The Adam Enigma (2 page)

“Do you know what I'm supposed to do?” Nancy asked.

It seemed as if the caretaker understood what they needed. Making warm, inviting eye contact, he answered, “You made the journey. Often that is 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 artisans are volunteering their time and labor to build it. It'll be magnificent when it's finished.”

Myriam and her friend 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 was out. A shaft of soft golden light lit up the cottonwood.

Later that afternoon Adam stopped by again. He studied the two of them. “I suspect that you are finding what you came for,” he said 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 to sit on the bench and gaze at the cottonwood.

A month after returning home, Myriam received a phone call. The caller ID 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.”

F
ROM THE PARKING
lot, visitors could see 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 answered questions and gave out small maps of the shrine complex. Beside the counter was a small gift shop, where a sign said that one hundred percent of all proceeds go to 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 before. 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 earlier, 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 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, only this time it was stronger and even more like a real memory. 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 turning gray. His 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, 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 shrine's healing power?”

“I've always put my faith in the words of Jesus,” the priest said. 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 could 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 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 had 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 told him that by sitting under this tree and imbibing sacred medicine, he would open 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 passed out. After spending nearly a month in a Lima hospital recovering from what doctors called an extreme psychotic episode, and still unwell, he 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 acquired enough contacts to go into business on his own with a partner, Ron Grange. Very quickly, they 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 returned to the town, his recovery accelerated at an astounding pace.

From his base of operation in Grinnell he was able to deal remotely with most of their clients and travel the world when necessary. At the
same time, Ramsey could 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.

He pulled a catkin from a branch, recalling 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 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, 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, homespun quality of his clothes, Ramsey could see that the man was 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 his confidence bottled up so he wouldn't overwhelm everyone around him. With a jerk of surprise, Ramsey had the sudden thought that the stranger was the kind of man he'd 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. 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 like a mirage. The muscles rippled in his jaw 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. A half dozen visitors climbed steadily upward. “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 and watched it being 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 to document the shrine's famous tree and the small chapel with his camera. This was sufficient to return him 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.
He now had the chance to study firsthand the question he had grappled with in his research: Do sacred places somehow capture powerful forces or are they merely cultural or religious artifacts?

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