The Watcher

Sarns Castle stands near an ancient trackway high on the downland above the village where
I was born. It is not particularly impressive, and not a castle, just a mound some 300 feet in
diameter, 40 or 50 feet high, and surrounded by ash trees. The experts say that is the
remains of an Iron Age hill fort, some 2,500 years old. There were and are - those in the
village who say otherwise. They say it is older, and its purpose is less clear.
I can recall a few tales from my childhood. Some said that if you walked around it seven
times the Devil would emerge. Others said that gold and jewels were buried in the mound.
And some spoke quietly, occasionally, of old Sarn a warrior according to some, or even a
king? - who gave his name to the place, and who guarded it still.
But mostly, people said nothing. It was little discussed, and if children or tourists asked
questions, the subject was quickly changed. I do know that we were never actually warned
against the place, but somehow we rarely wanted to go there either. I did climb the mound
once, in my early teens, on a dazzling summer day. I remember a feeling of unease, and the
sensation that although I could see the sun beating down, I was cut off from its heat.
Although a light breeze had been blowing, it was suddenly very still. And there were no birds.
I remember that.
I never went up there again for years. Not deliberately steering clear of the place, just with
the idea tucked far away in the back of my mind that it was best avoided. And village life went
on, the yearly cycle of sowing, growing and harvesting, and for me and my friends in the little
school the steady pace of growing up, with all its related joys and despairs.
The greatest joy was Ann. We had been friends from early childhood, but as we turned
sixteen, friendship turned more and more to love. I knew, with a teenagers certainty, that she
was all I would ever want. And if Ann was more careful with her emotions, still she loved me,
and Ann and Jimmy were known by all the village to be going steady as they said in those
days.
We used to go walking. We knew every path and track for miles around, and the walk along
the ridge of the downs was our favourite. We trod that path in summer heat, and in the iron
frost of a winters afternoon. We watched the flowers emerge in spring, and the leaves turn to
gold in the autumn. Often we passed near Sarns Castle, but I dont remember ever speaking
of it. That seems curious, but I think I know why a little warning voice, away back in my
mind, that insisted some things should not be discussed. The voice was gone almost before I
heeded it, but it was there, always there
The summer of our nineteenth birthdays was the hottest for years. Well into September, day
followed day of cloudless skies. We would walk in the evenings, along our known pathways
far from the village, and lying in the still-warm ripening corn we made love. There was no
hurry, we had all our lives to come, and our lives would be spent together. Everything was
perfect. How long ago it seems.
It was around the middle of that hot September that our steps took us yet again along the
ridge. It was the evening of an unusually still day, warm, and with the earthy scents of early
autumn rising from the fields below us. The light was beginning to fade as we headed home,
and the ash trees surrounding Sarns Castle cast long shadows on the mound. Of a sudden,
Ann paused.
Thats a strange place, she said. I remember it seemed odd that she should comment, we
had passed that way so many times before. And straight away, that little voice in my head
was giving its warning.
Yes I replied, and this time the internal voice did not die away but seemed louder. Dont
speak of it. Move on, move on.
But Ann was stock-still, staring hard at the mound. She wore a puzzled expression, and
appeared to be listening to or was it for? something.
Come on I said. Its getting dark.

She turned to me, smiling now. Lets climb it. Weve never been up there.
Long buried memories of my earlier experience were stirring. I knew without question that I
did not want to climb that mound. But I was nineteen, fit and strong. I had no excuse. How,
at that age, do you tell the girl you love that youre afraid to climb a hill?
So we did. On that still, warm evening we climbed Sarns Castle, Ann going steadily,
purposefully, me telling myself that there was nothing wrong in this, but feeling like an
intruder. At the flattened, circular summit Ann looked around her. The sun was low now, and
in the fields the shadows of the hedges stretched out over the stubble. She seemed to be
searching for something in the trees, perhaps and, not finding it, was satisfied.
Happy now? I asked. Lets go.
Ann smiled, a slow calm smile. No she said. Theres something I want to do.
What happened next is etched inside me, not as a narrative, but as a series of vivid individual
memories, some of them no more than single pictures. The picture of Ann pulling her t-shirt
over her head. Of the low sunlight picking out the muscle of her shoulders and the deep
curve of her breasts. The sound of her jeans unzipping, the electricity of watching her walking
naked toward me. Shadows in the small of her back as she lay in the grass, me kneeling and
pulling her to me, the light emphasising the curve of her spine as she stretched upwards.
Tiny beads of moisture on her shoulder blade, her dark hair tangled on her neck, and her
sharp, ecstatic cry.
As we dressed, I wondered why she had come to this place, and had she intended this to
happen here all along. And if so, why? Turning away for an instant, I felt her hand on my
shoulder, and was shocked by how cold her fingers were. I turned again, to hold her hand
and warm it.
She wasnt next to me. She was several paces away, buckling her belt. For a fraction of a
second I thought I saw behind her the tall figure of a man, cloaked and with the face hidden
by a cowl. And then it was gone.
I love you, Jimmy. Her bright voice, and warm, eager smile crashed against my fear. I
steadied myself, and I dont think she noticed anything. Ive little memory of exactly what I did
or said, but I got us away from that place as fast as I could, I know that.
We were silent as we descended the rough track that led home, and Ann seemed puzzled
about something again. Eventually she spoke. It is a strange place, Jimmy. I suddenly felt I
wanted to go there, and I wanted us to make love there. She paused. But not again. Not
there.
As you may guess, I didnt argue with that. And it was dark when we reached the village. I
dont think that Ann saw the tall man standing in the lych gate as we passed the church.
That evening changed our lives for ever. In our village, an unmarried pregnancy was still
scandalous. But neither Ann nor I resisted the family demands that we should marry,
because it was all that we wanted. And so, in the parish church of Saint Martin, Ann Brown
and Jimmy Pegler were lawfully joined together. And as we stood at the altar, no-one but me
seemed to notice the uninvited guest who watched us from the shadows by the font.
With help from our parents we found a cottage in the village, and for the first time we were
living together. Anns pregnancy passed normally, and as our baby grew, the thrill of touching
her stomach, and feeling the little convulsive kicks was a constant delight, though I could see
how tired she became. I never loved Ann better than at this time, and never had we seemed
so close. The joy of it all was enough, sometimes, to banish even the fear of Him.

