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

by Linda Lambert

  Giovanna let her breath out slowly, shaking her head. “That’s for sure. Weren’t you scared to death?”

  “Amazingly not,” Justine grinned, drawing in the cool air and allowing herself to re-experience those moments. “The expression in the cat’s eyes was so tender, unthreatening, as though we knew one another.”

  “Well, that’s a miracle in my book!” Giovanna exclaimed, “as well as the dancing morning shadows ahead of us. All God’s miracles.”

  Justine envied Giovanna her faith, her simple acceptance of miracles. I wish it were so easy for me. The two women jogged on silently, amid shadow and light, each deep in thought.

  Justine was reminded of the boat trip from Sicily to Sardinia she’d taken with Amir—seeking to repeat her great-grandfather’s journey—the ship in rhythm with the undulating waves, disappearing and reappearing with each crest. The sea’s shadowy dip, swallowing the ship and sailors, then regurgitating these strangers into its midst, only to be swallowed up again. Man’s relationship with the sea and its shadows releasing control to indifferent nature. Melville’s Leviathan. The Sea and Sardinia, Lawrence’s most well-known travel book, the one that persuaded Mabel Dodge Luhan that he was the one to write about the Tiwa, told the story Justine chose to re-experience. Now the shadowy waves of light and dark on the barren land mimic the sea, burying meager plant life and exposing it once again. The desert becomes the sea. What do I consider a miracle? Justine asks herself. The sea? The desert? Life itself?

  Justine drove into the parking lot behind the renowned San Francisco de Assisi Church in Ranchos de Taos, parking near the Ranchos de Taos Grill. She stepped lightly from the car, buoyed by just completing the grant proposal for the Archaeology office. She let her eyes sweep the clean lines of the church. Like a Benny Bufano sculpture, she thought once again, one of my favorite Italians. The smooth-skinned, angular structure is known as the most painted and photographed church in the world, repeated in the work of Georgia O’Keeffe and Ansel Adams. In fact, Yahoo touts it as one of the major sights to see before you die. Its legend is kept alive by such recent events as the June memorial service for Dennis Hopper attended by Jack Nicholson, Peter Fonda, and other Hollywood notables.

  She had been told that the entire Ranchos de Taos community is involved in perpetuating its fame, raising monies every year by way of community bazaars to resurface the church with fresh mud generously spread by hundreds of eager hands. Justine lingered for several moments before slowly turning toward the Grill where she would meet Giovanna and her friend, Maria, a descendant of one of the original Spanish families.

  Her eyes lighted on a familiar battered pickup parked just to the south of the Church. The young men who had followed her before peered ominously through the dirty window shield. While she couldn’t make out the figures, she assumed they were the same boys who’d followed her several days ago as she was leaving the Bureau of Land Management. What do they want? she asked herself again, then decided to find out. She slammed her door and walked rapidly toward the truck. She wasn’t surprised when the driver slammed the transmission into reverse and sped backward, spinning around in a whirlwind of dust, before racing out the alley toward the elementary school. Dangerous, not only for Justine, but for any children in their path. At least this time she got the license number.

  Justine opened the iron gate leading through the patio into the Ranchos de Taos Plaza Grill. Every outdoor table was occupied with people enjoying Saturday lunch. The well-maintained building had been a hub since 1858, a part of contiguous structures surrounding the church. Established as a restaurant in 1999, just before the turn of the millennium. Everyone knew it was the best place in the area.

  Justine followed the waitress through the ancient adobe structure with the familiar log vigas into a room where she found Giovanna and Maria, a lovely Spanish woman with an open, engaging smile. “Sophisticated” was the word that came to mind as Justine observed Maria’s stylish outfit in shades of fuchsia. Her erect posture added an air of confidence; charm radiated from her chocolate brown eyes. She reached for Justine’s extended hand. “Giovanna has told me so much about you. I’m delighted to have a chance to meet you in person.”

  Justine held Maria’s hand for a moment. “Thank you,” she replied. “My pleasure.”

