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

by Linda Lambert

  He was silent for a long time. What he didn’t say was a lot: that she had been delusionary, that hypothermia brings warmth. “I have never been able to find such comfort, Justine. But it’s worth exploring, keeping an open mind.”

  She held his eyes with deep appreciation. “Thanks, Dad,” is all she said. Cuddling her head deeper into the pillows, she fell into a sound sleep.

  Two hours later, Justine woke with a start, terrified, feeling that she was falling through snow. “Dad! Are you there??” she nearly screamed.

  “I’m here, Honey.” He had been working on his computer at the kitchen table on an interim report on the newest dig at Ceveteri, Italy. He rushed to her side.

  “It was terrible. As though it was happening all over again. Being trapped in the snow keeps blending with the crypt in Cairo.” Then she stopped. “How is it that I get into these messes, Dad? Get trapped in collapsing churches and mountains??”

  He sat on the floor beside her and held her hand. “You’re adventurous, my dear, one of the things I love about you. It’s a virtue, not a fault.”

  “Ah, thanks, I needed that,” she grinned. “Dad, go into my bedroom and get an old yellowed envelope out of my top drawer, will you?”

  Morgan raised a questioning eyebrow, but did as he was told. Shortly, he returned with the fragile envelope in hand, the one she’d found that day with Kosta in the old Jaramillo Bank vault.

  “Read it to both of us please. I need to hear it again.” He read a few paragraphs, then, “It’s this last part that is most enticing.” He read on:

  . . . I am enclosing a new will that leaves most of my literary estate for my daughter, Laurence. You will need to show the will to Frieda and I know that will cause you difficulties, but it must be done. You will need to take a lawyer with you. If Frieda is still in London to settle the estate when you receive this letter, please contact my lawyer there, Edward McGrath at 4 Piccadilly Square, and inform him of my request.

  After you have established the legitimacy of the will, please write to Isabella and tell her that a great deal of my literary estate will be forthcoming to Laurence when she reaches the age of 20. You may write her at: Isabella Hassouna, Piazza del S. Uffizio 15, Rome, Vatican City, Italy.

  I am also enclosing a key to my safe deposit box in the Jaramillo Bank on the Taos Plaza. There is an envelope in the box containing railroad shares. You may have them, my dear, in appreciation.

  “Astounding! A will? A key? Railroad shares? You haven’t found a will, right?”

  “Right. But you’ll remember, Taya and I found the key at the ranch. Why wouldn’t Brett have taken the railroad shares?”

  “Remind me when Lawrence died,” said Morgan. “1930 or so?”

  “March, 1930.”

  “Five months after the crash. He probably didn’t realize that the shares were worthless.”

  “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Morgan waved off her self-doubt. “But why were they even in the safe? And, where is the will? Why didn’t it ever come to light? Surely Brett would have tried to carry out Lawrence’s requests.”

  “And, the literary estate would have been quite valuable in time. So many questions. Dad . . . sometimes I wonder if my great grandmother Isabella might have come to Taos, looking for Brett.

  “I don’t know. That’s a long shot, but not impossible. We may never know,” he paused. Giovanna will be here anytime with lunch. She’ll stay with you while I take a run into town for groceries and gas, pick up a prescription.”

  Before leaving for his errands, Morgan reminded his daughter, “You’ll stay away from the news, right?”

  Both Giovanna and Justine nodded in agreement. If Justine had been younger, she would have crossed her fingers behind her back.

  As soon as Giovanna left for class, Justine opened her Mac and typed in “Al Ahram news” on Safari.

  February, 2011-Hosni Mubarak resigns. President surrenders power to army and flies out of Cairo. Egypt rejoices as 18 days of mass protest end in revolution. Military pledges not to get in the way of ‘legitimate’ government. Egypt celebrates a new dawn.

  Justine slowly lowered the lid as she heard her father’s car, and used the tale of her housecoat to wipe away unwelcome tears. If only Amir could have lived to see Mubarak resign . . . .

  CHAPTER 47

  MARCH 8, 2011

  “SO WHEN did your dad leave?”

