The blind man knew it was the post van because of its leaky silencer and the squealing slip of its fan-belt. By the time Hugo the Post had carried the heavy packages up to the open door, Niall had clanked the kettle back on the hob, set out the teapot and mugs.
‘Tis yerself Hugo, the very man I prayed would come to help me with my predicament. Come away in and have a cup. See, the kettle is singing for you.’
‘How are you today Niall? I have these 3 thick envelopes here and a card from Florida from your Jessie. My now wouldn’t that’d be grand? I can feel the heat from the picture on the front.’

The two men sat sipping tea as Hugo opened the mail and read out his friends news: two rejected manuscripts, one possible acceptence, with a list of amendments required, and the postcard from Niall’s daughter.

‘The wummin, where I’m doing the readings, wants me to “spruce up”. Bloody cheek, but there you have it.’ Niall stared unseeing into the distance. His friend not having understood asked him to repeat slower, so he could follow his lips.

Hugo forgetting, nodded in understanding, ‘We’ll hit the town, get you new stuff, visit the barbers. Dinnae fash yerself. Nae problem, but I have a favour to tak in exchange.’
The deaf postie took from his pocket a Jew’s harp, placed it in his mouth and plucked a haunting melody. Moving his jaw to oscillate the notes.
Naill lent back in his chair and saw the river and lochs, the mountain range and gorge, the soaring, hesitant flight of the sea eagle.

Hugo laid the harp down on the dirty, deal table and looked to the poet, awaiting his comment.

After a while Naill said, ‘I went the walk along the Struie when you played. It had all the details, the colours, the sounds, the fresh wind. I could even smell the peats stacked to dry. It was a grand journey you took me on.’

Hugo replied, ‘When you had me type out your Ode To Anchellach, I sat down and made that up as I reread it through, following your words with my harp clamped a’tween my jaw. I heard the sounds in my head from the pictures you drew with your words. What would we be, God, where would we be, if with a heart full of hate and a mind twisted wi' spite we hadn’t made that bomb that melted your eyes and pierced my ear drums? Would we be deid? Would we be prisoners or soidjers fighting fer a cause we had no mind fer?’

The blind man replenished their cups with a wee dram of malt, held his cup aloft and pronounced, ‘Only the Devil knows, but this I know fu’ well, we’d still be friends.’