‘Well?’ said the Archbishop in his let’s be friendly with the young, they are the congregations of the future, voice.
Matthew Heneghan coughed slightly. ‘I am Matthew Heneghan, Your Grace, son of Walter Heneghan the contractor. Forgive me, Your Grace,’ his father had told him five times before he left the summit that you called an archbishop Your Grace, ‘there’s a dead body in the chapel, sir, the chapel on the summit.’
A piece of toast, well smeared with Father Macdonald’s housekeeper’s finest home-made marmalade, was arrested halfway towards the Archbishop’s mouth. ‘A dead body, lad? Are you sure?’
‘My father and the others were absolutely certain, Your Grace. The man had been shot twice, once in the chest and once in the back of the head.’
The Archbishop’s toast, rather like Father Macdonald’s spirits, sank back towards his plate.
‘May the Lord have mercy on his soul,’ he said.
‘Your Grace, Your Grace,’ Father Macdonald had turned red with worry, ‘we’ll have to cancel the pilgrimage, won’t we? We can’t go on after this terrible news.’
‘Cancel the pilgrimage? What nonsense!’ boomed the Archbishop in such a loud voice that the housekeeper dropped her second best teapot on to the kitchen floor where it broke into hundreds of small pieces. ‘People die every day, after all, let’s not forget that. Somebody probably dies in the Westport area every year on Reek Sunday. It’s just they don’t choose it to do it in the chapel on the top. God’s will works in mysterious ways and I am sure He would want the event to continue.’ The Archbishop crossed himself with great ceremony. ‘We couldn’t stop all those special trains bringing people here anyway even if we wanted to. Tell me, young man, what’s happened to the body? Is it still there? In the chapel, I mean.’
‘Oh no, Your Grace, it’s being brought down the mountain the Louisburg route, that’s the opposite route to the one the pilgrims take. Then they’re going to hand it over to the police. I have to go to the police station here in Westport, sir, after I’ve finished with your reverences. To tell them about it, Your Grace.’
‘I presume,’ said the Archbishop, resuming work on his toast, ‘that nobody as yet knows the name of the dead man?’
‘No, Your Grace, I don’t think anybody up there had seen him before.’
‘Well, thank you, young man, thank you for coming down to tell us this terrible news. We mustn’t keep you from your duties with the police. And please give my best regards to your father when you next see him.’ That message, Matthew knew, would keep his father happy for weeks. What happiness you could bring into people’s lives if you were an archbishop. Matthew wondered briefly about joining the priesthood as he set out through the early morning light for the officers of the law.
Father Macdonald’s anxiety had not abated. That little red vein he so wished he could have removed was throbbing busily in his forehead. ‘We’ll have to keep it a secret, Your Grace, the death, I mean. Nobody must know.’
The Archbishop frowned. He glanced briefly at a painting of the disciples on the wall, one of them a man called Thomas. ‘I don’t think that would do, no, not at all. I have no idea how many people were at the summit when the body was found – it sounds as if the poor man was murdered now I think about it – and I have no idea how many people young Matthew will tell here in Westport. Word will get out. Much better to let the pilgrims know. That way they can’t accuse the Church of covering up unpleasant truths.’
‘B-but how?’ stammered Father Macdonald. ‘We can’t get anything printed in time. If you tell somebody on the way up the rumour will have multiplied it into half a dozen corpses or more by the way down.’
‘I expect there may even be a ballad about it before the day is out,’ said the Archbishop. ‘The answer is simple.’ He saw he would, as so often, have to take command. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll tell them. Find me three priests or Christian Brothers to act as stewards and we’ll hold the pilgrims up for ten or fifteen minutes or so at St Patrick’s statue. Then I’ll tell that batch what happened. Ten minutes later I’ll tell the next batch and so on until I have to set off for the summit. You can take over then.’
Father Macdonald nodded feebly. The prospect of having to address a crowd of a thousand people or so filled him with dread. The little red vein was working overtime already and he wasn’t even on the mountain. Oddly enough, for a man ordained into the priesthood, Father Macdonald hated public speaking.
