The Embattled Apache Wells (Part 1)

[Deatu]

"Is this the place Friar?" exclaimed the young Novice Monk. Novice O'Lowery squinted and put his hand over his eyes to shield the sun. The massive lake reflected its rays like a glowing shield in the late afternoon. Friar Beirne looked up and from the dusty trail he was walking on. With a walking stick in hand, he took the opportunity to take off his wide brimmed hat with his spare meaty hand to fan himself as sweat dripped profusely on his large forehead and down his rosy, portly cheeks. He was in no means prepared physically for the long journey from the East. Huffing, and barely comprehendible, he mumbled a curse and a prayer under his breath as he limped his way to the saddle where Novice O’Lowery stood. “We have been climbing all day, with all these previous false hopes of the pass at each ascent, we must be in Purgatory as there is no end to this!” he thought. But his pessimism and doubt quickly cleared as his short rounded frame crested the saddle to where the Novice stood. Below them, several thousand feet down, the great expanse of the Tahoe Basin opened up beyond the sugar pines and chaparral. The haze from the heat blurred the western shore of the lake, but it was clearly evident that they had nearly arrived at the lake they had been directed to establish a Monastery on.

Three days later, the Friars were on level ground and found themselves approaching an opening in the tree line. Their pack mules were laden with heavy books, clothes, sparse remnants of salted meats, tack bread and a lone donkey responsible for carrying a small cask of beer on each side of the small beast of burden. The Apache had silently observed the party ever since a lookout on the peak sent notice to the tribe three days earlier. Various archers were staged just out of site in ambush points along the trade route to their main village. A lone elder and medicine man walked on foot to greet the two holy men and their pack train to purify them with sage before entering their hallowed ground. While portions of the spoken stories have been lost during this time, it is believed that the commonality of reverence between the Apache and the odd, pasty men forged a similar bond which allowed them to stay near their village for the remainder of the year.

“It’s been over two seasons now Friar, do you think it’s time to start teaching the Apache about our necessity for a Monastery? The Brotherhood instructed us to construct immediately and I fear that we are terribly behind schedule.” Novice O’Lowery ‘the worry wart’ questioned. “I told you all in good time!” yelled Friar Beirne. His quick Irish temper always flared when he was challenged on any of his decisions. The Apache were much more difficult to convert than he anticipated. In fact, only the youth seemed receptive about one faith, one Creator. “At this pace, it would take generations to convert the populous to our cause.” thought Friar Beirne as he looked down at his plans, flipping a gold coin over and over in deep thought. “That’s it!” he yelled…

Eight years into his build date, Friar Beirne was anxious, very anxious. The Order was coming to visit on his progress this month and he was severely behind schedule. Realizing the surrounding mountains possessed gold, he had essentially minted his own coin to purchase the Apache labor in order build the ever growing monastery. While the tribe toiled away at a false promise of a share of the riches from the trade it would bring, hardly any member of the Apache truly shared the same beliefs as the two Friars. As Friar Beirne yelled and carried on the work being done, Novice O’Lowery continued the teachings of his faith to the youth. He tried to distance himself with Beirne as he began to see a part in their perspective of things. While O’Lowery himself still felt compelled to share his faith, he saw Friar Beirne becoming utterly consumed in the construction of the stonework. He hoped at some point he could see his mentor relax and again focus on his faith rather than his development.

The group of five holy men gathered at the foundation of the tall monastery, each looking up at the stonework reaching into the sky. Friar Beirne and Novice O’Lowery fidgeted with their cloth behind their backs in nervous anticipation. The Apache Tribe had formed a semi-circle behind the two Friars, with their Medicine Man standing to the right of the greeting party. As the travelers approached, they noticed the spires of the religious school had no roofs, the furthest corner spire wasn’t even finished. The priority of their order was to have this place ready before they arrived, and Friar Beirne knew it. Despite setbacks and waning thin the patience of the Apache, the great monastery was too much for Beirne.

“Greetings Brother Bennedict!” Berine said as he greeted his elder. “What news is this!?! In your letters you stated progress was well in time for completion!” exclaimed the eldest Friar. Expecting such a reaction, Friar Beirne began to list many excuses as to what the delay was, but his superiors were not having any of it. “We made this journey thousands of miles…” Friar Bennedict began before falling into a severe coughing fit. Another member of his party passed him a flagon of mead for him to sip before he finished, “…thousands of miles for naught! You were explicit in your instructions. You KNEW and knowingly lied about your situation! You realize what a sin this is don’t you?!? My health is not well, and I am afraid that our Brotherhood will not be pleased with such news. As is such, we were intending to stay longer to recover, but with this bout of illness, I am afraid we cannot stay longer than to replenish and return to the east with this sad news. I would hope that by the time we reach home, this will be finished and our missionary work will continue. Sadly and with regret, I don’t expect your Brotherhood here will not last beyond our return journey.” Friar Bennedict finished. Friar Beirne tried to respond, but felt a grasp on his elbow. It was Novice O’Lowery silently encouraging him to remain silent.

The next day, a solemn exit occurred at the gatehouse of the Apache-built monastery. The Brotherhood quietly rode east on mule-back, with Friar Bennnedict slumped over his mule at the rear, coughing and pulling his cloak over his head. Only O’Lowery raised his hand in reverent departure. As they made the turn, Friar Beirne angrily stormed off, frustrated from the lack of progress and he put the blame solely on the Apache. “Damn them! They knew… THEY KNEW!” he thought angrily. Beirne quickly ascended the steps of the stonework, he was so angry. He wanted to watch the last of the party leave his hard-earned work. Taking each step higher, he began to feel tightness in his lungs, his fat body was not accustomed to such hard work. Taking a right at the top of the stairs, he went into the unfinished spire to watch the Brotherhood leave his territory. As he gasped for breath, he walked to the corner of the room where the walls only reached the first tier of brick above the floor. Gazing out the expanse, he saw Friar Bennedict bobbing and swaying with his mule. “Curse you, you cantankerous old fool!” mumbled the Friar. As if by some divine word, Friar Bennedict’s mule stopped. The profile of the cloaked man began to slump forward over his mount, and he fell to the side off his mule. Alarmed, Friar Beirne stepped closer to the precipice to see what had happened. As the other trail party members realized the Friar had fallen off his mount, Beirne began to panic. His heart began to race even more wildly than it was from ascending the large staircase to his perch. “What have I done?” he panicked. Taking a step back from the ledge, he clipped his heel on a brick that had not been set. Flailing manically, his pudgy leg, weary from the climb, did not have the strength to stabilize him from the fall. Shortly after Bennedict fell, dying of disease, Beirne fell to his death sixty meters below his failed vision.

This was just the beginning of the heartbreak from the fall of the two Friars. O’Lowery was so distraught over the loss, he agreed to bury his mentor and his mentor’s mentor in the shadows of the monastery and return to the east. Sadly the party that was with Bennedict became overtaken by the same disease. The Brotherhood never made it home. They made it as far as the Washo hunting grounds before being isolated from travel due to a severe snowstorm. While waiting out nature’s fury, each Friar slowly succumbed to disease and death. Not even the Washo Medicine, Man called to assist them from another valley, was able to avoid the sickness. And, sadly, even the Apache and Washo succumbed to the same deaths as their visitors did over the next several years, leaving the Tahoe Basin and the Washo Valley void of inhabitants for years.

The only remnants were the wood and stonework left from echoes past. The only sounds emitting from their walls are Osprey, the sound of waves lapping the shoreline, and the gentle babbling of the six waterfalls and rivers.