Scott just grinned. “I am suggesting two movements, provoked by religious revolution. By this, I mean a rejection of new or imposed ways, such as those of the Spanish, and a return to ancient ways.
“Like the Pueblo Revolt of the 17th century.”
“Exactly. That revolt, led by the charismatic leader Po’pay, was patterned after the 13th century revolt led by P’oseyemu against Mesa Verde inequalities…in lineage, status, class, wealth.” Scott shuffled among his papers. “Here, listen to these words by Po’pay reported by Juan, a Tewa:
‘. . . Po’pay came down in person with all the war captains and many other Indians, proclaiming through the pueblos that the devil was very strong and much better than God, and that they should burn all the images and temples, rosaries and crosses…discard the names given to them in holy baptism . . . leave the wives whom they had taken in holy matrimony . . . .’”
“And you think the Mesa Verde leader promoted the same rejection of the life that had been imposed upon them? In one case, by native dictatorial leaders—in the other, by the Spaniards?”
“P’oseyemu promoted the southeast movement to correct the inequalities he saw—that they all felt. When they moved into the Tewa Basin they found peoples who were less advanced, who adhered to the old ways—the old ways that represented the past they yearned for.”
“Thereby allowing emergence back into the ancient ways of life. I see. How do you describe a charismatic leader? I’ve read some of Lincoln’s work.”
Scott nodded, appearing appreciative that she was keeping pace with his explanations. “Bruce Lincoln suggests a few characteristics of charismatic leaders. For instance, these leaders are from outside the major faction and possess the personal authority to point out inequities, those sustained by the elite to benefit themselves. More powerfully, they draw direct revelations from some deity, or source, suggesting a transcendent reality.”
“As I recall, Lincoln talked about the charismatic leader as someone who could draw out suppressed discontents and offer hope in overcoming them. I guess we could apply that insight to any age.” She grinned as she thought of her personal reaction to President Obama’s hopeful message.
“So true,” Scott nodded, the corner of his mouth turning up in a sideward grin. “So what we have in legend and in history are two similar charismatic leaders, P’oseyemu and Po’pay, who was a Tewa, each influencing their peoples to revolt against the causes of their discontents, class struggles, and emerge back into the old ways of life. This is the life P’oseyemu and his followers found in the Tewa basin.”
“So they were willing to give up their traditions, practices imposed by those leaders in the Four Corners and seek out more equal and natural lives, even willing to create a new identity to do so.”
“Today’s Tewa identity,” Scott concluded.
She was overwhelmed by the meanings of such a conclusion. She rose and walked to the window, staring at the empty patio shadowed by the setting sun. A few ravens convened for a late afternoon summit. Justine turned to find Scott standing beside her. She stared into his soft brown eyes for several moments, her face serious, intent. “It seems logical—yet a bit far-fetched. Very speculative,” she said.
Scott grinned, laugh lines around his eyes furrowing with pleasure. Obviously, intrigued by her challenge. He was accustomed to critics, skeptics; in fact, he enjoyed the debates. If anyone accepted his arguments too easily, he questioned their legitimacy as scientists. “Would you like to read the full manuscript?”
Justine nodded. “I would.” She found she was surprisingly alert, refreshed.
“Now, how about dinner? I want to hear about Egypt and Italy.”
CHAPTER 26
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 26, 2010
JUSTINE FELT CONSIDERABLY better by morning. The aches and pains from crawling thorough the tunnel had subsided. A stretch, a run, and a hot tub dip do wonders for the body, as well as the psyche. Nearly convinced that Scott Ortman was right about the Mesa Verde migration, it would be a tough up-hill battle to convince the skeptics at the office, especially Mike. She knew that her struggle to believe his thesis still centered on the startling perspective that Ortman advanced regarding the lack of “baggage”—the absence of cultural artifacts from the Four Corners in the current Tewa basin. Further, she knew that nearly ten lines of evidence were required to “prove” direct lines of descent: Mesa Verde to Tewa. While Ortman had persuasively presented biological, genetic, linguistic, archeological, and historical lines of evidence, it still took a leap of faith to entertain the “religion of resistance” motive in arguing that the immigrants were ready to relinquish their old ways, to accept and integrate into the Tewa culture.
