Tricksters and Angels: A Novel

1

March 24, 2019

Rio Chama, New Mexico

Jonathan Ramsey drove into the parking lot of the Rio Chama de Milagro Shrine and stopped in front of the whitewashed, adobe-bricked arch that formed the entrance to the so-called healing place. Rows of white stones marked parking spots in the dirt. He pulled into a space beside a silver pickup truck with New Mexico plates.

It was dawn—a chilly Friday in March.

As Ramsey stepped out of his car, he could see his breath. He looked westward. The Milagro Shrine occupied a high ridge overlooking the Rio Chama River, a fast-flowing tributary of the Rio Grande. It was surrounded by stubbled meadows of rabbit grass and sage that swept in broad curves toward the darkly forested Sangre de Cristo Mountains. In the near distance the faint tinkle of bells spilled into the morning’s silence as Hispanic sheepherders rose to tend their flocks. The area was sleepy and dry, and bordered on being withered and empty—except for the Rio Chama de Milagro Shrine itself, which stood majestically under the breaking light. Only a short time ago it had been the greatest healing center of its kind in North America.

Ramsey closed the car door, and pulled his soft-leather jacket tighter around his shoulders against the morning chill. High above, a cold wind blew clouds from the mountains to the high plains and beyond. As the sun rose, a red band limned the hills in the east. Although he would be late for his meeting in town, he did not hurry. He stared through the high arching entryway at the hill where the shrine’s sacred cottonwood tree stood.

Focusing his camera, he began filming the shrine’s Visitor Center at the base of the hill. It was a single story, white stucco building, built by local contractors, using post and beam construction and hay bales. A glass dome soared above the entry. Though he had not yet set foot inside the shrine, Ramsey knew all about it. Over the past week he had read every article about it on the web and watched on YouTube every eyewitness account of its miraculous healing powers. He pushed the record button, taking advantage of the morning light. When he finished with the Visitor Center, he suddenly found himself thinking again about the late-night phone call he had received from Myriam St. Eves a week earlier.

How soon can you make it? she had demanded, her voice both earnest and worried.

I have a weeklong conference in D.C., he had answered.

Not sooner?

I can be there Friday morning.

That will have to do. The phone went dead.

Myriam St. Eves had been his principal advisor for his postdoctoral research fellowship. And now? He let the thought run no further, other than to wonder why she would call him of all people.

Ramsey was a thin man, brown-haired with a dark beard. His eyes were slate gray. His leather jacket was patched and his trousers faded, the cuffs flopping carelessly over worn Nike running shoes. It was an image he cultivated when he taught his classes at Grinnell College in Iowa. Quite different from his corporate image of Canali wool suits, Salvatore Ferragamo shoes, and Paul Smith London shirts. He was forty-one and unmarried.

Startled by a coughing engine, Ramsey whirled to watch a 1970s Volkswagen Microbus drive up the narrow one-lane road. It pulled into the space next to Ramsey’s rental Prius. The engine sputtered then died with a soft backfire.

A young man and woman got out. They were dressed in gaily-colored flannel shirts and blue jeans and wore clogs. The woman had a bright red bandana covering her head. The man wore a battered Stetson and carried a sleeping toddler in his arms, a two-year-old boy with a mop of dark hair.

After you, the young man said, indicating that Ramsey should go first since he was already here.

He shook his head. I’m in no hurry. Go on ahead.

Have a good day, the woman said.

As the couple passed through the arch, she unwound the bandana. Her head was bald and it displayed a livid horseshoe-shaped scar above the occipital bone.

It was a long trip, but thank God we made it, the young man said as he drew her towards him. I know you’re going to get better.

The woman turned to him, her mouth set. I have faith.

The sun topped the surrounding mountains and shone golden on the crest of the hill, where the cottonwood tree rose bright and shining into the sky like a beacon. It was massive and looked as if must be a thousand years old. Impossible for any species in the genus of Populus to survive for so long, and yet there it stood, ancient and venerable.

The woman stopped and stared. Her breath caught in her throat. The cottonwood beckoned her forward. It’s as beautiful as I imagined.

The young man gripped her hands. I know it’s going work.

Ramsey watched the couple hurry up the path toward stone stairs leading upward to the shrine’s famous tree. Straightening his shoulders, he started forward. The moment he crossed under the Milagro Shrine’s high arching entryway, a rush of freezing cold swept through him as though a glacial wind buffeted his soul. His vision narrowed to a single dot and he lurched against the adobe brick, crying out.