  “Just last night, Mom. A few friends are taking turns staying with me; the physical therapist comes three times a week. I’m well taken care of.”

  “My damned ankle will take a couple more weeks, then I’ll fly to Taos.”

  Justine paused. “You know, I’m thinking that it might be best if you came for my delivery and to help with the baby for a few weeks. Would that work for you?”

  “You’re thinking September? But, sure you don’t need me now? I could do both. September’s a while off.”

  “Yes. September. I think I’m doing okay and I’m going back to work later today. Part time at first.” She wasn’t really doing okay. Depression would often overtake her like a raincloud of psychic pain, sadness seeping into her limbs, as well, an inability to concentrate. She couldn’t even conjure up interest in her usual passions. She felt empty inside and didn’t want her mother to see her this way. “No word on Amir, I guess,” her voice was tinged with hopelessness.

  Lucrezia heard the inevitable symptoms sneaking through her words and chose not to press her daughter on her visit. She resolved to stay in touch continually and be ready to travel on the spur of the moment. “Your dad and I are on top of this. We’re in regular contact with Amir’s parents. When he is found, I’ll call immediately.”

  “We’re kidding ourselves, Mom. If his body were going to be found, it would have been found by now. I’ve no doubt that the regime has dumped him somewhere. I’m having so much trouble dealing with the uncertainty. Have you told his parents about the baby?”

  Lucrezia paused. “I thought that you should tell them, Justine. Don’t you agree?”

  “You’re right, of course. I’m apprehensive about what it will mean to them. Will it ease their loss?”

  “I would think so. After all, they love you, and after losing both their sons, Zachariah and . . . .” Lucrezia stopped in mid-sentence. It sounded as though she had accepted the death of Amir. “I’m sorry,” she attempted.

  “Don’t worry about it, Mom. I’m also certain that Amir is dead, so please don’t try to edit your words. We both know he’s gone.”

  “Are you still seeing the psychiatrist?” Lucrezia asked.

  “I am. He thinks I’m doing pretty well under the circumstances. I don’t want to take any drugs now, especially with the baby. Just wish I were up to running again. Got to get ready for work now. Talk with you later.” Her mother was getting a little too close to the quick, too close to asking the difficult questions that she didn’t want to answer.

  Justine hung up. She needed to clear her head before Mike arrived. She hobbled into the kitchen and warmed her coffee. Her rapture of ravens gathered, waiting for breakfast. Justine grinned, propped her crutch near the back door and set a bowl of Cheerios and blueberries outside. She would buy more corn chips today.

  Justine heard Mike’s familiar knock on the door. She glanced around the room and grabbed her coat from the hall closet. When will this cold let up? The thermometer outside the kitchen window said 38 degrees this morning. She found the cold depressing. But then she found most things depressing, including life itself. She paused by the hall mirror and registered her depressed demeanor, making an effort to animate herself, practice smiling, forcing life into her eyes.

  “Good morning,” she said, opening the door to Mike’s smiling face. They both made a special effort to be cheery. “I’m ready.”

  He reached out to help her but she gave him a look that said, “I can do it myself.”

  Nothing resistant or offensive, just a mild rebuke. She handed him her br
iefcase as a consolation prize.

  The lines around Mike’s eyes and mouth tightened as he watched Justine slowly negotiate the flagstone pathway to his truck. “Let me help you in,” he insisted.

  She took a deep breath and relinquished control, permitting Mike to give her an extra lift into the high seat. “Thanks,” she said sheepishly, looking longingly at her car that had sat there for several weeks. I wonder if the battery has run down.

  “When did your father leave?” he asked as he pushed the gear into reverse and backed out of the tricky driveway. “You must miss him.”

  Justine appreciated Mike’s capacity to get almost to the heart of her concerns. “Just yesterday. He’d stayed with me for nearly a month and had to get back to his project in Italy. Still working on Etruscan finds; those ancient tombs continue to give up their secrets.”