More, the Hupobi Mesa had not even been excavated. If Mesa Verde Indians were the first inhabitants there as well, would they have voluntarily given up many of their cultural markers and invented new ones? This seems like a stretch.
These compelling issues were on her mind as she pulled up in front of the Wired Cafe, a coffee house situated just behind Albertsons on La Posta Road. Justine turned off the engine, grasped the steering wheel with both hands, and laid her forehead on the top of the wheel. She thought about Maria and her emotional response to the article in Archaeology; she harbored no assumption that she could convince Maria that the translation of the Virgin Mary’s diary was accurate—although she had little doubt that it was. Why shake this woman’s faith further?
Justine entered the shaded garden of the funky Wired Café. Railroad ties formed miniature Stonehenge structures topped with potted plants. A fountain spilled into a stone-framed pool; crowded lily pads boasting one lone lily were nearly overgrown with algae. Approaching the café’s pine French doors, she saw Maria through the screened-in porch, staring thoughtfully into her coffee cup.
Maria looked up and smiled warmly as Justine slid into the seat across from her. “I’m embarrassed by my behavior yesterday,” Maria began. “While my personal feelings have not changed, I know you are a professional scholar, reporting your findings as you saw them.”
“It is I who feels apologetic for any offense…Mind if I order?” Without waiting, Justine rose and walked to the café counter in the adjoining room. “A banana-pineapple smoothie, please,” she told the young man. His tee shirt announced: “Taos, a world apart.” It certainly is, although some things are certainly universal, she thought, peering back at the serious Maria, seeking a way to separate the investigative findings from interpretations. From her beliefs as well.
“Not exactly my findings,” Justine said as she returned to the table, as though the conversation had not been interrupted. “My colleagues and I reported on the findings after the diary was translated by two expert linguists. I’m personally confident of the findings. But that is beside the point, isn’t it?” A deep red translucent canvas arched over the porch, projecting a soft vermillion glow over the makeshift porch and its inhabitants.
Maria grinned. “In a way. You’ll remember, I was brought up in a religious family and almost became a nun. The Virgin Mary is untouchable to me. Belief requires that certain ideas, stories, remain whole. She is an important part of my life, which is the way I want it.”
“And that is the way you should keep it. I have no intention of compromising your faith, even if it were possible.” Three suspended Casablanca fans moved the warm air while two elderly men played chess at the end of the elongated room undisturbed by the movements of air or people.
“You understand, there are certain questions I just don’t allow myself to ask.” Maria sat quietly for a long while, a relaxed expression washing over her face. Her eyes wandered through the familiar multitude of workspaces. Another log-braced porch perched above them, extending southward toward a small Victorian sitting area and additional garden in the rear.
“In a way, I envy you,” said Justine to the spoken and unspoken words. “It must surely be a gift to be able to keep a part of your life inviolable. I didn’t have that opportunity, so I do
n’t know quite how it feels. I was taught to ask questions, to accept nothing at face value.” The fans swayed wooden Chinese chimes, adding to the muted sounds of conversations and recorded music.
Eyes widening, Maria looked alarmed. “How difficult that must be for you—if everything must be open to examination. What is your core? What defines your relationship with the world, this one and the next?” They were silent now, soft rock music filling the spaces between them.
Justine was pensive, lost in thought for several moments, reading some of the titles of books by Kurt Vonnegut lining the bookshelves against the wall. Cat’s Cradle, Slaughterhouse Five, Breakfast of Champions. She hadn’t expected Maria to go so deep. “My values, I would say. My parents felt that values come from being human. They—and I—reject the notion that morality comes from religion.”
“I can understand that. It is freeing in a sense, allowing you to select from a world of values, not needing a religious narrative to explain your behavior.”
