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

by Linda Lambert

  “I was so scared, Dad. I was sure I was going to die out there alone. How did you ever find me?”

  Morgan explained about Taya—and Pablo—the hunt, hearing the pulsing sound of her IPhone, the ravens. Seeing her fist burst through the snow bubble. The weather and helicopter. He told the story slowly, lavishly, as though escorting her down a primrose path to sanity. “Everyone was great, Honey. You have many good friends here—and in so short a time.”

  Justine was only half listening. “Taya? I thought she would never speak to me again after . . . what did she want?”

  “I’m not really sure. I didn’t even ask when I found her there, sitting on your porch. I just needed to find you.”

  Justine flinched at the image of Taya sitting in the cold. “I just hope her baby will be fine.”

  “Both of your babies should be fine, Honey,” he lied. “I . . . .”

  Justine stiffened, then recoiled in pain when her body resisted. “Baby? I’m pregnant?!”

  “I thought you knew, but I should have known better. You would have told your mother and me. I didn’t think it through . . . .”

  The senior nurse, standing unnoticed by the foot of the bed, stepped forward to check her IV, her pulse. “I think she needs to get a little rest now, Dr. Jenner. May I ask you to step out?”

  Fred told Lisa there was little chance that Taya would survive the night. Her heartbeat and pulse were very slow, and the loss of blood, especially before she’d reached the hospital, had caused some veins to collapse. She was now in shock, lying in a private recovery room.

  The curtains were pulled, and once again, a tense stillness permeating the air. The new supply of blood flown up from Santa Fe was seeping through the IV, the heart monitor showing an exceptionally weak pattern, the oxygen grinding away. Fred was standing by the door when Lisa came in with Sharon and Lucinda. It was 1:30 a.m.

  Lisa pulled up two chairs for Taya’s mother and aunt and drew in a quick breath. Tears rolled down her eyes. In her years as a midwife she had learned to cry quietly.

  Fred approached the two women. “Taya’s been through a great deal and her situation is very serious. Stay with her, be with her, say your goodbyes. Then you need to let go.” This was Fred’s way of telling a family that their loved one wouldn’t live until morning. He had never found the right words to cushion this moment.

  Before Sharon could respond, Giovanna quietly walked into the room, slid her hand into her jeans and grasped a black and amber stone shaped roughly like a heart, clutching it firmly, feeling warmth flood through her palm. She had found the precious artifact at the ancient homeland of Kateri Tekakwitha near Toronto and was convinced that it possessed special healing properties.

  Then she walked over to Sharon, leaned down and whispered in her ear, slipping the stone under Taya’s pillow. A brief flash of acceptance washed over Sharon’s face; she turned and spoke to Lucinda in a hushed voice. Silent praying began. In concert, as though a new resolve had been thrust into the room by Kateri herself. Each woman believed in the Saint’s agency in performing miracles. On her way back to the hospital, Giovanna had called the Center for the Blessed Kateri and activated a network of thousands of believers around the country, believers who would be sending their prayers and positive energies, vibrations, to this young woman near death.

  The stone, the prayers brought together the energies in the room as though Kateri’s blue blanket was being rewoven in the presence of such faith. The blue blanket wrapped around Kateri when she died, the blanket used to heal so many others. The hours passed.

  Fred had been rescued from fully dealing with Sharon’s response to his pronouncement of Taya’s imminent death. By Kateri perhaps? He stared at Giovanna. When the Pope decided that Kateri was a saint, he would too. The doctor came to the door several times, often walking away, at other times quietly approaching the front of the bed and checking Taya’s vitals. The midwife and the senior nurse were in and out as well. Both approaches to life—medicine and miracles—side-by-side throughout the night. Each person honoring and respecting whatever thoughts and prayers floated through the room. Taya lay there with few signs of life, paleness tinged with blue, breathing shallow. There was no visible change in her status.

  Morning was sneaking up the rise from the east, kissing the frost on the lawn outside the window, warm rays of sunlight reaching the glass, catching a prism hanging from a rod, a prism left behind when a young child occupying this room had died before morning. Rainbows washed across the walls, catching the sleeping faces of the women. Taya.