You all right? the young man called out.

It’s nothing. Ramsey smiled. He pushed himself up straight. Internally he was on the ledge of a deep dark canyon fighting the demand to fall. It almost felt like a memory. Since he was a senior in college, entering sacred spaces had affected him in unusual ways. This time the transition from the outside world to a sacred one was particularly strong and he knew in that instant that his life would never be the same again. He walked on toward the Visitor Center.

Myriam St. Eves read the text on her iPhone a second time. i'm at the shrine. see u in 30. jonathan.

Asking Jonathan Ramsey for help put Myriam on edge. She hated feeling beholden to him. But she couldn’t refuse the request of the man she hoped to marry. Her partner Hiram had specifically asked for Ramsey. So she stood on the steps of the Café Rio waiting for the encounter she thought would never happen.

The mellow scent of sage hung in the air, the morning was now clear and crisp with no hint of being overcast, and all around her were the old western Hispanic buildings of the town of Rio Chama. The place was one of those Wild West mining towns that had survived as the center of commerce for outlying ranchers until recently, when the Milagro Shrine brought in people by the thousands from across the country and the world. The influx had made the town’s local businesses prosperous. Two new motels had sprung up at the edge of town as well as a modern Safeway, a 24-Hour Fitness Center, and a movie theater. Bank of America had built a small office complex on Main Street, its glass, steel, and concrete clashing with the wood buildings of the courthouse on one side and the James Brothers Mercantile Store on the other.

Just three months ago the Milagro Shrine was a must stop in north-central New Mexico along with Taos, Santa Fe, Georgia O'Keefe's Ghost Ranch, and the nearby mission ruins. But the shrine’s pull was mysteriously fading. A large Office Space for Lease sign hung in the bank’s front window, and the mercantile store had gone back to its original hours of 10 to 4, three days a week.

Feeling the cold especially in her right leg, Myriam climbed up the wide steps and inside the Café Rio to its atrium. Painted in the dark reds, sharp blues, and fire orange of a New Mexico sunset, it stretched half the length of the building. Pueblo pottery and ornate masks were everywhere, and in the center a round fireplace took away the chill with a mesquite-log fire. Once crowded at all hours with pilgrims and curiosity seekers, this morning the place was nearly empty. Rosa Cisneros, the Café’s owner, was talking with Raphael Núnez, Rio Chama’s only real estate agent and chairman of the Board for the Friends of the Shrine. From the way she stood with her fists planted on her hips, and the way Raphael spread his hands supplicating, palms up as if asking for forgiveness, the conversation didn’t look to be a happy one.

Myriam crossed the tiled floor, seating herself at a table near the windows with a view of the street. She glanced at the time of Ramsey’s text to her. It came in thirty-five minutes ago. She tapped her turquoise-colored nails on the Mexican-tile tabletop, and idly arranged the blue and orange salt-and-pepper shakers on different squares. She rubbed her right calf where it ached. The recent doctor’s diagnosis troubled her and added to the anxiety surrounding her meeting with Jonathan. She couldn’t shake the feeling that her former student was going to turn her request down. Yet he made the trip here, which is more than I could’ve hoped for.

Myriam.

Startled, she looked up. Rosa set a carafe and a small pitcher on the table. Decaf, skim milk, no cream. She pulled out a small notebook and pen and began writing. The usual?

Somebody is joining me. I'll order then. The darkness in Rosa’s eyes made Myriam shiver. Anything wrong?

Rosa shrugged. I'm fine … it’s just business.

I'm sorry, so many good times here.

I keep asking myself, did I do something wrong? God blessed me and then he took it away. I don't understand. What can I do to bring the shrine’s power back? I pray every night.

A shaft of ice shot through Myriam’s stomach. Has the cancer returned?

Rosa kissed the cross hanging around her neck. No, I'm fine. I've been so fortunate. A smile came over her face.

Is something else going on?

I don't want to jinx it. I'll tell you later.

Myriam studied the Hispanic woman as she walked toward the kitchen. What does she mean by "I don't want to jinx it"?

Her gaze drifted across the empty street to the weathered Rio Chama Hotel, its white-painted clapboard siding faded from the sun. Its second-story balcony made it look like a building out of an old Western movie. She remembered how she had said those exact same words ten years ago to her lifelong friend Nancy Bloomberg in that hotel when they visited the shrine for the first time. It had been on their thirtieth girls’ trip.

