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 struggling 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’.