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

  PRAISE FOR

  THE CAIRO CODEX,

  the first novel in The Justine Trilogy and winner of the Silver Nautilus Award and the Bronze IPPY Award, 2014

  “. . . A rather remarkable diary—one with profound implications for religious communities already roiling with discontent . . . the novel delivers a tautly suspenseful historical tale. In particular, Lambert sharply ties together early Christian beliefs with the plight of females in traditional societies, and effectively depicts the fears unleashed when entrenched beliefs are challenged . . . She keeps a sure hand on the romance plotline, letting it percolate and flare . . . An engaging thriller/romance, and a smart evocation of modern Egypt.”

  —Kirkus Review

  “This page-turner will keep you on the edge of your seat! The contents of the codex are so startling to both Christian and Muslim faiths that their disclosure triggers violent reactions. The Muslim Brotherhood is further provoked to action as it prepares to take over the political reins of the country. This discovery will challenge accepted belief in history and religion. It will also raise questions of just how much knowledge the world deserves—or is prepared—to receive. THE CAIRO CODEX is the first in what will be THE JUSTINE TRILOGY.”

  —Arab Vistas Today

  “The author of THE CAIRO CODEX shows a surprisingly in-depth, and even prescient, knowledge of modern Egypt and the conflicts between the Muslim Brotherhood and other segments of society.”

  —Historical Novel Society

  “THE CAIRO CODEX is a riveting novel that portrays the unique bonds between two powerful women separated by millennia. Their relationship foreshadows a seismic shift in the Egyptian landscape. A splendidly researched and original historical novel that evokes the beautiful prose and exotic setting of The Red Tent.”

  —Jeffrey Small, best-selling author of The Jericho Deception and The Breath of God

  “Lambert’s life in Egypt was the stimulus for this multilayered historical novel. It combines the three great religions of the Middle East with modern and historical characters, suspense, and the challenges of life and politics in present-day Egypt. This creates an altogether fascinating narrative that is hard to put down!”

  —Dr. Waguida El Bakary, former Associate Dean, American University, Cairo

  “The most rewarding experience for any author is to know that you have written a great book and that perceptive readers will be able to share your story and enjoy your talent. Such is THE CAIRO CODEX—a spellbinding novel of Egyptian history, religion, romance, and politics.”

  —David Appleby, composer, author of Bravo Brazil! and Music of Brazil

  “I loved THE CAIRO CODEX. After reading the prologue, I was hooked and immediately felt propelled into Cairo. The writing is strong, as are the characters and story. Brava! I’m looking forward to the next adventure of Justine Jenner.”

  —Paul Williams, archaeologist, US Department of Interior

  Also by Linda Lambert

  Novels in The Justine Trilogy:

  The Italian Letters

  The Cairo Codex

  Non-fiction in Leadership:

  The Constructivist Leader, Editions 1 and 2

  Who Will Save Our Schools

  Women’s Ways of Leading

  Building Leadership Capacity in Schools

  Leadership Capacity for Lasting School Improvement

  Liberating Leadership

  PUBLISHED BY WEST HILLS PRESS

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced—mechanically, electronically, or by any other means, including photocopying—without written permission of the publisher. Trademarks: West Hills Press, and related trade dress are trademarks or registered trademarks of West Hills Press, LLC, and may not be used without written permission. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Cover images: © 123rf.com/Aleksandar Mijatovic

  Map: Courtesy of the Old Taos Guesthouse - A Northern New Mexican B&B. Bob and Cady Aspinwall, Innkeepers

  Publisher’s note: This is a fictional work inspired by real events. While many of the facts are true to the history of Taos, New Mexico, and D. H. Lawrence, most of the plot and characters are fictitious. The known facts and actual characters are related in the Author Notes and Epilogue.

  Copyright: © 2015 by West Hills Press, Atlanta, Georgia

  All rights reserved

  ISBN-13: 978-1933512518

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  …In the magnificent fierce morning of New Mexico one sprang awake, a new part of the soul woke up suddenly, and the old world gave way to a new.

  —D. H. Lawrence, New Mexico

  Ebony-blue cinder descends from the sky;

  Emblem of night, obsidian eye;

  Circles of ash floating from space;

  Lighting the earth, soul of shining grace.

  A Rapture of Ravens.

  —Janice Razo, Taos poet

  DEDICATION

  I dedicate this novel to Bill Haller, President of the Friends of D.H. Lawrence, Taos, New Mexico. Bill is a dear friend, Lawrence scholar, and generous soul. His love of Lawrence is personal, having encountered his work while in the Peace Corps in Africa. Like many Taoseñas, he lives in Taos because Lawrence is buried there. His tireless efforts to make the D.H. Lawrence Ranch on Lobo Mountain available to fans, scholars, and media are vital to the legacy and legend left by one of the greatest writers of the 20th century.

  I could not have written this novel his assistance.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  PART TWO: SIX WEEKS LATER

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  EPILOGUE

  FACTUAL EPILOGUE

  THE END OF THE JUSTINE TRILOGY AUTHOR NOTES

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  I will never forget one thing. In Winter time, when you go to Wounded Knee, never dig deep into the snow. All you will do is find the blood left by your family before me. Think only of them and say, it is a good day to die!

