On the Watch and Other Stories

On the Watch

The waves of the Atlantic Ocean frothed as they hit the scarred rocks at the bottom of the Cliffs of Moher. Liam stood at the edge and looked at the sea from almost 200 yards below him. The spray glistened in the sun, as a powerful wind carried it to the grassy top of the cliffs. He was a lookout, stationed at the Tower of Moher, erected to protect Ireland from Napoleon and his fleet from Europe. He had left the tower and moved to the rim to enjoy an unusually sunny day and the magnificent view from the cliffs. Below him glided a seagull desperately trying to reach its nest in the steep face, but being blown away by the wind over and over again. Suddenly, Liam noticed a spot of color in the south. He drew a spyglass from his belt to scan the shimmering seas and sharply drew in his breath at the sight. Just visible at the edge of the horizon was the Tricolor, although it was barely visible in the flickering heat. Immediately, Liam turned around and ran towards the Tower of Moher to sound the alarm.

The French invasion had begun.

He sped over the meadows that covered the cliffs, hardly noticing the soft grass around his ankles. His foot got caught in a muddy hole. Wrenching it free, he kept running. The squelching of his left boot blended with his exhausted breaths as he reached the entrance of the tower. Like most of the Irish fortifications, the Tower of Moher was built as a square building of limestone. For years, it had been standing as a lonely observer over the beauty of the Irish coast. On top of it was a beacon that could be lighted to alarm the guard-houses that were located further inland. Without stopping, Liam burst into the guard-room and cried, ”Light the beacon, the French are coming!”

He had entered a murky room only dimly lit by some torches along the walls. The smell of tobacco closed in on his nose and the smoke of several pipes obscured his vision. The guards in the room looked at him, shocked and petrified by the news. Sean, an elder guardsman, reacted first: “Are you sure? We cannot act until we are assured of their presence. Where did you see them?”

“Just south of here, I spotted the Tricolour on the horizon. I am not mistaken. We have to light the beacon at once,” urged Liam. But Sean insisted on confirming the message himself. He passed Liam, a decisive air surrounding him, and walked down towards the edge of the cliffs. Liam was outraged by the way Sean disrespected not just his credibility, but also the ways of the guard. It would have been easy to climb the tower and watch the sea from this vantage point. Additionally, he would have been able to light the beacon quickly. Instead, he took the long, slow way to the edge, where sprays of water decreased the visibility even further.

But since Liam was not able to question the elder and more respected guard directly, he had to grin and bear Sean’s behavior. As they got closer to the edge, Liam began to expect him to catch sight of the ships and he watched his face for signs of recognition or shock. Since nothing like this happened, Liam started to search the horizon for signs of the French, too. Within seconds, he spotted a colorful dot in the distance and indicated it to Sean. He could not have been more astonished by the other’s reaction if Sean had just walked away. Instead the old guardsman started to laugh. “You fool, that is nothing but the hot air distorting the sails of a fishing boat.”

Liam couldn’t believe the ignorance of one whom he had always considered to be a wise and kind man. “No, don’t you see? The French are coming, we must warn the other guards. Just wait, you will distinguish the boats when they get closer.”

Sean stopped laughing now, and looked seriously into Liam’s face. “Don’t make up tales about grave matters such as this. Come back inside with me, you need to get out of the sun.” But Liam did not move to follow Sean. As the other guard walked back and composed the other sentinels, Liam remained on the cliff and watched the spot in the distance.

As the sun crept over the blue sky, Liam remained as a silent guard: never moving, never faltering. But when the sun lowered and bathed the cliffs and the sea in a red coat, the air cooled down and the spot of color vanished. In the blink of an eye, Liam turned around and, once more, raced for the tower. Only this time, he did not enter through the front door. While he had stood on the watch, he hadcome to the conclusion that the guards would not believe him, since Sean had probably already spread false information regarding Liam’s credibility. He was convinced that the French had now lowered their flags to attack at nightfall, and it was clear to him that he had to be the one to act. The stone of the tower felt rough under his fingers as he climbed the outer wall towards the beacon. He reached for a window to pull himself up, but too late did he realize that it was opened and so his hand reached into the room and knocked down a dagger lying on the ledge. He started to climb with increased effort, since he was sure the sound would alarm the other guards. He was right.