  “My favorite dish here is the stuffed sopapillas,” offered Maria, after they had settled in their seats. “Little pillows, but the word in Spanish really means ‘holding soup.’ They’re filled with chicken, rice and beans, then coated with a rich cheese sauce. Hard to imagine the flimsy little things actually holding soup. Delicious, but not good for my waistline.” Maria delicately patted her stomach with both hands and turned to Giovanna. “You didn’t tell me Justine was so lovely…those golden eyes, and tanned skin.” She paused in appreciation. “By the way, have you heard anything from the Vatican about Kateri?”

  Justine was usually disconcerted by such open praise, particularly from a stranger, yet it was offered in such a soft, authentic voice, she just smiled easily and reached for the menu.

  All three women ordered the stuffed sopapilla and raspberry iced tea. “I wanted Justine to be my surprise,” Giovanna confessed. “And no, no word about Kateri’s canonization as yet. We are hopeful.”

  “It takes time, sometimes years.” Maria said, turning to Justine. “Tell me about yourself. What brought you to Taos?”

  Justine smiled at the familiar question. By now, she had a rehearsed, yet sincere, answer that seemed to satisfy. She explained her parentage, the journey from Egypt to Italy, the search for a lost Etruscan tomb, then her new job with the New Mexico Office of Archaeology. Her pursuit of D. H. Lawrence. While Giovanna knew the story about the diary, Justine wanted to get to know Maria better before venturing into this highly charged territory, that could be shocking to any good Catholic woman. As she finished, Giovanna nodded, slightly amused, more by what she left out than what was included.

  “That’s incredible,” exclaimed Maria. “What an adventurous life you’ve had already. I envy you. I’d no idea Lawrence had a child, but then we know very little about him in this community.”

  “I find this curious,” Justine said, genuinely puzzled. “One of the most famous writers in the world is buried here, yet many aspects of his life seem like a well-kept secret. But then the letters to my great-grandmother remained a family secret for decades. Lawrence is surrounded by mystery.”

  “So true.” Maria tilted her head as though she wanted to talk further about the letters, but chose another tack. “As far as I remember from my experience and that of my four children, his books are not discussed in school here and his followers come and go silently. I think the only book I’ve read of his is Lady Chatterley’s Lover—when it was prohibited. I have to admit I was shocked, but I was young and sheltered,” she said, selecting an unfilled sopapilla from the basket to scoop up the generous overflow of cheese sauce and beans. “That was a long time ago. I’m a little less sheltered now—at least I hope so.” Maria grinned as though treasuring her own secrets.

  “Maria grew up right here in this Plaza,” offered Giovanna, stabbing into the center of her stuffed pillow causing steam to rush into the air, tickling her nose.

  Maria obliged. “We were Catholic when I was a young girl, but then my mother became angry with the priest—I can’t even remember why—and we moved to the Presbyterian Church until the priest died. ‘Churches are all the same,’ she told us at the time, ‘we all pray to Jesus.’ That was when the community was almost entirely Christian. But things have changed now, fortunately; we’re much more diverse. We have two Muslim temples and Buddhists as well. But in time our family missed the Virgin Mary. Protestants don’t give her enough attention, you know.”

  “I agree. Mary is worshipped much more in the Catholic Church and the Coptic Christian Church of Egypt,” confirmed Justine. “Otherwise, did you find the churches similar?”

  “Not so different. They’re all looking for God. But I like
the Catholic rituals. At any rate, I went off to business school in Santa Fe and met this girl who talked me into becoming a nun. I thought it a lovely idea at the time. So I went along. For awhile.”

  Giovanna turned to Justine. “An easy career choice,” she laughed, “like becoming a teacher.”

  “Giovanna doesn’t let me forget that I made a big decision rather casually.” Maria playfully boxed her friend on the arm, more a show of affection than rebuke. “But it turned out well, didn’t it?”

  “It did,” admitted Giovanna, leaning backward to avoid the heat still bubbling from her plate. “You met Greg.”

  “We were sent off to Minnesota for training and that’s where I met Greg.”

  “Greg?” questioned Justine, leaning forward.

  “My husband. He was preparing to be a priest. But the order ran out of funds and we were all sent home for the summer. He, too, was from Taos. We’d known each other slightly in high school, but I hadn’t paid him any mind. Before that summer was over, we were engaged. Four children and forty-five years later, here we are.”