Every year after graduating college the two of them had taken a week away from husbands and children to explore some new place. The trip ten years ago was supposed to be their last, as Nancy's MS was growing progressively worse, but she insisted on one more trip before she became wheelchair-bound. The night before they went to the shrine, Nancy had begun to shake, the tremors starting in her delicately boned hands and spreading until she fell onto the hotel room’s double bed unable to stand any longer. Her frantic weeping and pleas for help made no difference. Myriam had held her until after midnight when the shaking stopped. By then Nancy’s bubbly personality was replaced by a dull, confused look. They had slept in each other’s arms until almost checkout time.

Dressing slowly the next morning, each movement registering in a spasm of pain on her face, Nancy had said quietly, Myriam, do you believe in miracles … a higher intelligent healing power that we can access?

At the time she had smiled. Nancy was a born-again Christian and Myriam did not want to deflate her friend’s hope. So she responded, I don't want to jinx it.

Myriam fell out of her reverie just for a moment as a car drove along Rio Chama’s deserted main street in front of the Café Rio. Dust spun in tiny whirlwinds from its tires. I didn't believe in any of that miraculous healing stuff back then. How wrong I was.

In the morning the two women had driven to the shrine. The day was overcast and a light rain fell. The grass and piñon pine glittered bright green. The air smelled of burned copper, though no lightning crisscrossed the dull gray clouds.

The only other car in the lot was a gray Toyota pickup with New Mexico plates. Myriam had parked across from it and got out first, helping Nancy to stand. In town at the Mercantile they had bought a cane. Nancy grasped the handle but also leaned on Myriam for support.

Passing through the adobe archway, they had stopped at the base of the hill. Are you sure you want to climb all the way up there? Myriam had asked her friend, more afraid of the walk down than the hike up.

Her face set in a determined grimace, Nancy answered. I need to.

She had just put her foot on the first step when a man came out of the Visitor Center. He was tall and muscular with graying red hair. A broad smile spread across his weathered face. He introduced himself, his voice a strong baritone. I’m Adam Gwillt. I’m sort of a caretaker here. Do you need some help?

Do you know what I’m supposed to do? Nancy had asked.

It seemed as if the caretaker understood what they needed. Making warm inviting eye contact, he answered, You made the journey. That is often enough.

Nancy instinctively took his arm and he led them around the back of the Center to a small bench sheltered from the weather by a large mesquite tree. The rain flicked off the grass all around them and splattered the rock path but none hit the bench where they sat.

You can see the cottonwood from here. He pointed to the top of the hill where the giant tree swayed gently in the breeze. And beside it is the Christ Chapel. Local artisan’s are volunteering their time and labor to build it. It’ll be magnificent when it’s finished.

Myriam and her friend had sat for hours, chatting sometimes or sitting in silence, always watching the tree. Adam checked on them twice, each time gently touching Nancy on her shoulder. By noon the shrine was bustling with tourists and the first of many busloads of pilgrims. The clouds had parted and the sun had come out. A shaft of soft golden light lit up the cottonwood.

Later that afternoon Adam had stopped by again. He studied the two of them. I suspect that you are finding what you came for, he said knowingly and walked away.

Myriam looked at Nancy. Is he right?

Nancy nodded. I’m tired, but something has changed. She paused; a smile came over her face. I’m no longer afraid. It’s as though Jesus has reached inside my heart and given me new life and hope.

Being at the shrine had done nothing for Myriam, and she thought Nancy looked worse after they returned to the hotel. However, each day for the rest of the week Nancy insisted on visiting the shrine and sitting on the bench, gazing at the cottonwood.

A month after returning home, Myriam had received a phone call. The caller I.D. said it was from Nancy’s husband, Sid. Myriam steeled her nerves against the worst, but when she answered, Sid’s shout of joy echoed from the phone through the room. Nancy's symptoms are going away, the doctors say it’s a miracle.

From the parking lot the Rio Chama de Milagro Shrine complex spread out beneath the hill like a vast English garden.