The route to the summit of Croagh Patrick is not one that would be taken by a flying crow. It begins at Murrisk a couple of miles from the mountain itself and the path goes up to the top of the hill and then turns right to snake its way across the scree towards the peak. At the bottom the going is fairly benign, but later on the surface is composed of loose stones where the pilgrim slips back almost as far as he advances.
By eight o’clock there was a thin trickle of penitents beginning the climb, dressed as if going to church, the youths and the men in sober suits of dark grey with white shirts and caps on their heads, the women in long skirts with matching jackets in sombre colours, and hats, often purchased specially for the occasion. Powerscourt and Johnny and Lady Lucy were all soberly dressed as they arrived to start their ascent just after half past eight.
‘Don’t go and get converted now, for Christ’s sake,’ had been Dennis Ormonde’s parting words. ‘I’d never live it down.’
‘Are you going to say any prayers on the way up?’ Lady Lucy addressed her two men in turn.
‘Think I might manage the Lord’s Prayer a couple of times,’ Powerscourt said with a smile, ‘but not in the numbers these good people have to say. They have to get through industrial quantities of Hail Marys and things, I believe.’
‘If I think I’m going to fall off the edge of this damned mountain further up in that cloud,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, ‘I shall start praying like a bloody Jesuit.’
There was a family of four in front of them, young parents with children who must have been about eight or ten years old. The youngsters were larking about on the edge of the path, running further up to ambush their mother and father later on, the parents trying to persuade the children to conserve their energy for the more arduous territory ahead. A group of four nuns overtook them, their hands on the rosary beads, their lips moving silently. Powerscourt suspected they were going to pray all the way to the summit, and possibly all the way down, a whole day of pilgrimage and prayer and penitence. They passed an old couple, the woman bent, the man carrying a stick in his right hand and trying to help his wife with the other. Powerscourt thought they must be over seventy years old. They weren’t going to go all the way, the old woman assured Lady Lucy, just as far as their old legs would carry them and then they would have a rest. Within half an hour they had reached the statue of St Patrick, a great beacon of a thing with the bearded saint gazing out to sea. Here the procession seemed to halt. Powerscourt could see a couple of priests barring the route with a pair of long sticks held out over the path. After a few minutes, with the crowd behind them growing ever deeper, there was a great shout from one of the men in black.
‘Pray silence for His Grace the Very Reverend Dr John Healey, Archbishop of Tuam!’ The voice went right back down the mountain. Somebody seemed to have found some kind of impromptu platform for the Archbishop to stand on, raising him well above the crowd at the front and easily visible to those at the back.
‘Pilgrims of St Patrick!’ he began, his arms extended to encompass all his flock. ‘Brothers and Sisters in Christ, I welcome you to Ireland’s Holy Mountain today!’ There was a murmur of approval from the penitents. It wasn’t every day or every pilgrimage that you received a greeting in person from such a prince of the Church. The Archbishop raised his crook above him to quieten the noise. ‘I bring sad news for us all on this day. I want to tell you about it in person. Over the last six months, as many of you know, a new oratory or chapel has been constructed on the summit of this Holy Mountain. Later today we shall celebra
te Mass in this place and you will have the chance to observe the skill and devotion which have gone into the construction of the building.’ The Archbishop paused for a second. The crowd were completely silent. He could ask each person to kill his neighbour, Powerscourt thought, and such was the hold of his personality, they would probably do it. ‘This morning,’ Dr Healey went on, ‘this morning of all mornings, a dead body was found resting in the chapel. It was that of a young man. He had been shot. We do not yet know his name. God moves in mysterious ways, my friends, even on the mountains devoted to his glory. I was asked if I would consider cancelling the pilgrimage in view of this terrible event. My answer was No. I could not deny you the opportunity of penitence and devotion which mark Reek Sunday. I could not deny you the chance of the spiritual nourishment and the experience of God’s grace which so many find on this barren hillside, wrapped in cloud today, symbol of God’s mystery. I ask you to pray for the soul of the dead man whose body has been taken away to the appropriate authorities. I ask you to pray that he may find peace with our Father in heaven. Finally, let me repeat what I said at the beginning. Whether you live in Westport and the surrounding villages, or whether you lodge with us from distant parts for the duration of this pilgrimage, you are most welcome. May the Blessing of Father, Son and Holy Ghost be upon you.’ With that the Archbishop made the sign of the cross very slowly and climbed down from his improvised pulpit.