  —Tashunkala (Little Horse), SihaSapa Lakota

  FEBRUARY 3, 2011

  JUSTINE STOOD AT THE FROSTED WINDOW in flannel pajamas, an In
dian blanket curled around her like a cocoon, curtains drawn to reveal an island of lights on the Taos campus of the University of New Mexico a half-mile away. A meteor streaks by and disappears into a palette of stars, a mere sliver of moon hung in the eastern sky. Barely 5:30 a.m., she hadn’t slept since Amir’s 2:30 call. In a couple of hour, the mantle of snow on the Sangre de Cristo Mountains would turn shades of mauve in the early morning light.

  Revolution day all over again. She held her steaming coffee cup with both hands, the noise of the television in the background. Without turning, she listened to the sounds of men and women flooding into Tahrir Square in Cairo. It was Wednesday.

  All Amir had said before the line went dead was, “I love you, Justine. It could be today. Then I’ll be home . . . .” It could be today, which could only mean one thing: Mubarak was expected to step down. The revolution would achieve its goal: the end to a brutal thirty-year dictatorship. Justine felt a tension in her gut—could it be so easy? Could Mubarak be brought down in less than two weeks? Perhaps, but not likely.

  The possibilities were promising, yet she was gripped by deeply unsettling fears for Amir, his leadership role with the youth of Egypt placing him at great risk of being arrested. The turmoil in the Middle East was unprecedented, clearly, so perhaps none of the old rules applied. This is a new game, in a new world bursting from the ground up, a popular revolution quickened by social media. But then what? She knew that if Mubarak were removed, Egyptians would still have the military and the Brotherhood, since no one else was as organized. Perhaps with Amir’s help, those who led the January 25th revolution would form themselves into a focused political movement. Perhaps.

  Justine gripped the blanket more firmly around her chilled body and returned to the kitchen for the last dregs of coffee. On the couch, she curled her stocking feet under her and stared at the screen. Tahrir Square was crowded with thousands of Egyptians chanting, “Down with Mubarak,” arms flailing the air, placards in Arabic demanding the president’s resignation. The crowd throbbed, like a singular heart beating in concert.

  Her vision was captured by a familiar-looking figure in the throng. While the images were nearly indistinct, she recognized his gait, his posture, even his profile. Amir! She smiled involuntarily to see that he was wearing the Kokopelli scarf she’d given him for Christmas. It must be Amir. She couldn’t be wrong, could she? He was facing west, toward the burned-out Hilton, leaning into a small group of four or five men.

  From the edge of the screen, men rode swiftly into sight on sturdy Arabian horses and lanky camels, clubs swinging above their heads, then coming down to strike indiscriminately into the swarm of young people.

  Suddenly, one of the camel riders rushed in his direction, charged with intent as though he knew his target. Amir didn’t see him. Justine jumped to her feet, spilling her coffee, turning over the coffee table. “Amir! Amir!” She was with him in the middle of the grassy square, screaming, warning him. Two men in the crowd pointed frantically and raced to pull the hoodlum from his camel, but too late. The club crashed against Amir’s head. She imagined blood spurting into the electrified air. As the rider lifted his club for a second blow, he was pulled from his camel and beaten into the ground.

  Bloody Wednesday had begun.

  CHAPTER 1

  FIVE MONTHS EARLIER, SEPTEMBER, 2010, LLANO QUEMADO, NEW MEXICO

  ON THE HIGH ARID DESERT OF THE Taos Valley, where the Red Willow people make their home, the rain shadow on the leeward side of the 13,000-foot Sacred Mountain steals any scarce moisture that might make its way into the soil. Without clouds or humidity, the intense heat of the day relinquishes its reign at night, giving way to freezing temperatures. In spite of such extremes on this Aeolian plane, it is home to kangaroo rats and prickly pears, coyotes and desert holly, jackrabbits and juniper. Ravens commune with each other. Life insinuates itself into a rugged presence.

  Justine Jenner stared at the vast, arid landscape adjoining her rented home in Llano Quemado, just south of Ranchos de Taos. She stretched her arms into the dry, sage-scented air, her hands gently encircling her neck, lifting her long, tawny hair toward the sky and releasing it. Taking a deep breath, she smiled—the sheer beauty of the mesa reminding her of the pristine deserts of Egypt.

  From Egypt to Taos had been a rugged trek of thousands of miles, accompanied by her demanding traveling companions, anxiety and regret. Notwithstanding all this, she took immense satisfaction in the moment. Although she was far from family and friends, alone in new surroundings—a pleasurable warmth swept through her body.

  Images of the past four years floated through her mind, a caravan of people and events. Returning to Egypt in the spring of ’07 for her first real job, with a fresh Ph.D. in hand, she’d claimed the coveted role of an anthropologist team member in the UNESCO Community Schools for Girls. She held high expectations for herself, yearning to be in charge of her own life, to learn who she was in the process. Yet on her third day back in Egypt, the entire region slipped on its plates and the earthquake nearly buried her . . . . but not without leaving a precious codex at her feet.

