With kings and crofters

Iona had been regarded as holy ground since the sixth century, when the legendary Irish prince-monk Columba arrived in a coracle on a penitential journey. Columba's Celtic community soon attracted pilgrims from all over Europe.

The great and the bad wanted burial on Iona in the wistful hope that when the last trump sounded and

the dead rose from their graves, it might be possible to hang on to the coat-tails of the saints. Some of the grislier Scottish kings, like Macbeth and Duncan, knew they would need all the help they could get on the Day of Judgment.

And, of course, in more recent times, John smith was interred in that same island graveyard. The man who seemed destined to be prime minister is buried beside an island crofter, Donald ''Doodie'' McFadyen.

Doodie was one of the nicest

people I have ever known. He had a stammer, a three-legged dog that

followed his tractor round the island, a brilliant sense of humour, and a wonderful kindness. I visited him in hospital just before he died of cancer at a grievously early age, and that same kindness had not deserted him. All his concerns were for his wife Jane, and his only son, Logie.

To say that Jane, a quiet, resilient Orcadian woman, was helped by other islanders is an understatement. Men who had more than enough to do rallied round and took it in turns to do the heavy work. Young Logie, who had the same characteristics as his beloved father, took over the croft after he had finished his schooling at Oban. He had to grow up quickly.

When I heard the awful radio news flash early on Sunday, I feared to think who might be involved. As the tragedy unfolded, the news got worse and worse. Logie was missing. So was young Davie Kirkpatrick, a hardworking fisherman whose grand-father was killed while working on the restoration of Iona Abbey; and Ally Dougall, a bright and sunny crewmate on the Silver Spray. Robert Hay, another popular young man, was already dead.

What can one say about this unspeakable event? I knew these fine young men, who had everything to live for. My children were at Iona school with them. The dead men came from salt-of-the-earth families I had got to know and admire; as does Pal Grant, the sole survivor. The situation can only be viewed through tears of sadness.

For young people on Iona to have a wider social life it is necessary to cross over to Mull. The Sound of Iona is their motorway - like crossing the Erskine Bridge or the Forth Bridge. Many people's initial explanation on hearing the news of the tragedy was probably in terms of irresponsible youngsters under the influence of drink. They were, in fact, experienced boatmen who had themselves ferried people across that stretch of water countless times.

Iona, like Orkney, is an elemental place. To live on an island is to be continually aware of the fragility of human life, and the formidable power of the elements. It is to be truly conscious of darkness and light. It is to be brought up close against both the bleakness and glory of the human condition.

The Celtic tradition of Iona is full of prayers about journey:

Relieve thou, O God, each one

In suffering on land or sea,

In grief or wounding or weeping,

And lead them to the house of thy peace this night.

There is much grief and woundedness and weeping on Iona as the island mourns its lost sons. I

have stood at too many freshly-dug young graves to even attempt to offer cheap comfort.

The truth is that the death of a child is not something one ''gets over''. To get through the days and nights is hard enough - to live with constant loss and pain: to learn to be carried by loving friends: to hang on by the fingernails to improbable ledges of faith.

The season of the year makes the tragedy all the more poignant. A compassionate police officer said on television that for the islanders, Christmas is cancelled. We all knew what he meant. There is such bleakness: and as I write this, cruise missiles are raining down on Baghdad and the bodies of the young men still lie in the seas around Iona.

And yet - it is very hard to utter any of this without sounding like a grotesque parody of a bad Late Call - the sentimental Christmas should be cancelled, but not the elemental one. The flickering light of Advent is a faint, vulnerable thing, but it somehow refuses to allow the overwhelming blackness to snuff it out totally.

As candles are lit in the darkness at watchnight services throughout the land, the haunting words of a Gaelic poet, Mary Macdonald of Bunessan - the village on Mull where the young men went to a dinner-dance that fateful night - will be sung:

Child in the manger,

Infant of Mary;

Outcast and stranger,

Lord of all!

These words should be articulated while holding the wounded community of Iona in heart and mind. My prayer is that the broken bodies of the missing men will soon be brought home. Then they can be borne in silence to the Reilig Oran, to sleep with the kings and crofters.

Deep Peace of the running

wave to you.

Deep Peace of the flowing

air to you.

Deep Peace of the quiet

earth to you.

Deep Peace of the shining

stars to you.

Deep Peace of the Sons of

Peace to you.