The Words Of The Sole

“Amen.” The congregation uttered the word in a melodious tone, the sound filling the old church. The word echoed back from the walls and vaulted ceiling. The Morning sun shining in through the stained-glass window, illuminating the pews in a dazzling range of colours. Dust motes danced in the beams of multi-coloured light.

As the Farmer made his way out of the church, he shook the Vicar's hand and thanked him for the fine service. His hand was calloused from hard work, but the Priest’s were little different; the Farmer knew he also worked hard in his garden, offering his surplus to those in need in the village. It was probably wrong to think such a thing, but most in the village preferred the new priest. The Old Father had been a bit too fond of the wine and sometimes fell asleep during a service; the Farmer had done that too, after a long night's work.

But not while he was actually giving the service!

“You read the Words beautifully this morning, and thank you for having the service so early. We are very busy with the harvest.”

The Vicar smiled and leaned in close, “I imagine the best bit is that it was short.”

The Farmer looked a little guilty; he’d been thinking exactly that, “Well, we are busy with the harvest; it’s been a good year, and while the weather holds, we need to get the crops into storage.” The Farmer liked the Priest, but it was important not to show a lack of faith or disrespect for the Words. Reflecting on the Words, a memory sprang unbidden in the Farmer’s mind.

“When I was a child, I travelled to a Suffolk port with my father, and we met a man who claimed to be a ‘German’. I’m not sure if it’s the same one mentioned in the Words. He was very old and sometimes got confused. He spoke about boats that crossed the sea to other lands and brought back many things for sale. That was before the ‘Fire-in-the-sky’.” The farmer's eyes had lost focus as he recalled the events of so many years before. His father had been dead many winters already.

“Did he try and bite you?” Asked the Priest with a grin.

The Farmer jumped at the Priest's unexpected question. “No, Vicar, but he spoke with a strange accent, not like the Wet Country people or the Northerners. But with sharp words, it’s hard to explain.” The Farmer was enjoying this exchange with the Priest, but knew that others were waiting to leave the church; he was blocking the door.

Then the Priest said something surprising. “When I was younger, I heard stories of boats that could sail amongst the clouds like birds and could take people to many exotic places.” The Farmer was intrigued by his words; there were stories for children of such things, but no one really believed them.

The Vicar, noticing the queue at the church’s door for the first time, smiled at the Farmer and wished him well, with the parting words, “All we can do is keep good visibility and care for our soles. Take care, and good luck with the harvest. With God's blessing, the weather will hold.”

***

The Farmer walked along the road, enjoying the early morning sun. He heard, at a distance now, the church bells sounding eight. It was early still; they’d get in a good harvest this year. Some people said that once the church clock sounded the bell by itself, but something had broken many winters ago, and so it was for the Old Lady and her apprentice to ring the number of hours showing on the clock. Then everyone around would know the hour and could plan their day's events. In the back of his mind was a small fear that one day, the clock itself might break, and no one would know how to fix it. When that happened, well, he wasn’t really sure what would happen, but he had a cold feeling in his chest, like fingers of ice squeezing his heart.

To boost his mood and clear away the fingers of ice, he started to whistle and recite the Words out loud.

Fortys, Gromarty, Forf

Souf or soufeast 3 to 5. Slight or moderate. Mainly fair. Moderate or good

Tyne, Dogger, Fisher, German Bite, Humber, Thames

Variable, mainly souf or soufeast, 2 to 4. Smooth or slight. Fair. Moderate or good

The Farmer looks out at the fields ready to be harvested, the wheat moving slowly back and forth in the breeze. It sounded like the sea, on those rare trips he’d made to Suffolk. He wonders aloud, “Was there a greater meaning behind the words?” They clearly held real power and brought the communities together. But what did it all mean? Was it a lack of faith to even ask such a question? The Vicar had talked of the boats that floated amongst the clouds, the ones before the ‘Fire-in-the-sky’. Clearly, the priest didn’t have a lack of faith. Perhaps he’d arrange an appointment with him after the harvest; maybe they could talk of such things over a few glasses of the Old Father’s famous wine.

He recalled his meeting with Mr Mackenzie, who lived up at the Big House and was experimenting with something he called ‘electricity’. Mr Mackenzie had explained they had it before the ‘Fire’. It could do many things: create light brighter than a candle and make things move. To the Farmer, such things had a tinge of the ‘magic’ about them. Was it more than just a child's bedtime story?

Mr Mackenzie described it as being like tame lightning, but even a tame dog could bite you. Would this electricity bite?

This train of thought took him full circle, and once again, he thought of the ‘Words’.

Who really were the Germans, and did they really bite?