The Visitor Center, built as the shrine’s healing power drew ever more pilgrims and tourists, was typical of such buildings at national parks. Upon entering, tourists walked up to a long counter where receptionists helped answer questions and gave them small maps of the shrine complex. Beside the counter was a small gift shop, where a sign said 100 percent of all proceeds go to the Rio Chama de Milagro Shrine. Behind the counter was an auditorium where pilgrims could watch a short movie about the miraculous founding of the healing spot more than a decade ago. At the back of the building and on the east and west sides, doors opened onto a labyrinth of pathways that wound through the xeriscaped grounds of cactus, rabbit grass, mesquite, and piñon pine. Visitors could walk the path to the base of the hill and the stone steps leading to the cottonwood tree or find one of the many small nooks from which they could sit and look at the sacred tree at the top of the hill.

Ramsey wandered along the paths, occasionally taking pictures of alcoves with benches for people to sit and pray or meditate. Almost all of them held small treasures— baby shoes, ribbons, war medals—the kinds of tokens believers leave when prayers have been answered. Fifteen years ago he and Myriam had been doing research on the rapid diffusion of Hispanic traditions of sacred places as this phenomenon moved north from Mexico. Such traditions were even common in Iowa today. There was even a sacred Hispanic place outside of Grinnell College's main entrance. Someday I'll have to figure out how governments have let these little sacred places spring up without objection.

Coming to the last alcove, he stared at a cross made from dried pink roses. A dusting of sunlight through the wicker of overhead beams and flower blossoms gave them an ethereal hue. Ramsey took a deep breath. The same vertigo that had occurred when he passed through the entrance settled into him again. It was a feeling of standing on a ledge, stronger this time and even more like a real memory this time. He wanted to snap a picture but all he could do was stare.

Beautiful, aren’t they?

Ramsey turned to face a short, thin man in blue jeans and work shirt. He had an ascetic, acne-scarred face, hidden mostly by a dark beard slowly turning gray. Graying hair was pulled back in a long queue down his back. He wore a brightly colored vest. A bola tie, the cord held together with a large piece of tourmaline, partially obscured a priest’s collar.

Sorry if I startled you. I’m Father Michael, though I suppose it isn’t ‘Father’ anymore. I was pleasantly defrocked more than ten years ago. With a twinkle he chuckled and held out a hand.

Ramsey shook it. The grip was strong. You still wear the collar.

Father Michael shrugged. I suppose they can kick the priest out of the church but not the priest out of the man. His thin face lit up with an infectious smile. I just wanted to say that many of our visitors were drawn to this particular alcove. They say it’s where many healings took place.

Ramsey nodded. I felt something as well.

Just now?

Yes.

Wonderful. So what brings you here?

Actually I might investigate what happened here.

Journalist?

Human geographer … What are your thoughts about the power of the shrine to heal?

I’ve always put my faith in the words of Jesus. He pointed at the top of the hill. I suggest you visit the tree or perhaps the Christ Chapel. You may find the answers you seek there.

He turned and walked away.

Ramsey watched him disappear along the winding paths leading back to the Visitor Center. Raising his camera, he pirouetted to snap the picture of the flowered cross but the sun had moved slightly and he no longer couldn’t capture its true beauty—at least not digitally. He lowered his camera and backed away. He discovered a trail on the edge of the garden and followed it. At last he found himself at the foot of the gray stone stairs leading to the Milagro Shrine’s giant cottonwood. He walked the ninety-nine steps to the top and stared at the great tree. Deep purple catkins hung from every branch. A large number of petal-less flowers ready to bloom were hidden within each fingerlike spike. According to native legend, the flowering of the cottonwood signaled the beginning of new life.

Sweat trickled down Ramsey’s ribs as the past loomed up suddenly and he was transported to the last time he sat underneath a sacred tree.

Twelve years ago, during his visit to a sacred spot far north of Cuzco, Peru, a shaman had taken him to the holiest of holy Palo Santo trees in the Amazonian rainforest on the eastern slopes of the Andes Mountains. The old man had told him that, by sitting under this tree and imbibing sacred medicine, he would open up like a flower and get the answers to his deepest questions. Instead, after drinking mixture of plant medicines that the natives called Ayahuasca, he was instantaneously gripped by the most primal feeling of fear he had ever experienced. His mind was swept into a dark vision of shadow and light filled with nightmarish creatures. Mercifully, he had passed out. After spending nearly a month in a Lima hospital recovering from what doctors had called an extreme psychotic episode, and still unwell, he had returned to his home in Eugene, Oregon.