  Fred had grabbed a few hours sleep in the early hours of the morning. Lisa had driven home at 4:00 a.m. It was nearly 7:00 a.m. now and she was back.

  Down the hall, Morgan shook himself awake. The sun brushed the top of his mix of sandy and gray hair, turning it to gold. He blinked, barely remembering where he was, what had happened. The flight from Italy, the hunt for Justine, and the hours in the hospital had taken its toll. His sixty-year old body hurt all over.

  A chill washed through his aching body as he roused himself up and approached the bed. He stared at Justine’s motionless face, not knowing whether she was asleep or unconscious.

  Her eyes opened. “Hi, Dad,” she said weakly, but clearly. “Were you here all night?”

  “I was.”

  Tears ran down Justine’s face. In spite of the sunlight on her face, a cloud of agony washed over it. “Taya. How is she? And, the baby?” Giovanna had come into the room while Morgan was asleep and asked Justine to pray to Kateri, to join the throngs of worshippers who were focusing their energies on Taya. She had done so, in her own way, focusing her meditation on Taya and her baby.

  Morgan paused, not knowing how much she was ready to hear, even how she had learned of Taya’s struggle. “It doesn’t look good. For either of them. I’ll find out.” Morgan slipped on his sweatshirt and walked into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. He called out, “Do you need anything? Water? Help in getting to the bathroom.”

  “I’ll help with that, Mr. Jenner,” said the young nurse standing near the door, looking fresh and ready for her new shift. One of the few people in the hospital to have had a night’s sleep.

  “Thanks,” he said. “If you think she’ll be okay for awhile, I’ll check on a friend. Get a cup of coffee.” Morgan headed for the door.

  “That will be fine. I’ll check her vitals, bring her something to eat.”

  “I haven’t eaten in two days,” Justine exclaimed weakly, attempting to lift herself onto her elbow. She didn’t succeed, falling back in pain.

  Morgan turned and flinched as he saw his daughter grimace—he looked questioningly at the nurse. She waved him on.

  Down the hall, Taya still lay unconscious. Then, suddenly, her eyes flew open and she focused above her mother’s head, into the open space just below the ceiling; dust particles danced in the sunlight. “Ricardo. You’re here. We have a child—a boy. You will be proud . . . .” Her voice was clear, determined, deeper than usual. What appeared to be a brief moment of lucidity was something else instead.

  Lisa whispered to Fred, who stood beside her just inside the room. “She’s having a near death experience.”

  “I’ve had a few cases in my time,” said the doctor. “It can go either way now.”

  “Taya! I’m here. This is your mother.” Sharon spoke loudly; Lucinda and Giovanna quietly continued in their prayers. The senior nurse rushed to the bed, checking her vitals, then motioned to Fred. The heart monitor jumped, peaked and dropped.

  Taya’s eyes flashed as her cadence increased; she rose and, almost as quickly, she fell back on the bed. The heart monitor flatlined.

  “I’m afraid she’s gone,” said Lisa quietly, her eyes welling up.

  “I’ve seen a case like this before. A colleague of mine in Italy. He cheated death . . . .” Morgan leaned against the doorframe behind Lisa.

  Lisa turned around, raising an eyebrow. No words.

  “I’m sorr
y,” he whispered. “I’m Justine’s father. May I stay?”

  Lisa was too grieved to react. She just nodded, stilled by the gravity of the moment.

  Taya’s face was beatific, serene, as though she were seeing something or someone of great beauty. Several moments passed. Perhaps ten minutes. Then slowly she opened her eyes. “Hi, Mom,” she said.

  CHAPTER 46

  MORGAN SET A SMALL tray with tea, toast, and strawberries on the table next to Justine’s bed. It was her second day back home. He sat on the end of the bed, careful not to disturb her broken foot.

  She opened her eyes and gazed lovingly at her father. “Have I told you how important you are to me? What a dear father you are?” Justine tried to sit up, but her cracked clavicle held together with screws made it difficult, right now, impossible.

