Robert

The Tuesday before Whitsun, at None

I saw dust on the lower road today. Soldiers marching towards Kuttenberg. I drove the ewes further up the crags. If they find my hidden pasture, they will roast my livelihood on a spit. I will sleep with one eye open tonight.

Nota scribaeDictated with his hands shoved deep into his belt.

The feast of St Stanislaus, at Vespers

Went down to Horany for bread and cheese today. The baker asked again if I found my brass ram pin. I told him no. I wish the whole village would stop bleating about it. Every question is just a reminder of what is gone.

• 
  Robert

  They only ask because they have nothing better to talk about. A flock of old hens, the lot of them.

The third day of Easter week, at Prime

Easter is passed and still no word of Hynek. The boy marched off with the local levy last spring. He used to hike up here just to talk. Now he is likely dead in a ditch somewhere, or drinking his pay in a Prague gutter.

Nota scribaeThe herdsman paused for a long time after the boy's name.

The Monday before Lent, at Compline

I lost the brass cloak-pin my father left me. Cast like a ram's head. It slipped off somewhere between the upper fold and the woods. I tore up the grass looking for two days. Christ almighty, it was the only proof I had that he cared.

Candlemas, at Prime

Two winters since the sleet took my father Bartholomew. He knew every stone up here and every trick of the weather. Left me the crook, the hut, and the whole village flock overnight. The wind bites hard today, but the beasts are safe.