As he reached the top of the tower, the head of Sean protruded from the window, looking to the left, to the right, to the bottom and at last to the top of the tower. Sean immediately realized Liam’s plan and, as his head vanished, Liam could hear him shouting for the other guards to go to the beacon. Liam knew he would not have much time to light the beacon so he quickly pulled himself over the edge. The pile of wood was already soaked in oil when he reached it and he quickly reached for the flintstone lying next to it. Suddenly, the trapdoor next to the beacon burst open and a group of guards emerged, lead by Sean. They charged for Liam and overcame him with ease, but he had already achieved his goal. Smoke and small sparks rose into the darkening sky and drew faint traces in the serene blue of the falling night. Soon the whole beacon was on fire and immersed the top of the tower and the shapes of the guards in golden light.

Liam could see pure anger in the faces of the guards and heard their shouts and calls for punishment. But deep inside, he did not care for his fate. He had fulfilled his mission: he had lit the beacon, and when the French arrived, they would face not just the guards of the tower, but also the reinforcements that were bound to arrive soon. With this in mind, he thought the trouble would be worth it if they threw him into a cell until they realized their mistake, and did not object as they chained his arms and legs together. Their intentions did not even become clear to him as they raised him into the sky. Only when the guards approached the beacon instead of the trapdoor, did fear spread through his chained limbs. As adrenaline filled his veins, he noticed every small detail around him. The missing finger of one of the guards carrying him, the air rushing over his skin as he was thrown into the flames, the smell of the flames as they embraced his body. The next moment, his clothes caught fire and he started to scream. He twisted and tossed around, desperately trying to get rid of his shackles, but the strain only made the metal cut into his flesh. As the pain became unbearable, anger and malicious glee filled his soul. The guards had no idea that they just burned the savior of Ireland, but in his last, piercing scream, he swore he would never let them forget.

From that day on, stories arose about the Tower of Moher. With the tales of the peaceful and mesmerizing cliffs merged now the tales of an evil spirit that haunted the place. Every day at sundown, a silent guardian would show on top of the Tower of Moher, watching the ocean and surrounding cliffs for signs of unwelcome visitors.

One day, not too long ago, the ghost’s fate changed yet again. In all the years of his vigil, no French soldier had shown his face, nor had the Tricolor been raised around him. But in the last decade, many peaceful people had wandered the cliffs he was watching. People talking in strange tongues, people who would show up once and then go forever, only to be replaced by other, even stranger faces. One day, a boy and his mother came around his tower. The mother was reading from a small pamphlet, and told her son that the tower had been built to protect Ireland from the French fleet of Napoleon. She also talked about how it was told that a ghost haunted its walls for almost three centuries, screaming for revenge for a crime long forgotten. “But why does the ghost want revenge, when no one can remember what they did wrong?” asked the boy. His mother could not answer the question, but neither could the ghost. He watched them disappear in the distance, as they walked along the cliffs and marveled at the sight of the cliffs. When they were long gone, he was still pondering the questions the boy had asked, for they had opened his mind to the seed of forgiveness.

That evening, a storm struck the cliffs of Moher. Dark clouds clenched over the green meadows, and the waves almost reached the top of the steep face. The rain hit the grass and whipped it into the ground, creating vast areas of mud. But in the middle of this mayhem stood the tower, as serene as a thought of forgiveness in a vengeful mind. As the sun touched the horizon, the clouds in the west opened and a single ray of light hit the top of the tower. Like a shining bridge of gold, it seemed to clutch to the clouds through the spiteful rain, as a faint sigh, nearly drowned by the storm, sounded over the cliffs. From that day on, nobody told haunting stories about the tower.