“I see,” Justine said, pausing to stare at the ground near her feet. “Thanks for your help,” she said, smiling and shaking hands with Nico. Jack kept his hands in his pockets, but nodded repeatedly. “I’ll be going now. But I’ll be back.”
CHAPTER 14
AS SHE WALKED TOWARD HER CAR, Justine glanced back at the barn that had housed his cow, Susan, and imagined Lawrence and Brett, a strange relationship indeed.
APRIL, 1924, THE LAWRENCE RANCH (AKA THE KIOWA RANCH)
Still cold in the early mornings, Lawrence slipped on his jacket and gloves and set out for the barn, collecting Brett from her cabin as he went. She had taken the time to slip on her boots, chaps and ten-gallon hat, the look she savored ever since attending the Buffalo Bill Wild West show in England as a child. It had turned cold on the mountain, but he was used to severe weather in Europe and knew it would get worse when the snows came. Susan lazily turned her head as the two arrived. Revealing neither surprise nor expectation, she returned to munching hay while the man patted her damp nose and pulled up a small stool near her veined, full utter. Patting her flank, “How are you today, Susan?” he asked, with a respect reserved for animals and small children. “Decided not to run away this morning?” Susan had made a habit of wandering down the road to the Hawk ranch.
Brett sat on a hay bale nearby so that she could gaze directly at her old friend. “Does she answer you, Lorenzo?” she inquired irreverently, cold fingers grasping the chilled metal of her hearing trumpet. “You’d think she was a better friend than me.” Brett’s voice was uncharacteristically petulant this morning.
“She knows who takes care of her,” Lawrence answered, looking directly at Brett, immediately sensing the testiness. “And she knows who she is. A cow. No need to feign affection or indignation.” He became silent as his hands found their rhythm and milk spurted melodically into the dented metal bucket, his facial expression meditative. Then, “What’s going on with you this morning, Brett? You look glum.”
“After last night, Frieda is angry with me again.”
“You shouldn’t have taken my side. It upsets her.”
“But you asked me too! You said, ‘What do you think, Brett? Do you think Frieda is being unfair?’ You wanted me to side with you. You always do.”
“I’m not responsible for what happens between you and Frieda, Brett. Don’t put it on me.”
Brett remained quiet as she always did when his argument didn’t make sense. Or when he was enraged. Exasperated all the same, she knew their friendship depended on her calibration of his moods, a powerful role that Frieda understandably resented. “I’m going to paint today,” she declared flatly.
“We’ll paint,” he confirmed, viscerally aware of the cadenced change in their talk. It amused him. “I’ve to finish my landscape.”
CHAPTER 15
JUSTINE DROVE HER NOW grimy vehicle down the mountain toward the entrance gate and pondered what she knew of the relationship between Lawrence and Brett, in whom he clearly felt a rare trust. Brett’s memoir of her relationship with Lawrence described an awkward attempt to make love. Lawrence could be a generous protector of wounded animals and children; he even paid for the surgery to correct a hair lip on a child in Italy. She assumed that Brett’s hearing handicap accounted for some of the empathy he felt for her. Yet, even as deep as his relationship was with Brett, why had he needed to alert Isabella to his trust in Brett in the ending paragraph of his last letter? Was this a signal for some action he expected Isabella to take? And, did she? Justine felt compelled to find out. Surely there was more than is known—yet Brett’s papers housed at the University of Texas make no mention of Justine’s great-grandmother, Isabella Hassouna. Nor does Brett’s autobiographical account of her friendship with Lawrence. And the writings of Huxley and Brewster, the two men who would have known if he had an Italian lover, were silent on that account. Yet she knew that these were the men who could be trusted to conceal any information that he didn’t want made public. If Lawrence were determined to keep his relationship with Isabella a secret, it was undoubtedly his desire to protect her. After all, in the Egyptian culture an illicit affair could be catastrophic. Yet, how could such secrets be protected for so long?
