"The Song of Moher" by Josh Fernandez

I was young when I opened my eyes and felt the current of the sea—slow, steady, stoic, almost as if it was its heartbeat. I remember the dark, warm water and the fish that gathered right above me, whispering in a language only they understand. I had known of corals, of soft green grass, of pebbles, in which the fish would seek shelter from. I would find amusement at the sight and laugh but I never caught their attention. Not once I did. Perhaps the fish were too busy chatting with themselves, perhaps they simply chose not to hear me, or perhaps—the one I dreaded most—they cannot hear me. I had considered all possibilities and felt a tug within; one I am unable and afraid to word. Then I grew tired. Slowly, I let my eyes drift, and my consciousness followed suit.

When I open my eyes again, I see a world entirely different from the one I once had seen. It is bright, unreserved, and unquiet. I notice a drastic change in me as well. I am huge, all shoulders, and rigid. It seems I have stood here for a time I cannot gauge. The sea rages below me when it once cradled me with its heartbeat. The wind brushes past as if trying to tell me stories from places I shall never see. The clouds tower above me as if boasting its liberty. But it is all in my mind; nothing ever speaks to me. They couldn’t, they have no way of knowing that I am listening.

I had attempted to name this tug within. It was not quite loneliness, not quite sorrow. A single word seemed too shallow to render the depths of how I feel. I saw myself a disappointment. I am not able to move, nor speak, nor turn away from what I am made to witness. The best that could be said of me is that I am beautiful and birds nestle around my body. But I am more than that. I am more than a wall of shale, more than just huge stones. I am an accumulation of memories.

I remember the first feet to stand upon me, the first steps I heard aside from the birds’ tiny talons. They were light, cautious, wary, as if afraid I might crack beneath them. They called themselves humans and looked out with awe, eyes full of the distance, never noticing me beneath. They spoke in a tongue I did not yet know but I understood the sound of wonder. They built a fort atop me and called it Mothar, a name meant for walls and watchmen. With it came the crowds that spilled laughter and tears that echoed across my shoulders. I witnessed the fort crumble and become a ruin, but the name did not. It clung to me, outlasting the very thing it was meant to mark until I was no longer just cliffs. I was Moher. The cliffs of the ruined fort.

I have stood far earlier than they have walked but humans possess complexity far beyond what my years of existence can understand. I am a silent witness to war, violence, and desperation—history they write about in textbooks. But I also hold the untold stories of these small, soft, and restless beings. I remember a young man kneeling at the edge of my shoulder, clutching a letter he never sends, letting the sea swallow it. I remember a boy with a wooden flute, who played a tune so gentle it seemed the waves themselves slowed to listen. When he stopped, he looked at the distance and waved goodbye as if the sea would wave back. I remember lovers tracing their initials onto the soil that lay over me, leaving a mark of their bond only for rain to seize it within hours. I remember a young girl who had lain and pressed her hands against me as if I might answer back—I couldn’t. I remember travelers, who explored the terrain and captured the beauty I offered. Yet they leave, always, and I hold their footsteps for moments before the wind takes them. None stay to ask what I have seen.

And I am not spared from witnessing those who stood too near the edge. Their eyes hollowed and tired, their breaths tight, and their hearts breaking in ways I could feel but not quite ease. I am unable to move, not even tremble, to try and stop them. They leapt, for the stillness they hoped the sea would hold for them. I could only watch as they vanish into the waters that once cradled me, wishing for the umpteenth time that I could reach. But I couldn’t.

These are stories not etched in history books, nor taught in schools, nor have monuments built for them, but are as full and as lived as the ones that are. I feel for them in the way that they are silent, untold, unable to be heard, just as I am. The world does not know them, but I do. In my stillness, I carry them all within the rigid stones and the tiny crevices of my body. The sea still rages below, the wind brushes past, the clouds still roam freely, and humans leave just as swiftly as they come. But I remain. Still, stoic, and immovable. It is a strange burden, to hold so much and never be held in return. Perhaps that was the tugging all along: the endless act of knowing, and never being known.

I stand on the west coast of a place called Ireland—a rigid mosaic of untold stories, of memories. This is my song, one that bears no melody. The cliffs of Moher, so I am called. I am not able to move, nor speak, nor reach. But I remember, and perhaps that is enough.