woodcutter of Horany, of Horany
“I have swung an axe for thirty years and have little to show for it but aching knees and a rasping cough. I pray only for a dry place to rest my bones before they give out.”
Things Havel had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
My knees are stiff as old iron today. The damp from the shed has settled deep in my chest. I watched Joan weeping on the bench again for Humphrey. I pity the woman, but the master will dock her wages if she sits idle much longer.
Nota scribaeHe rubbed his elbows the entire time he spoke.
the morrow of St George, at None
Saint George has passed and neighbor Peshek is still waiting for his eight groschen. Gilbert brought that stray hound into the yard and now Vlasta will not let him hear the end of it. I say Peshek has every right to his silver. A man's flock is his livelihood.
the third day of Easter week, at Compline
Prokop is splitting logs until his hands bleed, hoarding his coin for a horse and cart. I told him plainly that no peasant ever bought his way to a Lord's table. There are soldiers on the roads demanding tolls, and a fine cart will only draw their hungry eyes.
A man must try to better his lot, Havel. I will not swing an axe until my back breaks like yours.
We will see what the soldiers leave you.
Nota scribaeDictated at the woodpile, with much heavy sighing.
the Feast of St Gregory, at Sext
Alice is turning the yard dirt over again, looking for the bone hairpin her mother Yarka left her. The girl will dig her way to Purgatory at this rate. I told her the mud has likely swallowed it for good, but the young never listen to reason.
I know it is here somewhere in the muck. It is all I have of her.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
The sky opened last night and the rain poured straight onto my straw pallet. The thatch on my shed rotted through in the autumn. I asked Farmer Tuma to pay for fresh thatch, and he told me I could sleep in the woods if it pleased me better. I pray he falls ill and learns what true cold feels like.
I will not waste good groschen on new thatch for a shed when the main barn needs timber. Put a bucket over your head.
Nota scribaeThe woodcutter paused twice to cough a rattling cough.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I cannot help my tears, Havel. He was the only honest man here.