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

by Linda Lambert

  “So, did you find the bank? The safe? The deposit box that could be opened by the key?” Melissa was on her third glass of wine. She hadn’t heard such a story since her ex-husband gave his reasons for serving ten years in an Arizona prison for armed robbery.

  “Yes. Yes. And no. Under the corner gallery—I think—I took the south fork toward the La Fonda. There’s a lot of junk down there. A gold mine really. Anyway, I eventually ran into the safe. A really big safe, partly buried in mud, with the name splashed across the top: Bank of Jaramillo. But, of course, I couldn’t open it. It was probably under the chocolate store as Maria thought, since I came to a locked door that I think must lead into the La Fonda cellar. There were Greek letters over the door.”

  “Put there by Saki Karavas, the dashing Greek owner no doubt!”

  “No doubt. I couldn’t read them.”

  “So, where do you go from here?”

  “I don’t know. But one thing I do know is that I have to go to work tomorrow and I have to get home. Thanks for your hospitality!” Justine nearly crawled toward the stairs.

  “Anytime, Justine. Anytime!”

  CHAPTER 25

  JUSTINE COULD HARDLY GET OUT of bed the next morning. Her thighs, back and shoulders cried out, whining about the unnatural positions she’d assumed wiggling through the tunnel under Taos plaza. She let herself fall back into the comfort of the cotton womb, rehearsing a few scenarios for her forthcoming conversations: the meeting later this morning in Santa Fe on her draft grant proposal, the discussion later in the day with Scott Ortman about her interest in the population migration of the peoples of Mesa Verde, and—if she could find time—discovering if Maria’s family might be willing to excavate the old safe under her grandfather’s bank. A blur of uncertainty, she mused. It seemed as though she had been swimming through blurs for several years now. Or maybe it was just the uncertainty of the grant and her pursuit of Lawrence.

  She rose progressively, nearly crawling into the bathroom, lifting her legs one at a time into the hot shower, as though they didn’t belong to her at all, but to some feeble, elderly woman in the final throes of life. Justine let the hot water massage her body for a good long time, then made her way back into the bedroom, laid herself flat on the floor and began to stretch. Her body fought back, but gradually relented, reluctantly releasing tightness and pain like a child petulantly releasing sharp scissors. She stared up into her closet, choosing a lavender silk blouse and tan linen slacks—her preferred work uniform for many years. While she’d flirted with high fashion at Ferragamo’s in Florence, she preferred fine fabrics and simpler styles.

  Rather than riding with Mike as usual, Justine drove herself to Santa Fe since she had an appointment at the Santa Fe Institute in the late afternoon. She desperately wanted to know more about Ortman’s theories on migration from Mesa Verde, and the ideas she’d learned about from Pablo on the Hupobi trip—and Lucinda in their private conversations.

  By mid-morning, a more limber Justine pulled into the north parking lot of the Bataan Memorial office building in Santa Fe. A small review team—consisting only of Sam and Mike—planned to give her feedback on her grant application. This was office routine—a review before final signatures. She felt puzzled by her apprehensions about the meeting. More than feeling like hell, aching all over, she knew her heart wasn’t entirely in it. Still she’d added a few conditions to the community investigation that made the project more acceptable to her. Based on earlier discussions, she braced herself for Mike’s objection to including at least one Tewa archaeologist, and preferably a Tewa or Hopi anthropologist as well, to the team mixture.

  “I’m afraid I would have trouble approving this grant application, Justine,” said Mike, his lower lip curled in mild distain. The office suite was an engorged, airless basement, reminding Justine of the old wing of Berkeley High School—yet homey and intimate. Papers and artifacts everywhere; staff stuffed into small cubicles, personal photos and mementoes tacked to bulletin boards. She’d been shown the plans for the new archaeology building on a mesa west of town, but the engineers hadn’t yet solved the water shortage problem.

  “I’ve some issues with the grant as well, but they may be different from Mike’s. I don’t find the objectives crisp enough, clear enough. Too general.” Sam spoke straightforwardly, sounding very rational. His self-confidence and clarity were hard to describe . . . perhaps it was the direct, uncompromising eye contact, the persuasive tone. Still, there was something else, an air of surety without arrogance. His demeanor encouraged Justine to want to meet his high expectations.

