss. “I love the old coot, but there’s no real evidence for these migration myths. Don’t you think so, Sam?”

  “Well,” Sam starte
d. “I just talked to Scott Ortman out at the Santa Fe Institute the other day and he thinks he may be on to something.”

  “Hogwash,” exclaimed Mike. “Let’s order.”

  Justine had a struggle on her hands. So did Pablo. She wondered if she should just forget Hupobi and Mesa Verde and try not to get herself into trouble again. Ah, but that is not my custom. The last low rays of the setting sun were coming through her kitchen window. She chewed her tuna slowly, methodically turning her attention to Ricardo and friends. Were they a gang? Involved in drugs? She got up from the table, locked both doors and called Judy Lynn.

  “Judy Lynn?” Justine asked when a voice came on the phone.

  “Right. Justine? I’ve been thinking about you. I may have a theory about your key. Been out with the horses. Wait. I need to wash this dirt off my hands.” The phone went silent for several moments.

  Justine waited patiently, amused once again by Judy Lynn’s quirkiness.

  “Hi. I’m back. Sorry to keep you waiting. Ah, yes, the key. I’ve been trying to find out if any of the banks were around in the 20’s so that we could find a safe deposit box—although I guess it could be a post office key. No luck finding a bank. Earliest one here was built in the 60’s. But,” she paused, “there’s a rumor about a bank on the plaza in the 20’s.”

  “On the plaza?” Justine managed to slip in. “Do you know where?”

  “I’m working on it. Have you ever heard of the tunnels? Under the plaza?”

  “No. For real?”

  “Well, every man I ask says ‘no,’ and every woman says ‘yes.’”

  Justine laughed. “No way! What’s your theory?”

  “What I heard from the Historical Society is that it ran under the plaza, west under the Alley Cantina, under Don Fernando to the Red Cat Melissiana and Antiques on La Luz, turned right to Antonio’s, which was then a cat house—excuse the pun—and east under Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Whew, quite a mouthful!”