  She stood, stilled by her last observation, her wide-set golden eyes, their well-trained lenses absorbing the morning splendor of the Taos Valley. She shouldn’t have been surprised when she was kicked out of Egypt. After all, she wasn’t hired to launch a revolution. Justine turned, her lithe body moving sensuously under lavender satin pajamas, picking up her still warm coffee, returning her attention to the ravens.

  Temporarily letting go of the dramas that punctuated her life for the past four years, Justine reminded herself that it was D. H. Lawrence who brought her to Taos. She desperately wanted to understand Lawrence’s passion for Taos and his ranch. Frieda’s ranch really. How he’d found his spiritual center there. Letters from the author to her great-grandmother Isabella she’d found in Italy, written during the last three years of his life, often mentioned a ferocious longing to return to the ranch, a longing sadly left unfulfilled at the time of his death in France from tuberculosis in 1930. He was only forty-four. Once again she trembled at the loss of such a talent in a world on the brink of another devastating war. What had he found here that was different from any other place? Will I find my own spiritual center?

  Eighty-five years had passed since Lawrence left Taos, never to return, yet it is said that his spirit still lives in the curvatures of this high desert landscape. Justine wondered how that was possible. She knew that the answers to these questions would not come today, for this was the first day of the celebration of the return of Blue Lake.

  In Albuquerque Justine had purchased a blue 2007 Prius, hoping it would be sturdy enough for the terrain, the harsh weather. The elevation. She discovered in the local Santa Fé New Mexican that in two days a 40th celebration honoring the return of Blue Lake would be held at the Taos Pueblo. A partial history of the determined quest for the return of Blue Lake explained that the mystical Sacred Mountain and its hidden gem were taken from the Taos peoples by President Teddy Roosevelt in 1906 and given to what would become the Carson National Forest. Soon, the mountain witnessed unwanted intrusions by sportsmen and hunters in search of game. Unable to accept such a loss, Taos leaders launched decades of dogged pursuit for the land, driven by a longing that could only be satisfied by the return of the Sacred Mountain and the Blue Lake in 1970. Forty years ago.

  Even before 7:00 a.m. on Friday, St. Jerome Church at the Taos Pueblo was crowded with local Indians, Hispanics and a few Anglos for the special Mass opening the Blue Lake ceremonies. Justine found a narrow seat next to a family of four near the center of the church; almost in concert, the family slid toward the far end of the pew to give her more room. Mother and daughter in matching rainbow shawls of lavender, pink and powder blue thrown over ankle-length dresses and moccasins, stared straight ahead with expressionless faces, as though separating themselves from the man and boy next to them. The father and son wore uniform male attire: patched jeans, scuffed tennis shoes and plaid
shirts. Restless even before services began, the young boy of about five squirmed, kicking the seat in front of him. Picking up the ragged hymnal, he wrinkled the first page in his fist. The older sister broke her stoic stare, frowned down at him and grabbed the songbook out of his hand. His father reached out, laid his hand firmly on the boy’s shoulder; he immediately sat up straight and grew quiet. Justine smiled, remembering without pride what a good girl she was; even when her knee and arm itched from poison oak, she’d sat quietly. The Berkeley Unitarian church wasn’t even stuffy, but Justine was proper, wishing above all to avoid criticism from Mom and Dad who shared traditional ideas about proper church behavior.

  The family drama—and her own thoughts—under control, Justine glanced around the crowded room, growing warmer as the parishioners snuggled into pews, pressing together. The overcast sky allowed only muted light to sneak through the blue windows topped with white doves and crosses. Even though there were a few electric lights and candles near the altar, the room was still nearly dark. An empty loggia perched above the back of the church, and a few parishioners gathered in the back near a small balcony overlooking the Pueblo and the crystal clear Rio Pueblo below. Gnarled hands arched above the piano keys, beginning to play “Be Still, My Soul, The Lord Is On Thy Side.”

  Justine observed the range of expressions on the faces of practitioners: distracted and bored; beatific, almost saintly; confused and dismayed; unreadable. She wondered if it would be any different in a Catholic church in Omaha—or are there fierce tensions here that are usually suppressed? She reasoned that inner conflicts must surface in some way, in some behaviors. But what kind? Justine pondered that question and shifted her eyes to the front of the church.

  Carved statues of Jesus, of the Virgin Mary and Saint Jerome, and of a young Indian woman, were scattered across a table between two candelabras and near a replica of a miniature white church lit from within. Above the table stood the crowned, life-sized Virgin Mary in an alcove between two painted corn stalks. Dressed for fall in lavish yellow satin, Mary was the centerpiece nestled in a wall of niches housing statues of saints. Mary—or Mother Earth as she is known to the Indians—appeared in different forms in many of the niches. From the codex or diary of Mary of Nazareth Justine had found in Egypt, she knew them as though they were family—their lives, their relationships, their conversations. She knew that Mary had taught her son about values and reflection, history and what it meant to be Jewish. In spite of this intimacy, Justine personally resisted traditional religion, reserving knowledge of the Holy Family for her life as an anthropologist. Instead, she was seeking a new spirituality, a discovery that she was convinced Lawrence had made on the side of Lobo Mountain.