  Trying not to appear vapid, Justine hid behind intense note taking. Her head began pounding; she needed air.

  “I see what you mean, Sam. Yes. Too general,” agreed Mike. “One of my major objections is the team composition. Indians often confuse stories with evidence. Not a good mix.” Mike was convinced that he wasn’t biased—after all he was part Indian—and as a scientist, he considered himself practical, pragmatic.

  Justine asked herself again, What experiences caused him to keep Indians at arms’ length—at least professionally? Why does he feel threatened?

  Sam stared at Mike, who was quiet, as though he were balancing several scenarios at once. “You have to let go of that bias, Mike. It’s time. The profession has moved on and you need to move with it. The team composition stays in, Justine. Now let’s talk about specificity.” His voice was flat, leaving little room for argument.

  Mike rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. Sam ignored him. Mike may have felt angry, insulted, but, he’d known this day would come. He and the local natives still bristled about the illegal dig he’d undertaken on Tiwa land in ’82. Little did he realize at the time that he’d been on sacred land—but the taking of the pot, now that was questionable. Memories can stretch a lifetime—several lifetimes. He’d never be comfortable teaming with the locals. For now, he’d just need to let it go and allow these two to learn from experience. Fall into their own traps. He smiled to himself, as though temporarily satisfied with his plan.

  Relieved at not having to argue her case, Justine observed Mike’s self-satisfied grin with amusement, inferring accurately that he would bide his time, wait for her to shoot herself in the foot. She only hoped she wouldn’t have to struggle through their differences at every turn. Her eyes fixed on a Navajo weaving on the windowless wall behind Sam until the fibers began to blur.

  Sam was talking. “Justine, you’ve included several lines of evidence that have merit: community plaza design, resources, kiva placement, even gender roles.” At the mention of gender roles, Mike rolled his eyes again. “. . . cultural artifacts, population movement . . . but you need to tighten those descriptions, as well as the definition of community. Give a few examples. I’d like to ask Jeff Boyer to join the team. He is well steeped in community research and native culture. Been here all of his life. What do you think, Justine?”

  “Very doable, and Jeff would be a welcome addition. I can have a revision to you by Monday, still in plenty of time for the November deadline. Thanks for your careful reading and feedback.” Her headache was easing. Perhaps the Tylenol has kicked in or the stress of this morning was passing. At any rate, this damn meeting is almost over and I can quietly creep back to my desk and meditate for a while.

  “Done,” said Sam. “Mike, are you on board?”

  “Sure,” he said, pressing both palms on the dusty table. “We’ll be set to go by the first of the week. Want to do a little work now, Justine?”

  Oh, god, must I?

  The work session with Mike seemed interminable. He pontificated, while she wrote; some of his ideas she would use in the proposal, others she wouldn’t. Finally, around 1:00, Mike took out his tuna sandwich and homemade chocolate chip cookies.

  Justine excused herself to walk down to Starbucks on San Francisco Street. Stepping out of the airless offices of the massive adobe building, she felt a rush of welcome fresh air enter her nostrils. A garden area of
succulents flourished in the gravel along the sideway. Justine turned north along Galisteo, across from the Old Santa Fe Inn that claimed “hospitality from a simpler time.” Dodging the rotating sprinklers spraying the lush lawn in front of the building, she stopped to consider the giant, circular New Mexico Veterans Memorial erected in 1912 and dedicated to U.S. soldiers in the armed services. Above the Memorial flew three flags: the U.S., New Mexico State Flag, and flag of the territory. On her right, the Inn offered a simpler life; on her left, recognition of one of the most complex and tragic periods of history. Paradoxical, she mused, like so much of life. Nowhere else is American history more penetrating, more revealing of human struggles.