It had taken Ramsey a year to convalesce enough to begin his life again. But the damage was done. He dropped his postdoc research on sacred places and took a job with the State Department as a human geographer. Two years later he had acquired enough contacts to go into business on his own with a partner, Ron Grange. Very quickly, they had built a multimillion-dollar business spanning the globe, allowing Ramsey to operate out of the small Midwestern college town of Grinnell, Iowa where he had done his undergraduate work. Remarkably, once he had returned to the town, his recovery accelerated at an astounding pace.

From his base of operation in Grinnell he had been able to deal remotely with most of their clients and travel the world when necessary. At the same time, Ramsey was able to keep in touch with academia by co-teaching an economic and political geography honors seminar at the private college that was the focal point of this small town.

Pulling a catkin from a branch, he recalled one of the cardinal rules of his profession. Human geography stops at the doorstep. Yet, here he was doing it again, breaking that rule without knowing why. Was it that the Milagro Shrine was such an anomaly in the history of sacred places? Unlike many other Christian related shrines, it had not started with a vision of Jesus or Mary. Instead, its focal point was an icon of Native American spiritual quests—the cottonwood tree. It was recent. Or maybe he hoped to get a personal apology from Myriam. She owes me, he thought bitterly. All these thoughts ran through his head as he examined the flowers tucked in the cottonwood catkin.

You are like that catkin ready to sow the seeds of a new life.

Ramsey wasn't sure if the words came from inside his head or from the air around him. He instinctively asked, What?

A shadow appeared beside him. Backlit against the bright morning sun, it was hard to make out. Ramsey shielded his eyes and the rugged outline of a man came into focus. He appeared to be in his fifties with questing blue eyes and graying red hair. In spite of the rough, home-spun quality of his clothes draping his body, Ramsey could see the man was naturally big-boned and muscular. His eyes were set above high cheekbones, and Ramsey observed that he had a thin Roman nose and full lips. When the man smiled, all of his teeth were white. The mysterious visitor had an air of confidence; he clenched and unclenched his fists like a man straining to keep the confidence bottled up so as not to overwhelm everyone around him. With a jerk of surprise, Ramsey had the sudden thought that the stranger was the kind of man he always wanted to be.

The stranger smiled. Not many visitors do that … pull a catkin from the sacred tree.

Ramsey felt pressure building in his head, like something working desperately to get out. He wondered if he were hallucinating. He licked his lips and stared into the stranger’s face. Everything seemed magnified. The man pointed to a spike of purple petals, his hand translucent and wavering like a mirage. The muscles rippled in his jaw and lips elongated as he formed the words, Why did you take it?

Ramsey stretched his neck, trying to fight off the strange illusion, but his head tightened, ready to explode. He answered, the sound loud in his own ears, I don't know.

The stranger smiled and nodded. That's what everyone says who does that. I know because I've been here from the beginning.

The syllables punctuated the clear air and all at once the pressure within Ramsey eased. So you were healed? he rasped.

Some would say that. A car alarm blared in the still morning. Ramsey winced and turned away, looking down the long flight of steps toward the parking lot. Half dozen visitors climbed steadily upwards. What did you say? he asked turning back. No one was there to answer his question. He craned his neck around to see. The stranger had vanished.

Ramsey shuddered. He threw the catkin away, watched it pushed by the wind across the grass until it lay still on the steps of the Christ Chapel. Caught in the strangeness of the experience, he mindlessly continued documenting the shrine’s famous tree and the small chapel with his camera. Then he was back to normal awareness. His mind flipped into research mode, mentally taking notes.

It’s obvious the shrine developed organically. Its origins will prove most important. It was a chance to study first-hand the question he had long grappled with in his research: Do sacred places somehow capture powerful forces or are they just cultural or religious artifacts?

He suppressed a gasp and stepped back as if distancing himself from these thoughts. He was quite surprised at how easily he had been influenced to accepting the challenge of his former academic advisor.

Myriam sat at the table watching Ramsey get out of his rental car. He hasn’t changed much in all this time, she thought. How long’s it been … ten … no, twelve years.

Rosa came by and switched the coffee carafe for a fresh one. She followed Myriam’s gaze. Is that your guest?

Yes. His name’s Jonathan.

A friend?

Myriam nodded. She kneaded her leg, trying to dampen the pain that flared suddenly. It had begun to occur without warning from time to time over the past few months. She concentrated on Jonathan. This has