Justine didn’t find it surprising that Frieda resented Brett, although there were accounts of friendship between the two women when they were alone together, laughing together as women, shopping in the markets, preparing food. Seemingly, it was Lawrence who poisoned the mix, with his occasional fits of outrage and the jealousy he provoked from both women. It had all come to a head in Mexico when Frieda was finally fed up with Brett’s constant presence and defense of Lawrence, her taking sides against Frieda. The blasting fights finally forced Brett to travel alone from Oaxaca back to the Hawk family ranch in New Mexico, where she was given a cabin to stay in until the Lawrences returned. After being rejected so, sent away, why hadn’t she gone home to England? I would have. I did, didn’t I? she thought, recalling her return to her mother’s home in Italy after she was expelled from Egypt.
CHAPTER 16
SEPTEMBER 30, 2010, SAN GERONIMO DAY, TAOS PUEBLO
FIFTY BAREFOOTED RUNNERS stepped up to the starting line, the men behind them rubbing their backs with feathers to help them fly. Runner bodies were white and clay-colored with paint, their brightly decorated loincloths of red velvet, blue and purple satin, and flowered rayon. Eagle down spread across their chests running up into their hair. They whooped and yelped—women trilled—each new runner took the place of one returning to cross the branches marking the finish line. One small boy tripped and fell as he sprinted out, but regained his footing and continued, an expression of humiliation flashing across his young face. Runners began in a fast sprint, but returned slowly, some walking the last few yards.
By 7:00 a.m. Justine was situated at the base of the five-story pueblo towering alongside the bower near the starting line. The chilly air and emerging light guided her steps that morning. “Race” didn’t quite describe this ancient Indian ritual for the men, ages seven to seventy, for they ran in tandem, one behind another. No competition. This essential ritual keeps the seasons, as well as the sun, rotating around Mother Earth, the source of all life. “And what if you didn’t perform these rituals,” Carl Jung asked of Chief Mountain Lake in 1925. “The earth would become dark and everyone would die,” Mountain Lake had replied.
The sun sprayed across the line of Pueblo women in colorful shawls sprouting up along the edges of the towering adobe, a layered birthday cake. Justine thought she saw Lucinda standing on the third story. Anglos, lined up on the south side of the running area, jockeyed for a good view. A makeshift bower stabilized by upright beams eight feet above the ground was encircled by tree limbs abundant in golden aspen leaves. A cross wrapped in the most red aspen leaves towered over the enclosure like the crown of a church, inside of which sat two priests, the leader of the Penitents, and three Indians. Statues from the nearby St. Jerome Church had been paraded around the Pueblo after the 6:00 a.m. mass and planted on the platform. The Virgin Mary–dressed in her seasonal gold-colored satin– was joined by St. Jerome, the Indian saint Kateri, and Jesus.
A darkened cloud slipped silently across the rising sun like a closing shutter on a camera. “That’s my brother, Shilaw,” said Taya, standing alongside Justine, pointing toward the impressively tall and muscular young man preparing to run, intense resolve as vivid as the paint on his face.
“He looks determined,” said Justine.
“This is important to him—to all of them. Our running ritual is sacred. My father says it’s been with us since the beginning of time.”
As much as Justine wanted to further pursue the meaning of the ritual, she knew it was not considered appropriate to ask such questions. Yet she knew that ritual connects the conscious with the unconscious by surfacing our deepest beliefs and assumptions. Further, she knew that rituals allow us who practice them to participate in our myths, the stories that connect us to ou
r worldview, ensuring that they endure. “You must be proud of him,” she suggested tentatively.
Taya hesitated. “Yes, yes, we’re proud of all the runners. I must go now, but I will be back.”
“I’m going to join Lucinda’s family for lunch,” Justine said, reaching for Taya’s arm. “Do you know where she lives?”
“I will take you there when it is time. It’s across the river in the willows.” She pointed toward the east where the full limbs of reddening leaves smothered rows of scattered homes.
