Tricksters and Angels

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.