The Tower (Ireland)

 The Tower

Vacation tours always remind me of Greta Garbo. About midway through, I “vant to be alone,” as that old time Swedish movie star used to say. My chance came at the lunch stop. According to my guidebook, Ireland's most beautiful bronze grave covers lay within walking distance. I could make it there and back in an hour.
While the rest of the group studied menus, I slipped away, passing quaint, squeezed-together stores, all labeled with Irish surnames. No anonymous K-Marts or Better Burgers in this country.

A map led me to an ancient, boarded up church, where a caretaker next door handed me a heavy iron key and pointed toward an imposing gate set in the high stone wall that surrounded the cemetery.

“Now see that ye lock yourself in, young lady,” the man said in a winsome Gaelic brogue. “Ye'll be safe from robbers, that ye'll be.”

I hadn't thought of robbers. The guidebook had mentioned a resident ghost, but I took that as a come-on for tourists. I hesitated before inserting the key, then pushed against the gate, which gave screech that could have awakened demons.Thin, lemony sunlight failed to brighten the graveyard, where the spectral old abbey loomed appearing in imminent danger of collapse. If only I had arrived a few centuries earlier, I thought, I could have seen it in all its medieval splendor. As I strolled among the graves, each fully covered by a bronze tablet--some from the ninth century, I was captured by the serenity and melancholy of the place. Nodding grasses cast shifting designs on the elaborate scroll work, forcing me to bend close to decipher the ancient script.  Sensing a movement out of the corner of my eye I turned, but saw only a stone tower with an empty balcony near the top at the other end of the cemetery. The guidebook said it had once been a lookout for arriving ships and afforded a fine view of Wexford's historic harbor. I'd have time for a quick look.

The Tower, page 2

As I approached, the tower increasingly resembled an enormous, slightly tapered, several stories high stone chimney. When I stepped inside, dank air enveloped me like a cloak. Patches of black moss peppered the walls and crept out on the wide, deep steps that took up most of the floor and apparently served as foundation for the heavy structure. The steps continued upward, circling the wall, diminishing as they ascended. I could see a faint opening to the balcony I had glimpsed from across the graveyard and a round patch of sky far above. Intermittent slits along the way barely let in enough light to pierce the gloom. A heavy odor of decay permeated the place and explained why any railings had long since rotted away, leaving the right side of the steps open to the center void.
I started up, careful to avoid scattered rubble. As the stairs gradually narrowed and became more shallow, the vertical apertures appeared, and I paused at each one to take in the slash of blue harbor and series of rooftops set in the emerald velvet hills. Archers must have watched for invaders through those same narrow openings.

The stairs corkscrewed upward, my left hand sliding along the time-slicked wall, but I scarcely noticed the shrinking underfoot as the brightness of the sunlit views blinded me to details of the dim interior. As I neared the opening at the top, the steps became more weather worn and triangular, some stones shifting under my tread.

Angling my foot to fit on a next step caused a pebble to roll off and, after a pause, “ping” far below. At the sound, a chill chased up my spine, and I suddenly became aware of the chasm at my feet..  Against all reason, I could not resist looking down. Instantly, a band of steel seemed to whip around my chest, shutting off my breath. I managed to  wrench my gaze away and slammed back against the wall, arms outstretched in a futile search for a hand hold.  Afraid I would tumble forward from the force of my backward thrust, I forced myself to relax and looked up at the patch of sky, willing myself not look down again. Dark clouds hovered. Please, no rain, please, I begged, picturing wet moss and stones.

“Missy?”

Shock washed over me. A man stood silhouetted in the balcony doorway.

“Missy, don't ye be afraid now,” his voice soft, soothing, unmistakeably Irish.

“Now Missy, don't look down, and don't ye move.”

I was beyond either. The man, young and roughly dressed, continued to speak in a comforting tone as he slowly made his way down the steps. I remained catatonic.

“Stay just as ye are, Missy, I'm going to step around ye now, and then I'll help ye down. Sure and ye'll be all right.” The man swung around me to the step below. He told me to take one hand off the wall, turn slowly and place it on his shoulder—without looking down.

“I can't.”

“Sure ye can. Look at me and do what I say,” his voice now commanding.

Like a limpet to a rock, my hand seemed permanently attached to the wall, but the man's persistence finally won out and I was was able to follow his instructions and inch my way down facing the wall, gripping his fingers until they must have hurt.  I never gave a thought to his danger in the event I hurtled off what was little more than a ledge. When the steps widened enough, I sat down to regain my composure. We both laughed a little in half-embarrassed relief, and my savior shrugged away my heartfelt thanks.

“I thought ye saw me on the balcony, and I'm not supposed to be here at all. Sure and I didn't think ye'd climb all the way up those stairs.” he said, with a rueful laugh, as we continued on down.

The bus was loading when I got back , and the chattering, familiar crowd had never seemed so dear.

“How were the bronze markers?” my husband asked, "You haven't said a word since you got back."
I was still bemused by  my experience, not ready to discuss what had happened.  Who was that man?  Where had he come from? 

“Hmm? Oh, I . . . . . changed my mind and just walked around.