‘What are they for?’ I ask, pointing at the two papier-mâché figures in front of the church.

‘That’s Shug and Hamish,’ Kelly says, reaching down to lift a thick slab of peat the same colour and consistency as chocolate fudge cake. ‘They make an appearance every peat harvest.’

Charlie looks over at the MacKenzies. ‘Maggie wants to know what they’re for,’ he shouts, pointing a thumb towards the church. Their laughter echoes loud around the space, trapped against Ben Wyvis’s steep and stony foothills.

‘Okay,’ I say, catching the peat slab from Kelly. It’s surprisingly heavy and smells like old wet leaves. By the time I’ve thrown it onto the edge of the bank, my arms and hands are covered in a layer of thick brown mud. ‘But what are they for?’

Charlie squelches his way across the trench towards me, expression stern.

‘You here to help or just to ask stupid questions?’ he says before handing me a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves.

‘Hey,’ Kelly shouts. ‘How come she gets gloves?’

He presses them into my hands, briefly squeezing my fingers. His smile is as fleeting. ‘Thanks for being here, Maggie,’ he mutters, so low I barely hear it.

*

For more than five hours, we dig and cut and toss and stack. Miko and I copy Donnie’s technique, filling up the top of the trench with one layer of cut peat, and then laying the next in diagonals over the bank’s edge like the backbone of a dragon. Once the MacKenzies have finished they come over to help, and in the end, Charlie and Bruce cut so much, we have to throw the last slabs out beyond the ends of the banks.

Finally, Charlie wipes the peaty blade of his tairsgeir on the heather. ‘That’s a good day’s work all right.’

‘To the pub!’ Kelly says, as Donnie helps her out of the trench.

I ache all over. And feel unbelievably filthy. A late afternoon breeze has started cooling the sweat on my skin, making me itch. I take off Charlie’s gloves before Donnie reaches down to help me up too.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Guess I’ll go have a shower and see you all there.’

‘No showering allowed,’ Kelly says, linking her arm through mine. She shrugs. ‘Straight from the banks to the party, them’s the rules.’

‘Why is the party now anyway?’ I glance back at the stacks of peat. ‘We’re not finished yet, are we?’

‘No,’ Gillian says. She has a thick brown smear of mud running from her hairline to her chin. ‘But it takes a few weeks for the peat to dry enough to be gathered and taken back for stacking. And for some folk who’ve come over to help, this is the first time they’ve visited in a year.’

‘The final gathering of peats is a whole different kind of celebration,’ Donnie says before giving me another of his catching grins – mischievous and round-cheeked. ‘This way, we get to have two.’

‘Plus, you’re going to hurt like hell on a highway tomorrow,’ Bruce says, giving me a wink. ‘And the only thing can help you with that is a lot of whisky.’