ANGELS

Five men walk towards Stornoway along the single-track road from Marabay. They wear dark suits ­ their only suits ­ with starched collars and ties, and although their dress looks sombre their mood is light-hearted and easy. Their pace is steady but relaxed, and their polished boots sound out a rhythmic chorus along the road. The moor that surrounds them is alive with the gold of late summer, and in patches there are hints of purple heather, ready to explode into the annual bloom as soon as the dry spell breaks. The men spread out across the width of the road, and although an occasional comment is made, they maintain a companionable silence. On the face of each man, there is the very faintest of smiles.

On the extreme left of the group is Kenny-Dan Maciver, whose grandson Keeva will cause a stir in Marabay in years to come, although Kenny-Dan is not destined to meet him in this world. Similarly, Angus 'Clapperan' Macleod, who marches by his side, will not live to see his grandson Stouran. Calum 'Handy' Macdonald however, at the centre of the group, will see his nick-name pass down several generations and will only just miss his telegram from the queen. Alexander 'Creg' Macleod will also see his nick-name pass to his grandson, but will not meet his great-grandson, Donnie. Creg's cousin, Murdo 'Footer' Macleod, on the extreme right and the youngest and liveliest of the group, will see no children, and will pass from human knowledge in the North Atlantic in 1916.

The men step on towards Stornoway and the communion service at the Free Church of Scotland. The distance before them is still long, but they are covering it steadily and will be there in plenty of time. They are all anxious to hear the Reverend Angus Macritchie of Dornoch, who has travelled to Stornoway as a guest minister at the communions. His fame as an inspired preacher has spread far before him, and there is sure to be a record crowd in the church. Despite the spiritual purpose of their journey, the smiles of the men sometimes deepen, especially from Murdo Footer, who cannot help giving frequent sideways glances at Calum Handy in the centre. For his part, Calum is smiling too, but he keeps his gaze steadfastly along the road. Although only thirty years of age, Calum is already an elder in the Marabay Free Church and a stalwart believer in the Lord's grace. He is a hard worker, both on his croft and on the sail-powered Zulu that he co-owns with Creg, and his ability to turn his hands to almost any skill has earned both his nick-name and the admiration of the village. If he has any fault at all, it is a tendency to over-reach and to set targets that are hard to attain without almost killing himself through overwork. Take the corn for instance. Why did he plant so much last April, with Ishbal ­ his wife ­ pregnant and with just two small daughters not yet of an age to help harvest it? "I'll manage ­ I can do it," is Calum's typical response to such questions. He plants his corn and potatoes, and cuts his peat. Then, following the usual island tradition, he goes to sea with Creg until the summer wears on, and it is time to maintain the boat, bring home the peat and cut the corn. He works almost around the clock. Some men would have their wives working beside them, a heavy pregnancy not withstanding, but not Calum Handy. Fortunately the weather is excellent, but who knows when a good dry spell will break? Calum thinks he can smell a change in the wind and he works harder still. Then a series of mishaps delay him. A wheel breaks on his cart and he has to lose a whole day repairing it. A horse falls lame and has to be rested.

The peats are home and stacked but the corn not yet cut when Creg and Murdo Footer pause at the top of Calum's croft to ask if he will make up the usual party to walk to the Stornoway communions the next day. The visit is a formality, for Calum always goes and will be especially keen this year, with the prospect of hearing the Reverend Macritchie. Calum Handy looks at the corn standing golden upon his croft. He continues to stare ­ as if in genuine pain. "You were right," he says to Creg quietly. "I can't see myself finishing in time."

"Leave it man," says Murdo Footer. "A day won't hurt." Calum looks towards the west and narrows his eyes. "Maybe, but maybe not," he answers, and Creg slowly nods his head in agreement.

Calum Handy is exhausted. Too little sleep over too many nights has left him hollow-eyed and clumsy. He works all day and evening but is nowhere near finished. A full moon is on the rise, but he is so tired that he attacks the corn with his scythe and fails to cut it cleanly. He looks back at his last piece of labour and something in his soul begins to ache. Him, Calum Handy leaving corn looking like that. He knows he can't go on, and slowly and reluctantly he walks up to the house, his scythe upon his shoulder. He sleeps so deeply that for once Ishbal has to wake him. "Calum, come," she says, walking to the small window. Calum follows her in his nightclothes and looks down his croft, dotted with neat stacks of corn. The stubble is even, and of standing corn there is no sign. Calum Handy is sleepy and feels unreal. The distance down his croft looks somehow distorted and he thinks he is dreaming. Certainly he is not his usual self. He looks at his wife and daughters, Annie and Morag.

"Angels," he says slowly. "It must have been angels." While Calum washes and dresses, Ishbal reports his words to Creg, and they are round the village before the four men come to call for him. Calum is fully awake now, and looks them all in the eye in turn. They respond with innocent silence.

As their boots march in time along the road to Stornoway, Calum Handy allows himself a glance at his companions on either side, and feels a solid glow of fellowship, as warm as the sun upon his head. Their boots continue to tramp; the moor continues to glow; depleted streams trickle and birds continue to call. Above it all, Calum Handy can hear the steady swish of sharp steel through standing corn, and can almost see the glint of flashing blades, bright and elusive as moonbeams reflected from an angel's wing.