priest of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I am a humble shepherd to the lesser folk of Kuttenberg, burdened by a leaking roof and the wickedness of these times.”
Things Father Paul had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Compline
The archdeacon comes for Corpus Christi, and my heart is heavy. I offered Karl Schwarz twenty good groschen to redeem the church's silver chalice, which was pledged only to buy a horse when ours were stolen. He refused it. A man with no mercy for the church will find none in heaven.
Nota scribaeHe washed his hands in the basin three times before speaking this.
the feast of Saint Pancras, at Sext
Father Ernest sent his man again asking for his spade. Does he think I keep it out of spite? The graveyard earth is like iron this year, and my parish has not his wealth to buy new ironwork. I will return it when the Lord softens the clay.
It has been three months since Candlemas, Paul. The Lord has rained on that clay a dozen times.
the second day of Easter week, at None
It is a bitter thing to be wronged by a brother in Christ. Father Nicholas took my best saw at Candlemas and still has not brought it back. He always has some excuse. A saw costs a month's tithes in this poor parish, and my roof still leaks.
The timber is not yet cut for my altar rail. Patience is a virtue, brother.
Hypocrisy is a sin, Nicholas. Bring it back before Sunday.
Nota scribaeDictated in the church porch. He sighed heavily between each word.
the Tuesday after Laetare Sunday, at Vespers
Walked the bounds of the parish today begging alms. The war makes every purse tight. I saw Heinz Schwarz ploughing that far strip of land his late father Tobias left. Karl claims it is his, but Heinz works it. Greed poisons that family, dividing brothers over clods of dirt.
My father was a man of order. The eldest inherits. Keep to your pewter cup, priest, and leave the law to the bailiff.
Well said, Father. The earth belongs to God and the men who dig it.
the Friday after Candlemas, at Prime
I said mass with the plain pewter cup again this morning. The lesser folk of Kuttenberg do not mind it, praise be. I pray the thieves who stole the glebe horses two winters ago have repented, for their sin still echoes in my empty purse and cold hearth.
The Lord sees the pewter just as clearly as the silver, Paul. Have faith.
Nota scribaeHe spoke quietly and kept his eyes cast down at the floor.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
A pledge is a pledge, Father. Forty groschen was the sum. I will not open my chest for half, nor for a man who pays washerwomen before his debts.
May God forgive your slanders, Karl. The woman Agnes went to Prague, and I know nothing of her.