The Adam Enigma by Mark; Ronald C.; Reeder Meyer

That was all in the beginning before he discovered the truth.
    Myriam had become more involved with its caretaker Adam, taking a personal interest in his physical recovery from the motorcycle accident that had left him nearly dead and in a coma for six weeks.
    â€œHe’s like nobody I’ve ever met. There’s even a sort of luminescence to his presence,” she had told Beecher. She began spending more and more time there and with Adam. Often Beecher would join them asthey strolled around the grounds chatting with visitors and pilgrims who were eager to talk about their experiences.
    Beecher had never once been jealous of her attention to the man. There was no need. For one thing, Adam didn’t appear to have an agenda with anyone. He devoted himself entirely to the shrine and its visitors. And it was clear that Myriam was as much in love with Beecher as he was with her.
    Beecher sipped his coffee. Myriam leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I need to powder my nose, honey.” He rose as she did. She smiled and said, “That’s what I love about you. You’re old fashioned, like a wild west cowboy.”
    â€œI have a white hat, too,” he said, loving her.
    Watching her walk off, he murmured, “It has been the best.”
    All her adult life Myriam had had trouble sleeping. After a particularly bad night she wandered around the grounds of the shrine and had come across one of the many vendors who set up shop on a small strip of land beside the parking lot. These were mostly Native Americans and a few others who sold their wares to pilgrims and tourists. She approached a battered old Ford pickup with blue doors and red stripes across the hood, like a painted face. The owner had erected a makeshift ramada from a tattered, blue plastic tarp. It stretched over the bed and on either side and past the back. He sat on the tailgate, a faded, black ten-gallon hat covering his head. He was an old man with silver hair in long braids down his back. Behind him in medicine bags were his wares. If Carlotta Moore had not told her he was the one whose Indian medicine was the best, she would have passed him by for one of the newer looking gaily colored stalls further along the road.
    â€œExcuse me, sir. Do you have any wild chamomile or sage tea?” Myriam had asked.
    The man raised his head and gazed at her quietly. Gray eyes scanned her like a benediction. “You’re having trouble sleeping?” he had asked.
    She nodded. “I seem to fall asleep right away but then I wake up, maybe forty-five minutes later and I can’t get back to sleep. It’s happened three days in a row and I’m exhausted.”
    He had smiled, his teeth white and even. He reached behind him and pulled a beaded bag from among the others. It was the color of tanned deer hide. The adornment was porcupine quills in the manner of plains Indians before the arrival of Europeans to America. She recognized the style from artifacts she had acquired for the University of Oregon’s Museum of Natural and Cultural History.
    â€œHere, a gift from Coyote to help you sleep,” he had said, his voice soft, the words cadenced like he was saying a prayer.
    Myriam’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? Coyote is the trickster. Perhaps it will have the opposite effect.”
    â€œAmong the Lakota it is iktomi the spider who is the trickster. Coyote is the bringer of change. Tonight, you will sleep and you will dream I am sure.”
    She quickly replied, “I’m one of those people that never dream.”
    With a gleeful twinkle the old Indian reached out and touched her forehead. “Make a tea just before bedtime with a spoonful of this. Steep it fifteen minutes then strain it and drink it right away.”
    â€œHow can I pay you?” When she offered him money he shook his head.
    â€œGot to go.” The Indian suddenly danced off laughing and talking to himself. He walked