Him. That was what I called the stranger. He became almost familiar. If I walked down the
lane, he would be standing by the corner, and always, always, would move out of sight well
before I approached him. When I turned the corner his tall figure would be there again in the
distance. Sometimes he was following me, and if I stopped to speak to someone in the
village, I would catch sight of him down the street, waiting for me to move on. And if I paused
long anywhere, even at home, I would be conscious of him, just out of vision in the corner of
my eye. Turn to look directly at him, and he was gone, but carry on with my life again, and he
would be there, watching, until I tried again to see him more clearly.
I wondered, of course, if this was all imagination. After all, he never tried to do me harm,
never tried to communicate in any way that I was aware of. Perhaps it was just that the
sudden change in our lives had affected me in some way. But I never convinced myself, and I
knew I believed in him because I never told Ann what was happening. As far as I know, she
knew nothing of him. It was the only secret I ever kept from her.
I will never forget the birth of my son, in Branby Royal Hospital. There was the feeling of utter
helplessness that I could do nothing about Anns terrible pain, but there was also the pure
elation of watching that new life come, kicking and screaming, into the world. He was a fine
healthy boy, who we had already decided would be named Adam. But for Ann, there were
complications. Nothing too serious, I was told, but she would need to stay in hospital for a
few days. And so I spent the first night after my boys birth alone in our cottage.
And alone I was. From the moment we entered the hospital, I had not seen Him. I remember
glancing out of the delivery room window, half-expecting no, fully expecting to see him
standing out there, somewhere. But there was nothing. And now as I sat staring at the wall,
almost too tired to go to bed, he was not with me.
I hardly need to tell you the next part of our story. If you read the papers or watched
television around that time, you will know what happened to us. The abduction of a baby from
a hospital ward would always make the news, and in our case there was the added spice that
nobody not a single person saw anything. Adam just vanished, from his cot by her bed,
as Ann slept. The police had not a clue as to where he might be, or who had taken him.
But I thought that I might know. It took me most of the evening to prepare myself. I was
terrified, but I knew that anything anything at all that might bring back my boy had got to
be done. Which is why, late on that fine June evening, I set out to walk up to the ridge.
Sarns Castle looked as it always did, stark, scrubby, and neglected. As I climbed the steep
side I was more conscious than ever of the oppressive silence. But there was something else
too, a sense of expectancy, of waiting. This time I did not feel an intruder.
Reaching the plateau I sat down. I thought of speaking, but something told me to hold my
peace. And so I watched, as the light faded, and the shadows of the trees crept toward me.
The silence was total. And then I heard the voice. It was too faint at first to distinguish
anything, but the rhythm suggested chanting. And then it was audible.
So. You have come for him. The voice was thin and dry, like the rustle of paper. It seemed
to come from an immense distance, and had no clear focus but rather, was all around me.
You have my boy? I asked, though I knew the answer.
Yes
Why did you take him?'
He is needed.
Who needs him?
Sarn.

Who is Sarn? Is it you?

I am not Sarn, though I guard him. He speaks through me. The voice seemed to be
gathering itself into one point now, and the focus was in front of me, in the trees, where I
thought I glimpsed a familiar, hooded figure. As if sensing my need to know more, it
continued. Sarn was king here once, in the days when kings had power. He sleeps now, far
beneath you. Only I can wake him, if there be need.
Why does he want my child?
To guard this place, and to keep watch. To take my part. I will teach him. The voice
paused, as if gathering what strength it had left. I am the Watcher. I have been here long
past my living time. I am owed peace, and final rest. Sarn will give me that, if he is still
guarded
But why Adam?
I brought the girl here, and you followed her. His seed was sown here. It is fitting.
We spoke long that night, but what was said will remain with me. The rest you probably know,
for of course the end of the story also made all the newspapers. How a telephone call to
Branby police told them to go to our cottage. How Adam was found alone in the house, but
sleeping safe and warm, tucked in the cot we had bought for him. It was the only time I got to
put my boy to bed. I kissed him, told him I loved him, and said goodbye.
And of course the papers had great fun with their speculating about what I had or hadnt done
in the hours before my body was found on Sarns Castle. The coroner recorded an open
verdict, as the cause of death was unclear, and the mysteries of who took Adam, who
returned him, and what happened to me, kept everyone talking for weeks.
My body was buried in the graveyard of Saint Martins, and my beautiful Ann brings Adam to
the grave most days. But I am not there, and my wife and child grieve only over a mound of
earth in a little English churchyard.
And heed this warning. Do not come to Sarns Castle. If you do, I will watch, and I will judge.
You see, the old king drives a hard bargain.
I am the Watcher now.