  He stepped forward and lifted her into a sitting position. “You’re being delusional again, my dear girl,” he accused playfully. They had both had nearly ten hours sleep. He was a new man. “I’ve built a fire—but it’s still as cold as a well digger’s ass in here.”

  “Dad. Taya. How is she? Will she make it? And the baby?”

  “Too early to tell. She is with her mother and the baby is still in the hospital. But the surprised doctor is optimistic.”

  Justine raised a questioning eyebrow. “Surprised?”

  “Let’s say that Dr. Fernandez now believes in miracles.”

  Justine smiled. Perhaps I do too.

  “I’ll get dressed and carry you in by the fire.”

  “It’s a deal. In the meantime, will you get me my supply of drugs? This foot is throbbing.” She winced, managing a grin.

  Within five minutes, Morgan scooped her up in his arms and toddled down the hall, careful not to bump her foot on either wall. She asked him to let her check in on her ravens first, so he sat her down on a chair near the glass door to the patio.

  “My rapture of ravens,” she intoned nostalgically. “They visit me every day, and, as you know, two of them found me in the snow. Showed me how to get out. Do we have Cheerios? A few blueberries? The ravens find their own protein. But after Hupobi, I may catch mice for them.”

  He laughed at the sight of his daughter catching mice. “A rapture of ravens, huh? Love it. I’ve only heard of an ‘unkindness of ravens’—don’t like it much. I’ll get their breakfast.”

  “An ‘unkindness of ravens’—I find that cruel,” she said. “From old British folklore, I imagine. For some mistaken reason, they must have thought ravens were unkind to their young. I’ll take some Cheerios too.”

  “I’m cooking up some scrambled eggs and bacon for us. They may be able to find their own protein, but you can’t. But first, let’s get you to the couch, cover you up, feed you and the birds.” He paused. “Why ‘rapture’?”

  Justine laughed. “Well, I wanted a word that would describe a group, and I feel a sense of intense pleasure when I watch them. Bliss. A kind of enchantment.”

  Morgan grinned and nodded. Just like his daughter.

  She held out her arms so he could pick her up again and transport her to the couch where he had piled a couple of pillows and a handmade quilt. On the coffee table beside her sat a box of Kleenex, water, and two volumes by D. H. Lawrence, Kangaroo and Boy in the Bush, along with Mabel’s Taos in Winter.

  “Dad, what’s happening in Egypt? Is Mubarak still in office?”

  “Nope, he’s been removed and is in custody someplace on the Sinai.”

  “Will they make it Dad? As a democracy, I mean?” Sadness washed across her peaked face.

  “I don’t know, Justine. It will take awhile. The military is in charge and the Brotherhood is waiting in the wings.”

  “I was afraid that the youth who led the revolution may be too naïve to put together a campaign. Especially with Amir gone.” A cloud of pain distorted her features.

  “You’re probably right . . . we’ll have to wait and see.” Morgan redirected the conversation.

  Justine’s eyes were moist as she stared into the fire. “Looks like I’m all set, Dad. Lovely fire. Thank you.”

  Morgan was silent, watching his daughter, waiting for her to begin speaking again. He would not rush her. So much to process: Amir, her accident and frozen prison, the boys driving into the gorge. Egypt. She hadn’t said anything about her own baby.

  “Amir and I sat right here in front of this fire the night before he left. Christmas eve. It was late—we’d been to the ceremonies at the pueblo—and we exchanged gifts. Dad, it was the Kokopelli scarf I gave him that convinced me it was he I saw out there in the square being beaten . . . .” Justine broke down as images of that terrible moment traveled through her mind, pain rushing through her body, now racked with sobs.

  “I didn’t know about the scarf,” Morgan said gently, “but I recognized the way he moved, his profile. I don’t think we’re mistaken.”

  She took several deep breaths and drew her good arm across her eyes, wiping the tears away with her flannel sleeve. She involuntarily shuddered. “They still haven’t found his body?”

  “That’s right. I talked with his father last night. But as long as the body hasn’t been found, there is still hope.”

  She flashed an accusatory expression at her father. “Don’t try to humor me, Dad. If he were alive he would have been in touch. You know that.”