Justine turned back toward the races, fascinated, revisiting her own marathon races. Boston. Chicago. Competitive all, churning in her the obsessive desire to win. Yet there were exceptions, she knew, like the time in Chicago when a man ran side by side with the blind runner, until the last moment when his partner pointed him in the right direction and let go. Even now, cold chills ran up her arms when she revisited that compelling moment.
Preoccupied, Justine overstepped the line separating the crowd from the runners. An elder warned her not to cross the feather perimeter of the race arena. She grinned weakly and stepped back, attending more closely to relationships among the runners. They demonstrated care for one another, rubbing dust on the legs of returning runners, kissing their hands, patting shoulders, massaging each other with feathers, brushing hands with open palms. When the race was finally over, the men ran in unison toward the east, turned and came back to stand for prayer. The crowd showered small candies on them as those in the grandstand scrambled down the ladder, parading the paint-chipped religious statues back to the church.
She waited for Taya, wanting to connect with the girl again, feeling real affection for her. Perhaps she was looking for a younger sister. Or a child? As an only child, Justine had sometimes longed for a sibling to care for—to care about.
“Ready?” Taya asked walking toward Justine.
Justine noticed quite a different young woman from the one she’d rescued from the cliff. Radiant. A fringed pink and purple woven shawl around her shoulders, her gleaming black hair a striking contrast. Two feathers crowned her head. Even the way she carried herself projected greater self-confidence. What has happened? Justine wondered if her mother had taken her to the counselor—or perhaps she had confided in her mother. When they ran recently the transformation appeared to be already in process. Justine observed a more confident posture, eyes that did not dart around in confusion. “I’m ready,” said Justine, taking Taya by both shoulders and gazing into her eyes. The girl’s eyes glistened with an excitement that bordered on mania. But something was also causing the muscles around her eyes to throb in fear, although she was clearly thrilled by the ceremonies.
The two women crossed the plaza and the arched bridge over the Rio Pueblo. As they walked, Justine asked, “How about another run tomorrow in the early evening. I’ll be in Santa Fe during the day, but should be home by 6:30.”
“Yeah. Sure. Okay,” Taya said eagerly. “I can meet you near the Casino.” Stopping short of Lucinda’s house, she pointed, “That’s the house. Over there.”
Lucinda’s traditional Indian adobe home was set off a dusty road nestled in red willows, close to the place where Justine met her the day of Blue Lake celebration. Busy in the kitchen, Lucinda introduced Justine to her daughter, Amitola, who led their guest into the backyard, offering some ice tea as she explained the history of the house. Like many of the homes just outside the Pueblo, it was built in 1945, right after her grandfather returned from World War II. Before that, most families lived in the Pueblo itself. “A big improvement,” said Amitola, “here we have electricity, running water—even indoor toilets.” She laughed. “Of course, I don’t really remember the old days.”
“That must have been difficult, especially for women. I can hardly imagine it,” admitted Justine. She estimated that she and Amitola were about the same age. “Amitola. A beautiful name.”
“My grandmother named me. She said she could tell when I was only a few days old that I would be a free spirit. It means ‘butterfly.’”
“Ah, yes. I do wish Anglos paid more attention to the relationship between character and names. Do you live here with your mother?”
“I live in Ohkay Owingeh with my husband and son. I’m the financial officer for the tribe’s casino near Española. We’re just visiting Mom for San Geronimo Day.”
“I’ve heard great things about Ohkay Owingeh. Don’t you have one of the larger churches in New Mexico? And a new altar screen created by Giovanna Paponetti?”
“You know of it? I’m surprised. Not many do. It is quite new, and beautiful. The panels on the screen tell the story of Kateri. Just last week a group came from Denver on a pilgrimage. They were seeking a healing for one of their people.”
“Watch out! Run!” shrieked the elderly woman seated across the patio. She had been leaning on her cane and dozing off. “Help! Help,” she screamed again, throwing her head back, her hands trembling.
Amitola ran to her side, kneeled and took her in her arms. “There, there Grandma,” she said, caressing the older women’s thin gray pigtails. “It’s alright. They’re gone and you are safe. No one is hurt.”
The elderly woman began to calm, leaning forward on her cane once more.
