Bells of San Javier

Their plan was to set up a small camp, where they could drink some beer, grill steaks and tell stories into the wee-hours of the morning, someplace south and east of the ruins of Fort Churchill. They were Adrian Slett, Howard Philips and Keith Hammond, all native Californians, transplanted to the high desert of Northern Nevada.

Along with the usual camp routines, the trio planned to spend sometime exploring their surroundings. Each held the idea of finding some lost treasure left behind by an old miner, a homesteader or even some soul journeying eastward towards a new and better life in the Golden State.

This was the second time they’d regrouped at the set of rocks jutting up from the hard-pack sand and dried up sage brush. It was close enough to civilization for help, should it come to that and yet far enough away, that the only sound of humanity, other than themselves, were the occasional passenger aircraft speeding over head at some 30-thousand feet.

The second day, at a breakfast of scrambled eggs, burnt toast, ink-black coffee, overly-crisped bacon and under-cooked potatoes, Slett asked, “Did either of you hear whispering last night.”

Philips and Hammond shot looks at one another and responded in unison, “No.”

Hammond, quicker than Philips, added “Jinx! You owe me a coke!” And the pair laughed.

Philips saw Slett’s distressed face and asked, “So, what was it saying, this whisper, do you know?”

“No idea. Jus’ sounded like whispering.”

“Probably the wind blowing through the brush or something,” Hammond joined in.

“Yeah,” Slett smiled, “That and my imagination.”

The day progressed from there as the three companions set out to have a look around the large rock by which they were camped. Hammond had his new metal detector and was eagerly scanning the light brown earth in hopes of making a discover of something, anything, but so far nothing.

“Hey, guys,” Philips shouted, “Look at this!”

The other two hurried over to where Philips was now on his hands and knees looking beneath one of the many smaller rocks that littered the larger rock. They soon could see a slight crawl way beneath the stone and each became eager in his own way to learn what lay behind it.

Gently, they pulled some of the rock fragments away and found bare earth beneath. With a flashlight, it was realized that the hole continued beyond the one rock and possibly continued into the largest rock.

“You should go first Slett, you’re the skinniest of us.”

“Naw, I’m not too thrilled with crawling through tight spaces. I think we ought to search up top and see if we can find a way in from there.”

Soon they were climbing over the natural rock fall, looking into cracks and crevasses for a hidden entrance.

“Over here,” Philips called.

Straight down between another rock and the large rock was a two foot opening, about three feel long. It was not a certainty that the shaft under the first rock led further into a cave of some sort in the larger rock.

Without being asked, Slett slid down the side, between the rocks and climbed into the darkened hole. Hammond dropped the flashlight down to him and Slett waited for the other two to enter their newly found hole.

Once all three were on the ground, they proceeded to venture into the opening of the tunnel.

“It’s natural.”

“It’s not very wide though.”

“And look at how shallow it is.”

The shallowness, the depth of the cave was apparent by the three large bronze bells that rested near the back wall. They were burnished with a green-tint of a mouldering patina, that told them that the bells had been there for years.

“Wow, this could be worth some money.”

“Forget money, this is a great archaeological find.”

“Anyone know what ‘Voq’u’u-lo Zaa-q’ran’ means?”

They looked up at where Slett aimed the flashlight. The words were etched clearly into the obviously smoothed-out cyclopean surface of the rock face above the trio of bells.

“No idea.”

“Is it Spanish or Basque or both?”

“It looks like a warning.”

Philips picked up a fist sized rock and struck the bell nearest him. It made a very dull clanging sound, but was enough to echo about the small cave.

Small pieces of the roof dropped around the three and their newly discovered treasure. Unable to seek protection, each stood where they were and covered their heads.

The falling rocks bounced of the bells and a din continued to rumble about the cavern, bringing down more slag. Eventually, the falling rock stopped and the place grew quiet once more.

“Shit! Don’t do that again!”

“Sorry.”

“Shhh!”

The three men stood motionless, each listening and each hearing a muffled dragging noise, like damp canvass. It came from everywhere and with it roiled a foul odor that none could describe.

“Holy. Mother of..!” one cried as Slett dropped the beam of the flashlight to the ground of the cave.

The dirt and stone floor was alive with the slithering and undulating bodies of snakes, which poured from crevices in the walls and from under the bells. Without another word, the three scrambled for the mouth of the cave and scurried up the wall through the opening they’d located less than half-an-hour earlier.

“Anyone bitten?” Hammond asked breathlessly.

The other two shook their heads vigorously, indicating that they had escaped the vipers pit without being injured. They watched in frightened fascination as hordes of Great Basin Rattlesnakes spread out across the desert, disappearing into the nearby brush and rocky terrain.

By mid-afternoon, the mass of snakes had quit pouring from the cave and all of it’s many nooks and crannies, and the three men felt it safe enough to return to camp and begin carefully dismantling the site, albeit a day early. None were aware of the malevolent figure that stood high above them.

It was Zaa-q’ran, the god of death, who had been patiently awaiting re-release from his prison since the last ringing of the missing bells of San Javier. Slowly the skies began to darken as if a massive sand storm were filling the horizons.

“Anybody else’s eyes burning?”

“Now that you ask, yeah, they are.”

“Mine, too. Let’s get outta here!”