  Morgan nodded. It was clear to his daughter that he knew that was true, but found it nearly impossible to envision Amir dumped in some mass grave.

  “I’m carrying his child, Dad.” She shook her head as though to cleanse it of unwanted thoughts. “It’s gratifying that part of him will always be with me. Our child. I only wish he could have known about the baby before.”

  This time, Morgan responded quickly, trying to keep her from falling back into the deep sadness that had haunted her for days. “Your mother and I are incredibly happy about the prospect of a grandchild. You must know that we are overjoyed.”

  Justine turned to her father, embracing him with her gaze, “I do, Dad. Yes, I appreciate that you had hoped for a grandchild and wasn’t at all sure that your only daughter—an old woman of thirty two—would ever allow herself to get pregnant.”

  Morgan laughed fully. “Something like that.”

  Justine returned her gaze to the fire. “I have to shift my attention to the baby. My work. Lawrence. It’s hard.”

  “It’s got to be incredibly difficult. The psychiatrist said you would probably struggle with occasional bouts of depression, but you’re a strong woman and have so many friends ready to give you support.”

  “People in Taos are remarkable, aren’t they? The way they found me, supported us, brought the energies of the followers of Kateri to save Taya.”

  “Amazing indeed. I’ll admit, I’ve never seen anything like it. If we get another casserole, we won’t have room in the frig for anything else. Almost makes a believer of me.”

  “Dad. Why aren’t you . . . a believer? Certainly, your Nebraska roots were firmly Christian. We haven’t talked about this since I was a kid.”

  It was Morgan’s turn to take his time staring into the fire. Then he got up to refill his tea, beginning to talk from the island in the kitchen. “During much of my childhood, I was pretty devout, even in high school. Then a couple things happened. You’ll remember that my grandmother’s wool house coat caught fire on an old space heater and she burned to death?”

  Justine nodded without turning around. She had heard the story in detail. A terrible tragedy, two days before her dad was to graduate from high school. Too deeply grieved, he hadn’t attended the ceremony.

  Morgan returned to his seat by the fire. “Her death, the way she died, really shook me, made me question everything. Then the next year I went off to Berkeley and my anthropology professor said there have never been a people found who didn’t have some form of religion. It struck me like an epiphany. I thought: sure, humans psychologically need religion, so they had to invent it. It was so clear to me and I’
ve never lost that clarity.”

  “And Mom felt the same, as have I. I was indoctrinated with agnosticism.” She smiled at her father. “Yet, I think I’m becoming spiritual. I’m shaky in that department, but I’m sure I encountered my guides on that mountain at Hupobi. And then when the ravens arrived I experienced a bolt of clarity.”

  “Tell me more.” He slowly sipped his tea and stared straight ahead into the fire.

  “I’ll start with what I think Lawrence found on the mountain. He unearthed his center, an interior place of calm and joy. The mountain spoke to him and freed him from his own bondages, liberated his sensibilities. He labored in a very Zen-like way—baking bread each morning, chopping wood, fixing the plumbing. He came to understood well the magic of reciprocity, engagement with nature, his labors, his art, another human. In this case Isabella.”

  “Makes sense to me. Do you have more than your intuition to go on?” Morgan was a man who needed evidence—along with enlightened hunches.

  Justine grinned. She knew her father well. “In the months after he left the ranch, he began to paint seriously—declaring himself a painter. He met Isabella and began Lady Chatterley. He talked of tenderness. A reciprocity of tenderness.”

  “Convincing,” he admitted. “Certainly Chatterley turned out to be his best. Focused intensity and clarity.”

  “And mysticism. I don’t think he could have written it without Isabella—and the mountain.”

  Morgan nodded. “How about my daughter? What did you find on Hupobi?”

  “I think I found much of what Lawrence found: clarity, my own interior life force, a buoyant energy encircled me,” she paused, gazing into her father’s incredulous eyes. “Lucinda taught me about her guides, two supernatural entities who are with her always—making her feel safe, giving her confidence. She is never alone. I was never alone on that mountain. Physically, yes. But I could feel a presence, a warmth.” She knew that her father would be skeptical, but not disrespectful. She waited.