  “I love it,” said Justine. “I understand that your own family was one of the original Spanish land grant families in the area. And Giovanna tells me you’re related to Kit Carson.”

  “True, although that’s a mixed blessing. Jaramillo was my maiden name. My great aunt was Josefa Jaramillo, Kit Carson’s third wife. That would make Carson my great uncle, I guess. The Jaramillos were a prominent family in Taos at that time, and they objected to their daughter marrying this illiterate Indian Scout, with half-breed children, whose first two wives were Indian. Josefa and Kit were married by Father Martinez who managed to bring Carson into the church, mostly to please his wife’s family.”

  “A fascinating history. Romantic. Do you know any of the other Carson descendents?”

  “Not really. We’re not in touch. Most of the other family members live in southern Colorado, in the Arkansas Valley, although grandfather Jaramillo was quite a character, I understand. I never really knew him. He was a trapper, self-proclaimed vet and owned a bank on the plaza.”

  “A bank on the plaza?” Justine leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with possibilities. “When would that have been? Where was it?”

  “Early in the last century. But it went broke and closed during the depression. Hard times.” She paused and watched Justine, whose cheeks were flushed. “I believe it was near the La Fonda Hotel where the chocolate store is now.”

  Justine picked up her fork and slowly swirled the beans on her plate. With little intention of eating them. “You knew this, didn’t you?” Justine aimed her gentle accusation at Giovanna.

  Giovanna stabbed at her puffy sopapilla once again and grinned, wrinkling her elfin nose. “Ask her about the tunnels.”

  “You want to know about the tunnels?” Maria asked, glancing from one woman to the other, clearly intrigued by the interchange. “Of course they exist. The descendants of Father Martinez would prefer to keep them a secret, but they’re there all right. They start under the Red Cat.”

  “The Red Cat…the shop west of the Plaza?” Justine picked up another sopapilla from the basket, tore open one end and filled it with honey. As she drew it toward her mouth, the honey squirted from one end and ran down her forefinger. Absorbed by the trickle of stickiness, she almost didn’t hear Maria say, “But the La Fonda Hotel owner will never agree to blowing the safe, if there is one.”

  CHAPTER 24

  IN ONE HAND, Justine held a bowl of blueberries and granola for the ravens—in the other, her coffee cup. On the table lay a small book of poems she had been reading earlier, by local poet Janice Razo, stuffed with poems about these blissfully fascinating birds. Justine looked up in time to see the seventh raven swoop onto the patio with a golf ball in its mouth.

  “Shouldn’t you be in church this morning?” Justine asked, surprised to find Taya lounging in one of the green wrought-iron chairs. Taya started to laugh as she watched the raven with the ball join six others for their morning ritual. “Ravens like meat, Miss Justine. But they’ll like berries too,” she said simply without a hint of judgment. “I went to early mass over here in the plaza this morning. With my aunt…it was okay. I just let myself in the side gate. Is that okay? Can she eat that ball?”

  “Ravens are terrible thieves; but, no, she won’t eat the ball. Actually, I prefer balls to the dead mice they sometimes drag in. The golfers may not agree with me. Would dog food do, or do I have to chop up mice and roadkill?” Justine grinned and proceeded to place the breakfast bowl near the center of the circle of ravens.

  “Dog food will do.” Taya had that enchanting smile that never failed to captivate her host. “They get married too.”

  “Married? Ah, you’re just teasing me!”

  “No. They do, Miss Justine. Couples stay together for life. They love each other.”

  Justine observed the ravens with new appreciation. “Then they accomplish something that humans can’t….” A tinge of pain held over from her parent’s unexpected divorce moved through her chest. “I’m glad you went to church with your aunt this morning. That’s good.”

  Appearing quite pleased with herself on all counts, Taya stood and walked into the kitchen, helping herself to a cup of coffee with loads of cream and three spoons of sugar. Justine had continued buying sugar for Taya, whom she was trying to break of the habit. One thing at a time, she’d decided.

  “Look! Miss Justine! You have one of those special trees!”