“Umm. You could put it that way, although it’s not like a smorgasbord. I believe there are a few values that emerge as humans grow and mature. These I seek. Cherish. Among them are truth, compassion, a yearning for social justice. Caring.”
Maria’s eyes sparkled like bubbles in champagne. “It would seem, my dear friend, that we are seeking the same things. I just find it in my church, my faith. I know that certain stories don’t make sense. For instance, how could a woman be both a virgin and a mother? I just don’t go there.”
Justine laughed and drained the last of her smoothie. “I’ll admit, there are many things I don’t understand about faith, Maria, but I admire and respect your clarity. We share a desire for compassion and truth. For me, religion—I prefer the word ‘spirituality,’ lends itself to exploration, testing. I resist truth that comes solely from authority.”
Maria reached across the table and patted Justine’s hand, holding her gaze. “I need to get back to my granddaughter. She’s expecting to work in the garden today and I don’t disappoint her.” She rose, picked up her purse, hugged Justine, and started to leave, then turned around, “Oh, yes. About the safe and the key. Tell Kosta that the Jaramillo family will intercede with the city council if necessary.”
“Thanks, Maria. I’ll tell Kosta—I’m headed over there now.” As Justine watched her go, she pondered the similarities among the women she’d met in Taos and her Nebraskan grandmother. Other women she knew in Egypt and Italy. These women of faith are strong, tenacious and they have something that I don’t have as yet. What is that? She grinned to herself, collected her belongings and headed for the La Fonda.
Justine stood at the reception desk waiting for the fleshy man at the computer to turn around. Unlikely that this is Kosta. She didn’t expect the owner to be working at the reception desk. He turned and stared at Justine, holding her surprised gaze for some time.
He smiled broadly, “May I help you—again?”
She laughed; they both laughed. “I hope I wasn’t rude, it’s just that I wanted to play along with the Trickster.”
Kosta’s eyes twinkled. “I fully understood. I was just playing out a fantasy: beautiful damsel in distress. Dashing prince to the rescue.”
“I’m Justine Jenner,” she grinned and extended her hand. “Perhaps you’ll have a chance to rescue me yet.”
“Kosta Papamanolis. I own this hotel, such as it is. A long line of Greeks. Not much of a businessman myself . . . can’t even keep a restaurant going in here.” He pointed to the space in the back of the hotel that once contained a highly successful dining destination.
“Kosta! How serendipitous! I really do need to thank you for trying to rescue me on San Geronimo Day. I hope not recognizing you here at the hotel earlier will not color our next adventure.”
“Ah. Adventure. What a charming word. What can I do for you?”
“May we speak privately?”
Kosta motioned to a young woman from the back office to take over for him. Then, he led Justine into his small office behind the reception desk.
She expected to find a mountain of clutter, chairs piled with debris, a desk where nothing could be found, so was surprised at finding it exceptionally neat and orderly. He’d made efficient use of limited space. Ah, once again my experiences with Mediterranean men have conjured up faulty assumptions. Justine told him the story of her great-grandfather D. H. Lawrence—that was enough to capture his attention and cause his jaw to drop. She continued. The key. Her journey through the tunnel initiated at the Red Cat. The conversation with Maria about the bank. She paused and grinned innocently as though she had just discussed their dinner menu.
Kosta sat immobile as a stone, his face flushed; a shocked stare had drawn his full eyebrows up as though they were blinds on a pulley. Finally he spoke, “And you want what?”
“You must know of the safe in the tunnel under the shop next door. There is a door leading into your hotel. Am I right? Greek words across the top. I’d like you to blow open the safe and see if we can find a safe deposit box belonging to Lawrence. I have no idea what I’m expecting to find . . . .”
Kosta began to laugh. “Of course I know of the safe, but on whose authority am I to blow it open?”
“You’ve never opened it? It belongs to the hotel, right?”
“Right,” Kosta admitted. “My dad opened it in ’72 for a couple of families from Los Alamos who happened to have deposit box keys, but then he couldn’t remember where he hid the combination. He’s gone now. Hasn’t been opened since.”