  “A lucky man. Exotic finds in exotic places. Sometimes I think I made a mistake just staying here at home where I was born and raised. Now I’ll grow old and die here without ever having the Grand Adventure.” He was pensive, staring straight ahead as he talked, turning right onto Highway 68 leading through the Rio Grande Gorge.

  “The Grand Adventure isn’t always so grand,” she assured him. “I tend to romanticize life, then get disappointed.”

  “But look at you, Justine. Not much over thirty and you’ve had more adventures than most people have in a lifetime,” insisted Mike.

  Justine laughed with a tinge of bitterness. “But I keep getting myself into trouble, both physically and professionally. I need to dig deeper inside myself rather than the ground.”

  “Ah!” Mike laughed. “I suppose so—we could all benefit from more reflection. But I think it’s harder for men somehow. We try to be rational, which is an exterior business.”

  She turned to Mike and placed her hand on his arm, feeling a wave of affection for this man who had begun, finally, to reveal himself to her. Either he was moving beyond his own gender bias, or he was being kind. Empathy had worked wonders. Either way, she found it therapeutic. “Thanks,” is all she said. Then, “What’s up for today?”

  “Scott will be there. And, Sam. We’d like to debrief your experience, what you saw before the avalanche.” Justine had shared a few random observations with each of them when they visited her in the hospital, although she wasn’t at all sure that she had formed a gestalt herself.

  Justine shivered. “Oh. Of course. Makes sense.” She wasn’t too keen about being cross-examined about her experience in the avalanche.

  “You were within arm’s length?” asked Scott, as gently as he could manage.

  “Well, yes,” she admitted. “There was what appeared to be a small, black obsidian fetish figure. A fertility figure staring at me as though she was daring me to touch her.”

  “And you didn’t. Touch her, I mean. You didn’t pick her up,” asked Sam, struggling to keep his voice even.

  “No, no I didn’t,” she said simply, her eyes moving to each man in turn, returning their gazes, struggling to project a sense of clarity. During the balance of the drive from Taos, she had been preparing for the moment when one of the men would challenge her decisions. It was natural. An archaeologist might find her actions indefensible.

  “Back off,” Mike warned Sam and Scott. “Let her tell it her way. Go on Justine.” He stood and refreshed her cup of tea.

  She realized that Mike was treating her like a fragile doll. Justine glanced at him in appreciation. Several forces were stirring inside her: the desire to stand on her own, not to be coddled—at the same time, a surging desire to be cared for, protected. She took a deep breath and continued, “I want to make two points here. First, I responded as an anthropologist, not an archaeologist.” She paused for affect. “As an anthropologist, I understand the native cultural feeling that the figure belongs to the land, to the place where it resides. It’s sacrilegious to remove it from its sacred place. So I didn’t.”

  “And the second point?” asked Scott.

  “I’ve gotten myself into trouble before by unilaterally removing an important artifact from its resting place, thus making it an unprovenanced find. Professionally, this creates the biggest problem in the long run. As you all know by now, when I was trapped in the crypt in Cairo during that earthquake, I unconsciously picked up a codex that turned out to be the diary of Mary of Nazareth. The fact that it was unprovenanced provided ammunition for my being discredited and expelled.”

  Scott flinched; Sam stared at the table; Mike gazed at Justine, his eyes welling up.

  Finally, Scott said, with unexpected lightness, “It would have been nice to see the figure, but that is just not to be . . . unless of course we can get state sponsorship to excavate.”

  “That might be possible,” added Sam. “We’ve always wanted to dig at Hupobi, although our technologies may make thorough excavation unnecessary. And, of course, resources are always limited.”

  “But now there is evidence, at least personal testimony that could be persuasive,” said Mike, glad to add to the speculations.

  “Well . . .” Justine adopted a surprisingly teasing tone. “I do have a little something to show you.” She opened her IPhone, pushed on the camera icon, then camera roll. A small blurry figure appears in the center of what appeared to be a frame of snow. Justine spread her fingers on the scene, continuing to pull the photo into a larger and larger view. The men crowded around, nearly overcome with excitement.