Most of the crowd surged on up the hill. The very old stayed behind. There were three stations for the pilgrims to make on this climb and St Patrick’s statue was not one of them. But it became a place of prayer for those who felt they could go no further. The murmuring noises Powerscourt was to associate ever after with this day began to float upwards into the air.
‘Did you know about this young man, Francis?’ Lady Lucy whispered.
‘I did not,’ replied Powerscourt, ‘and I hope most sincerely that he is not the young man I am thinking of.’
Before Lady Lucy or Johnny had the chance to reply there was a great booming noise.
‘Lord Powerscourt! Lord Powerscourt!’ went the boom, coming down a few yards to greet them. ‘How very good to see you, even in such unhappy circumstances!’ The Archbishop shook him by the hand. Powerscourt made the introductions. ‘Lady Powerscourt, a pleasure to have you with us here today. Johnny Fitzgerald, you’re not by any chance related to Lord Edward Fitzgerald of the ’98 Rebellion?’
‘I’m afraid I am,’ said Johnny. Powerscourt and Lady Lucy looked astonished. Johnny related to one of the most famous rebels in Irish history! Why had he never mentioned this before? ‘It’s on my mother’s side,’ he went on, grinning sheepishly.
‘What an honour for us here today,’ said the Archbishop. ‘But tell me, Lord Powerscourt, do you by any chance have any knowledge or any theories about this poor young man found dead on the summit?’
‘I have only just heard of it, Your Grace. I do have a theory, I’m afraid, but I would not wish to tell anybody about it until I have more information, his age, for instance, and the people he consorted with.’ Powerscourt looked into that strong and powerful face again. If the Archbishop asked, he knew he would have to tell him. The Archbishop did not ask.
‘I must return to my duties,’ he said. ‘I hope you will feel able to tell me later, if the facts bear out your theories. Now,’ he beamed at all of them in turn, ‘I cannot tell how much it pleases me to see you here today. Thank you for coming. I must continue my mission here. I have to make my little speech every ten or fifteen minutes to tell the pilgrims what has happened. Maybe I shall see you at the summit.’ The Archbishop marched back up his hill. Powerscourt turned to look at the old people clustered round St Patrick. The noise was louder now. Snatches of prayer came across the hundred yards that separated Powerscourt and his party from the penitents.
‘Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done . . . The third day He rose again from the dead . . . The Lord is with thee, Blessed are thou among women . . . Was crucified dead and buried, He descended into hell . . . Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done . . . And blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus . . . As we forgive them that trespass against us . . . He ascended into heaven and sitteth at the right hand of God the Father Almighty . . .’
‘Quite hypnotic, those prayers,’ said Powerscourt as they renewed their ascent, the cloud beckoning a few hundred feet above them. ‘They go round and round in your head, like a top. But tell me, Johnny, I never knew you were related to Lord Edward Fitzgerald and I’ve known you for a very long time. Why did you keep so quiet about it, you old rogue?’
‘You never asked, Francis. I didn’t want to make a fuss. It can be very dangerous being related to a dead martyr in Ireland. People endlessly expect you to stand rounds of drinks in pubs and clubs in memory of your ancestor, that sort of thing. But I couldn’t tell a lie to an archbishop, for God’s sake. Not here. Not on his very own mountain. He might have turned me into a bloody statue like your man Patrick over there.’
They climbed on towards the mist. A party of six Christian Brothers, clad entirely in black, shot past them as if in a race to the summit. Now they were entering the cloud and a fine rain began to fall. Fast-moving pilgrims were clearly visible a few feet in front of them, then they vanished into the broom. The colour seemed to drain out of the day, apart from the dark red which stained the rough stones that now constituted the path, the blood of those who made the ascent in their bare feet, shoes or boots tied around their necks. Johnny Fitzgerald was panting slightly. Lady Lucy moved steadily on, holding on to her husband’s arm when the going got rough. Powerscourt heard that muttering noise again, louder this time, a hundred feet or so above them. You couldn’t make out any words yet, just a rumble ahead.