“Would you consider opening it again?” she asked.
“Using dynamite underground in Taos is against city ordinance. And good sense. Could cause trouble.” Kosta’s eyes grew leery; he clearly didn’t want to become entangled in city politics.
“A bit tricky,” she admitted. Pausing, she said, “Could I see the paintings?”
“Sure!” Kosta jumped up, relieved to change the topic. “I’ll go with you.”
Kosta thumbed through a cluster of keys and found the one that opened the door to a large, rectangular room with a deep mahogany table and chairs in the southwest corner of the hotel. R.C. Gorman paintings of Indian woman dotted the southern walls; an enlarged portrait of Lady Brett in her later years adorned the wall nearest the door.
“I haven’t been here since I was eight,” she said. Not much had changed, except for the Gorman paintings. “Wandered in here when my dad was at a conference and peaked behind the curtain.”
Kosta raised a quizzical eyebrow. “These paintings must have felt a little confusing to such a young girl.” He drew back the heavy curtain covering the north wall.
“You bet!” Her eyes widened as she watched the familiar images burst from the canvases. Familiar, yes, but projecting an entirely different meaning now. No longer mystifying, more like a family album. She stared at the Holy Family: a young boy with a sly smile sitting at the table surrounded by circles, half circles—bowls, cups, a window, the arc of the chair. A man with his arm wrapped around a woman, supporting her circular, bare breasts. Halos or luminous clouds encircling the standing couple.
“Do you think he was religious?” she asked without shifting her eyes from the painting.
“Certainly not in the traditional sense. He was too pagan, too irreverent,” Kosta said. “The circles, I’ve been told, represent balance, completeness.”
“For Lawrence, balance was blessedness. Balance between man and woman, parent and child, man and his environment,” Justine said.
Kosta nodded. “Sounds like the first peoples to me—and very Eastern as well.”
“Lawrence started painting in earnest in ’26 after he left the ranch,” Justine said, “a new life force seemed to spring forth. Then he began to write Lady Chatterley’s Lover in early ’27, right after he met my great-grandmother.”
Kosta turned and caught Justine’s eye, an expression of understanding alive in their gaze. “And, the Red Willow Trees. What do you see there?” he asked.
“I see layers of green pines dot the horizon of the canvas, like little umbrellas I saw on the beach at the Red Sea. Clumps of orange willows sit in the foreground. One nude male bather sits in a willow, branches positioned to suggest he has antlers. Two other nudes sit by the river.”
“Nudes are classic Lawrence,” Kosta observed.
“Yes. For him, the human body is the subject, sacred, at one with the environment,” she said. “He used motifs similar to Cezanne’s. But I think I like this one the most.” She pointed to The Flight Back into Paradise. “Eve is sneaking back into Paradise while Adam and the angel fight it out.” She laughed.
Kosta grinned and looked at his watch. “I need to get to a meeting,” he said. “Take your time.”
“Thanks.” Justine pulled up one of the heavy wooden chairs, sat down, and turned her attention to Flight with an Amazon.
CHAPTER 27
THE BALLOON FESTIVAL, OCTOBER 30, 2010
THE AZURE SKY CAME alive with dozens of vividly colorful balloons being launched from the Taos Mountain Balloon Rally. Thick woven baskets hung from each, cables rising to envelope each side of the protruding orbs. Occasional flames blasted hot air into the balloons. The intensifying sun turned the immense balls into dazzling kaleidoscopes dangling above one of the most beautiful landscapes on earth. Justine found the event at the corner of Gusdorf and Albright Street, across from The Taos News offices.
She had not heard back from Kosta. It had been several days. Justine had confirmed that the property and everything in it had technically belonged to the hotel for decades. In the meantime, she found herself consumed by work, running with Taya and Giovanna, and occasional conversations with Amir. Reading everything she could find locally about Lawrence. Life had settled into a routine punctuated by daily visits from her ravens.
A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy) Page 17