  The crisp, distinct black stone image appeared to be about five inches tall. Straight and flat, clearly a stone fetish of some kind now staring back at the viewers. The photo vividly revealed the delicacy of the precious miniature, its rounded head, small eyes, and flat bottom. Little hands were scratched into either side, as though she were tenderly holding her stomach. Fine carving marks could be detected where the stone had been carefully chipped away.

  “Sleeping Ute Mountain!” Scott proclaimed. “If I’m not mistaken, the stone could be from Sleeping Ute Mountain. That’s the only place that contains stone that looks like that—of course, we’re only looking at the photo, hard to be sure.”

  “It could be from Mesa Verde,” Mike added reluctantly, to everyone’s surprise, for he had been the most skeptical. Not only about Mesa Verde, but about most migration theories.

  CHAPTER 48

  JUSTINE CRAWLED OUT OF BED, pulled back the white muslin drapes and stared out at the late March day. Winter had not lifted and neither had her spirits. In spite of getting into work three days a week, she felt as though a veil of malaise clung to her mind like a wool shawl. She sat down on the edge of the bed and took three deep breaths, forcing the air deep into her chest as though pumping up her lungs would bring life to her limbs. She knew the value of breathing, centering herself, desperately attempting to exhale her depression. One in . . . one out . . . two in . . . two out . . . .

  Six weeks after Bloody Wednesday in Cairo, she could only imagine Amir’s fate. Every day she became more sure. Images of his probable fate cluttered her dreams, blackened her waking hours. Physically, she was growing stronger, the crutches had given way to a cane.

  She limped into the kitchen and fiddled with the cone and ground coffee, heating water in the microwave. One cup would be enough. At this time of morning, the muted golden landscape and sky were as one, a scene that once would have inspired her, sent her off running toward the horizon as though she could grasp it. But not today. Today she felt empty as though there was nothing going on inside, no energy source, no spirit. But she knew that wasn’t so, for she was carrying a life, Amir’s life in her body.

  So many unanswered questions—she didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. She and Judy Lynn had read through Lawrence’s letter to Brett over and over and couldn’t find enough clues about a new will. But did it really matter? It wasn’t the estate she was after, but an understanding of her great-grandfather and what he had found here and nowhere else.

  And, then there was Egypt. She was encouraged by her next visit to Al
Ahram: “Egypt referendum backs constitutional revisions. Next, the election.”

  Her phone rang. She drew it from her robe pocket and stared at the phone face announcing “Cheyenne.” She really didn’t feel like talking to anyone just now, but chose to move the bar to the right anyway, hit speaker and listened as she drew her steaming cup from the microwave.

  “Justine. You remember Jody, the musician and sculptor, who lives in the Pink House. Lawrence’s old haunt. Well, he’s going to Australia for six months! The pink house will be available. Seems to be a good move for you right now.”

  Justine started to laugh, tings of bitterness seeping through the spaces in her speech. “Cheyenne, you are something else. I like Emily’s house. Why would I move? I’m not up to a move.”

  “Because you need to tackle your malaise. Live in Lawrence’s space, get directly in touch with his spirit.” She paused. “You’re not pulling out of this slump. I feel like donning a shroud whenever we’re together.”

  Justine flinched. She hadn’t given much consideration to the affect she was having on her friends, yet she had noticed that people were beginning to avoid her, even at the Santa Fe office. And, she needed to be more present for Taya. Justine forced her voice into a higher octave. “I’m sorry, Cheyenne. I don’t mean to be such a wet blanket. When is Jody leaving?”

  The move took less than a week, especially with the help of Cheyenne, Giovanna, Bill, and Mike. It turned out that she didn’t have that many possessions in Emily’s Llano Quemado house, mostly what she’d brought from Italy in her suitcases. Justine arranged to rent the Pink House until the end of summer, assuming that she would prefer Emily’s home when the baby came. More comfort, a predictable heating system, room for her mother. Until then, she would bask in the aura and spirit of Lawrence in the first place he stayed when arriving in Taos in 1922. All in all, she would have preferred the ranch, but it was too isolated—and the university would never have allowed it.