  Continuing north, Justine crossed De Vargas, the Santa Fe River, and the Alameda. She knew she could have done better on the grant, and she didn’t like falling below her own expectations, or Sam’s. She lingered briefly in front of Seret’s—the phenomenal assortment of ancient doors, windows, and gates—and Maya’s, one of her favorite clothing stores. An azure silk jacket caught her eye, but not enough to relieve her self-accusations.

  The line was inordinately long as she waited patiently to order a tall latte and yogurt parfait, admiring the original brick wall and mahogany benches and wainscoting. Once outside, she claimed a table, feeling a rush of unexpected pleasure at the adobe skyline and church bell tower, Santa Fe’s evident respect for history preserved in architecture. Santa Fe, Ogha Po’oge in Tewa, “Holy Faith” in Spanish, was established as Ogapoge by the Pueblo Indians around 900 C.E., the Spanish claiming ownership seven hundred years later.

  Justine spread the New York Times across her sidewalk table, glancing at the headlines: “In Appeal to Hispanics, Obama Promises to Push Immigration Reform.” She hoped so, the article reminding her of the tunnel and the Jaramillo Bank. She picked up her phone and dialed Maria.

  The phone rang slowly, eight times. Justine shuddered at the thought of the new Arizona laws seemingly designed to punish Hispanics, regardless of whether they were illegal or not . . . and the forthcoming New Mexico election. She had just registered to vote in New Mexico. Susana Martinez. She wondered if a Republican woman, funded by Tea Party Texans, could be elected Governor. “Maria, hi. It’s Justine.”

  “Oh, hello Justine. Lovely to hear from you.”

  Justine barged ahead, “I got into the tunnel last night and found the bank, at least the safe. It was right where you said it would be: under the chocolate store next to the La Fonda.”

  “That’s exciting! I want to see it. Are you going back in?” Maria replied. Her voice held a child-like exhilaration.

  “Well, that might depend on you. Does your family still own the property?”

  “No. No, we sold it to the hotel a generation ago so you will need to talk with Kosta, the owner. He’s an adventurous soul, but I don’t think you can entice him to blow open the safe.”

  “Thanks for the advice. I’ll go see him soon. May I use you as a reference?”

  “Of course. Justine, I read your article in Archaeology on-line last night. I had trouble dealing with it. I’ve always felt a special connection to the Virgin Mary. When you wrote that she wasn’t a virgin, about her intimacy with Joseph, well . . . .” Her voice cracked.

  Justine could hear Maria whimpering softly and she was at a loss for words. What a day, is all she could think. “Maria, you know this article wasn’t based on personal opinion, but on the translation of the diary I found in Cairo. Several experts deciphered the meaning.” Her voice was gentle, soothing. Three young women in western dress sat down at the table next to her, talking loudly about a forthcoming divorce.

  “I know, Justine, I know. It’s just that . . . .” Maria’s voice was drowned out by the laughter at the next table.

  “Just like a man,” said the young woman with turquoise hanging in triplicate from her ears, multiple necklaces around her neck, bracelets on her wrists, and one around her bare ankle. Justine rose from the table and walked several feet away where tourists quickly surrounded her, chattering on about the many-colored leather purses arranged on a sidewalk table.

  “It’s too loud here, Maria. Not a good place to talk. Meet me for coffee tomorrow morning at the Wired Café?” Justine felt herself pleading. “Please.”

  “I’ll be there by 9:00.” She hung up.

  By the time Justine pulled into the Santa Fe Institute’s parking lot in the foothills above town, her expectations were minimal, mood dark. Physically, she still felt like hell and had fallen short of Sam’s expectations for her work. Then Maria. She wasn’t sure what to expect from Scott, but decided that she preferred to be surprised than disappointed. Her dusty car was not out of place in this warren of vehicles owned by eccentric scientists.

  Justine walked to the front desk and announced that she had an appointment with archaeologist and Omidyar Fellow, Scott Ortman. She recycled the compelling words from Pablo about Mesa Verde migration through her mind. Excitement rose in her chest as she anticipated this encounter.

  Light from towering windows and skylights washed over intimate spaces, creating pools of openness and warmth. Just outside, patios were surrounded by mesquite pine. I could be creative here, she mused; her eyes swept the connecting spaces and clusters of cozy corners, rich carpeting, and sunken rooms.