  “What special tree?” Justine followed Taya’s eyes to a scrawny fruit tree in the northeast corner of the yard.

  “A Manzanita Mexicana—little Mexican Apples. Very special. From Chihuahua. Makes good, sweet pies. A gift of the land. Of the Great Spirit.”

  “Ah, those little green apples no bigger than a tennis ball?”

  “Sometimes they’re red, or even yellow. My Gramma says they came from Asia a long, long time ago, then through Spain. Can I take some home?”

  “Of course,” Justine said, pleased to hear that Taya knew more of her own Native history than she had thought. “All you want…it seems to be the end of the season. Not many left.” She paused. “I think your boyfriend has been following me.”

  “Oh, my God, Miss Justine! I’m so sorry. It’s my fault ‘cuz he’s really mad at me. He says I’m real selfish now.”

  Justine listened in amazement. “Selfish? How so?”

  “Well, he used to be able to do whatever he wanted. Now, I tell him to stop.”

  “Do you mean he could touch your body whenever, wherever he wanted?”

  Taya blushed, the tips of her ears turning pink. “Yeah, sort of. I guess. I told him last week he needed to use a rubber. The school counselor gave me one.”

  “And…what happened?” Justine spoke casually, careful not to project authority or expectations.

  “He blew up! Yelled at me. Threw my purse and everything out the window. I was scared.” Her enlarged pupils shone against the white. She hadn’t touched her coffee.

  “The window? Where were you?”

  “In the car. Up by Seco. I jumped out and ran. It took me a long time to get home.” Tears formed like small bubbles on tan cheeks. She looked at her mentor expectantly.

  “I’m proud of you, Taya,” Justine said, her voice even, soft. “You stood up for yourself. Took a risk. Did you tell him that both of you were too young to have a baby?”

  “Yeh, I did. But he said not having a baby is the girl’s job, not his. He has no intention of putting one of those rubbery things on his . . . his . . . body.”

  “I see. Taya, do you enjoy sex?”

  “It’s okay.” She looked away. “Ricardo wants it so bad. He says boys are different that way.”

  “Girls can enjoy sex too. It feels good. But having sex is a really big responsibility. You’re playing with life: your life, Ricardo’s life, maybe a baby’s life.”

  “. . . I’m not sure I understand . . . it’s hard to . . . .”
<
br />   “Let me put it this way. Sex is the most personal of all human connections. Nothing is more intimate. Before having sex with anyone, it’s important to at least be friends. Do you like each other?”

  Taya’s mouth hung partly open; she held her cup in mid-air. The ravens chattered on, taking turns stabbing blueberries with their beaks, stabbing at the round blue morsels, in friendly competition with each other.

  Justine continued. “Friends respect, trust, and care for the other, listen to each other’s concerns. Ask yourself if this is the kind of relationship you have with Ricardo.”

  The blood drained from Taya’s cherubic face. “I didn’t think about it that much. Girls talk about sex all the time. Teasing. Making fun. Like . . . like it’s just what you do.”

  “Everyone doesn’t do that, Taya, especially at your age. It’s a serious commitment. You have stood up for yourself—that was good and brave. Now, you are the person who can decide what you will and will not do with Ricardo, or anyone else. If you decide to have sex with him, you need to protect yourself from getting pregnant. Ask your mom to help you get birth control pills if necessary.” Justine concluded, her eyes projecting a deep affection for this young woman who reminded her of herself at that age. I was so unsure of myself. If a boy spoke to me kindly, I wanted to be with him, please him. Fortunately, I could talk to my mother. She smiled fully at Taya, patting her hand.

  “If you think so, Miss Justine. I guess,” she said, weakly at first, then staring directly into her mentor’s eyes, a new resolve replacing meekness. Her chin moved forward as her body relaxed under Justine’s touch.

  Justine noted the shift in Taya’s demeanor. “How about a run? We could return the golf ball to the club.”

  Taya giggled. “Sure!”

  Justine drove Taya back to the Pueblo after their run, with the intention of stopping by to see Giovanna on her way home. But she was interrupted. While passing the casino on her way from the pueblo, the familiar Chevy pickup full of boys pulled in behind her. Don’t they have anything better to do?