“Can’t you, as the bishop’s representative, just make them stop?” I ventured at last.
Joachim shook his head. “As long as they do not impede the free access of the faithful to the Holy Grove and the saint’s relics, they’re not actually doing anything sinful. It’s shameful, of course, to be trying to make money from Saint Eusebius as though he were a two-headed calf at a fair, but it isn’t evil or even against church law. But if the saint was ‘fed up’ to begin with, this must make him furious.”
He shot me a quick, worried glance. “I’d assumed that we, the bishop and I, would try to persuade those priests two hundred miles away that they had no right to the saint’s holy relics. Now I’m not so sure. And it may be difficult to break that news to the hermit.”
As we rode, the sound of rushing water became louder and louder in front of us. We came around a corner to see a waterfall, white water splashing in the sunlight. Long grass and dark green ferns festooned the edges of the falls.
At the top of the falls I could see a small level area, dense with trees. Beyond the trees, the white cliff face rose abruptly. My eyes traveled up it to the top. That was where we had stood, looking down; the cliff appeared even higher and steeper from below than it had from above.
Looking to the right I was able to spot the steps that had been cut into the cliff for a quicker descent than we and the horses had taken. They were still little more than toeholds, in spite of the entrepreneurs’ “improvements.” Here, presumably, was where they were planning to set up a pulley and a basket to lower the pious if less agile pilgrim-and the adventurous tourist.