  Scott stood in front of her. Tall, lanky, young. Sandy hair, large eyes framed by rimless glasses. Handsome in a rugged, little boy way—not unlike his photo on the web. He led her through a maze of cubicles into the workroom, where they grabbed a cup of tea, continuing into one of the meeting spaces with a small round table.

  “I’ve read about some of your adventures in Egypt and Italy, Justine. Quite a ride!” Scott leaned back, relaxed, crossing his ankle across his faded jeans.

  She pushed her chair back and crossed her legs, laughing at his directness. “So it has been! And, from what I understand from Pablo, your research into the migration of Mesa Verde peoples into the Tewa Basin is no less startling. I must admit, I was stunned.”

  Scott grinned in return. “You’re not the only one. If the evidence for the migration of Mesa Verde people into the Rio Grande were considered conclusive, there wouldn’t be so much disagreement. Tensions run high around this thesis.”

  “I’m sure! I’m told your evidence includes genetic, linguistic and cultural background about the Tewa and you’ve concluded that these peoples—at least their identity and practices—originated with a large scale population movement from the Four Corners area.”

  “I’d say that’s a good summary.”

  “Yet I’m puzzled by the absence of baggage. Archaeologists with whom I’ve talked—except Pablo, of course—are adamant that there would be signs of the Four Corners culture: similar kiva construction, pottery, village layout, transport. But there really isn’t, is there?” Her question floated in the air.

  “This conversation is going to take awhile,” said Scott. “Are you in a hurry?”

  “Not at all,” she said, grateful for the time.

  “There was substantial migration from the Mesa Verde region to the Tewa Basin, the northern Rio Grande, primarily during the 13th century. Of that I’m sure and most would agree.”

  “My Tiwa friend, Lucinda, said as much. She called it the Great Migration.”

  “I’m gratified to hear that. My Tewa friends say the same. The evidence is clear: biological, archeological, linguistic, oral traditions . . . they all point to that conclusion. But, as you suggest, the fundamental mystery lies in the lack of clear evidence that migrants brought their own culture with them—‘baggage,’ if you will. And, if not, why not? Except for some of the sherds at Hupobi, there are no signs of new methods of building homes or kivas; pottery, wells, even the layout of the pueblos are distinctly indigenous. I imagine it had something to do with the quickness with which they left.”

  “Exactly. Why not?” Justine repeated, raising an eyebrow, her body relaxing as the warm tea seeped into her tired limbs.

  “Th
e mystery lead me to religious revolt, charismatic leaders and emergence stories.” He paused, slowly sipping his tea, observing her face as she registered his comment, more puzzled than ever.

  Justine listened. Most of the staff had gone for the day, only two individuals focused intently at their computers. She recognized Melanie Mitchell from Portland State whose work on artificial intelligence and cellular automata was gaining national attention. A vacuum cleaner whined in a back office.

  Scott began to unravel his story like a thread being pulled from an elaborate tapestry. “I’m primarily talking about the 13th century, when the major abandonment of Mesa Verde took place, and the population of the Tewa Basin swelled rather dramatically. This was not a straightforward, unmodified lineage, but a hybrid of cultural practices by the indigenous of the Rio Grande, earlier Mesa Verde, and jointly invented new practices. A melting together so that today we cannot fetter out anything distinctly Anasazi. We must then ask why and how could this happen.”

  “Good question.” Justine pondered this, brow furrowed. She loved it when he posed his own questions. “Why would a people willingly integrate with another tribe and re-invent themselves in the process? Give up their own identity? This isn’t a natural process, Scott.”

  “Right. At least I thought so. This is where religious mythology and charismatic leadership comes in. As you know, in Indian lore, to ‘emerge’ means to go back to the origins and continue their ancient beginnings.”

  “Are you suggesting an earlier migration—two waves—from Mesa Verde, even that life might have originated there as well as in Africa??” She blinked. “When I reminded my Tiwa friend that anthropologists say the Indians originated in Asia, her reply was: ‘It was the other way around.’”