Amitola stood and turned to Justine. “My Grandma Thelma,” she said. “She was a naval nurse in the war. A kamikaze plane dove into her ship while she was topside. The medical center took a direct hit and all the other nurses and doctors were killed. She was told later that her closest friend, another nurse, was apparently standing between two oxygen tanks. She saw so much…too much suffering and death. She hasn’t been quite right since.”
Tears came into Justine’s eyes. Thoughts of her grandfather being bombed out of a foxhole in Mersa Matruh, in North Africa, flooded her mind, a wave of pain moving through her. She shivered. “I’m so sorry. Is she Lucinda’s mother?”
“Yes, my maternal grandmother. She lives with Mom. Shall we go in?”
Amitola helped her grandmother to stand up and straightened her cane. Taking her by the arm, she led the way into the house.
Justine followed, making her way through the home supported by carved wooden columns, furniture adorned with colorful weavings, paintings and photos of tribal events, Indians dressed as they were portrayed in early western movies. Two bows and a pair of weathered moccasins hung on the wall along with Navajo serapes. She stepped over three little girls watching Roadrunner cartoons on television and joined Indian and Anglo guests at the large dining table in the kitchen. Heaping plates of turkey and dressing, ham, salads, chile stews, homemade breads, posole, cakes and pitchers of lemonade spread across the table. Great coffee, homemade biscotti.
Justine recognized one of the young boys who had raced that morning—the one who had tripped, then gotten back in the race so quickly. He sat at the head of the table of ten people, all older than himself, and was asked to say the blessing. Justine watched his flushed face radiant with pride, wondering what would it mean to make such a contribution, to be treated with such honor at age seven. Justine knew well that such roles, played out at a young age, caused faith and tradition to be instilled in one’s mind and body for a lifetime. Yet even at seven, boys received much more respect than girls. She smiled and nodded at the boy who stared back at her.
As she ate, Justine occasionally watched Grandma Thelma seated across from her, lost in her own world. Amitola had filled the old woman’s plate and she now picked at it as though she wasn’t sure what it was, or that she trusted its safety. In that moment, her eyes cleared, a strong voice came forth. Everyone stopped eating and turned to the elder. “Oh, Great Spirit,” she began, “whose voice I hear in the winds, and whose breath gives life to all the world, hear me, I am small and weak, I need your strength and wisdom.” She ceased talking as quickly as she had begun, and fell into silence.
Justine’s eyes welled up as she watched the elder across from her. Lakota, she thought as she heard the ancient prayer. Lucinda laid her h
and on her guest’s forearm. “I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation last week. . . .” She spoke privately.
Justine set her fork down and turned to her host. “Yes?”
“You got me thinking more about my guides. They’ve been with me since I was my grandson’s age. I think they were given to me by my grandmother who told them to take care of me. I’m not sure that everyone has guides.”
“I imagine guides are very personal and I will have to find my own,” said Justine, unsure whether she could ever believe in something so mystical.
“They must find you. You just need to be open to them. Be patient,” said Lucinda, patting Justine’s hand, then turning back to her guests. “More ice tea?”
They must find you, Justine repeated Lucinda’s words to herself. I must remain open. I’m not always good at that, she admitted to herself. “I’d love more ice tea,” she said, scooping chili onto her fork.
At the plaza after lunch, Justine witnessed the ten sacred Tricksters, often referred to as Dark Eyes, emerge over the top of the five-story Pueblo. The sight gave her shivers. Painted with black and white horizontal stripes, feathers springing from headdresses and loin cloths, they looked menacing, like prowling animals slithering across the top of the towering structure on all fours. Powerful medicine. The ancient Pueblo came alive with the natural wildness of the Indian gods, Tricksters who would honor no boundaries, could transcend every rule, could do anything they wanted. Arising even before the creation of other Tiwa, and channeling straight talk from the unconscious, the Tricksters represent an archetypal god resembling the Greek Pan, later court jesters, and the fools of the Renaissance.
A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy) Page 9