The first station the pilgrims had to make on their way to the summit was called Leach Benain and it was situated at the base of the cone that formed the final stage of the ascent of Croagh Patrick. There was a cairn of stones about the height of a man and instructions for the faithful to walk round the station seven times saying seven Our Fathers, seven Hail Marys and one Creed as they went. Powerscourt and Johnny and Lady Lucy stood to one side as a mark of respect and watched as an enormous serpent of people circled the stones, ring upon ring of them, many of them holding on to their neighbours. ‘. . . I believe in the Holy Ghost, the holy Catholic Church . . .’ Small children clutched their parents’ hands as they went round and round, not in some game in the playground but on God’s business. ‘. . . pray for us sinners now and in the hour of death Amen . . .’ The six Christian Brothers were moving very slowly now, perhaps as a mark of respect for one of the sacred places of Reek Sunday. ‘. . . lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil . . .’ One young man stifled a scream as his bare foot stamped down on a particularly sharp piece of rock and the blood spurted from his sole. ‘. . . born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate . . .’ More and more people kept joining the circling pilgrims, a thin trickle peeling off, their prayers complete, to continue their journey toward the summit. ‘Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. . .’
‘How long does it take their feet to get better, Francis?’ whispered Lady Lucy. ‘They must be in agony by the time they get to the bottom again, these poor people.’
‘I don’t know. I expect it’s some form of extreme penance,’ Powerscourt whispered back. ‘Maybe you get forgiven some of your sins in exchange for the bare feet.’
‘Hail Mary full of Grace . . .’ The cloud was beginning to lift now. Looking back down the mountain Powerscourt saw a human chain curling its way upwards, tiny specks further down, assuming normal size further up. ‘. . . the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins . . .’ Behind Leacht Benain, on the far side of the mountain, a barren landscape, dotted with lakes and ponds, stretched away to a grey horizon. ‘. . .give us this day our daily bread . . .’ Gazing backwards again Powerscourt saw the huge figure of the Archbishop, making great strides up his Holy Mountain, his three priests stru
ggling to keep up. ‘. . . and in Jesus Christ, His only son, our Lord who was conceived of the Holy Ghost . . .’
The sounds followed Powerscourt and Johnny and Lady Lucy as they set off towards the summit. Johnny Fitzgerald had turned quite red and was panting heavily. Powerscourt wondered if the drink had finally caught up with him, over two thousand feet above sea level. Lady Lucy was looking serious. Her husband thought she might have been praying for their children. The Archbishop and his party passed them in a whish of ecclesiastical garments, Dr Healey waving an enormous wave as he shot past. At eleven o’clock they reached the summit. This was the second station and the faithful had to repeat the performance of the first station, and then some more. Powerscourt and Lady Lucy and Johnny watched as they prayed for the Pope’s intentions near the chapel, then made fifteen circuits of the chapel saying fifteen Our Fathers and fifteen Hail Marys, and then, just to finish off, they had to walk seven times round a relic of St Patrick with another seven Hail Marys and Our Fathers and a Creed. The crowd of pilgrims making the station was enormous. Maybe, Powerscourt thought, all this going round and round in circles is a metaphor for sin, the prayers the appeal for forgiveness. Some were lying on the ground, their eyes closed. Many of the barefoot brigade had brought water with them to bathe their aching limbs. Johnny Fitzgerald had spotted some suspicious-looking activity taking place a couple of hundred yards away. ‘Don’t tell the men of God, Francis,’ he whispered on his return, ‘but there’s a couple of fellows down there selling bottles of Guinness. Bloody expensive they are, but welcome. I’ll give them that. It’s a miracle, so it is.’ A Westport band had managed to reach the summit with their instruments and were serenading the crowd with patriotic airs like ‘The West’s Awake’ and ‘A Nation Once Again’.
Death on the Holy Mountain Page 21