hired hand hauling timber, of Kuttenberg
“I am a hired hand, hauling whatever the foremen tell me to haul. I came here for honest coin, but all I have found is a damp cellar and men who take what isn't theirs.”
Things Joseph had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after St John before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
Benjamin is weeping about that tin plate again. I found it on the dirty cellar floor. If he wants his late Katchka's dish back, he can apologize for pointing me out to the watchman when I was sleeping in the church porch. Until he admits it, I eat my bread off it.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the cellar. He squared his shoulders and pointed his finger at the door the entire time.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Just before the holy days I lent my leather-cutting knife to Paul to fix his straps. He pocketed it and now walks away whenever I ask for it. I need that knife for the good work. I will gladly pay a stranger a few groschen to fetch it back without starting a brawl.
Christ almighty, I just forgot to hand it back on the day. Keep your hair on.
the Wednesday before Palm Sunday, at None
I asked Thomas again if he is heading out on the road. I need word taken to my brother Benesh that I am alive. The Hungarian raids have me fearing the worst for my kin. Thomas just tells me to leave him be. Is it too much to ask a fellow Christian for a favour?
I am not walking three days just to tell your brother you haul wood. Leave it be, Joseph.
Nota scribaeThe other men in the cellar groaned loudly when he mentioned his brother.
the feast of St Gregory, at Sext
Stood by Saint James's since first light. The German foremen picked me for the timber yard again. My boots are ruined and my shoulders are bruised black from hauling logs. I wish Roger was still here, he used to hire us fairly and knew our names.
Roger went to Prague in Lent and left us to the wolves. We are stuck with the day-market now.
the Friday after Candlemas, at Compline
The widow Lettice took her penny and left us in the dark. It is freezing in this cellar. We pooled our wages for a stale loaf, but at least we are not sleeping in the snow. Praise be to Saint James for small mercies.
It beats the wind out there, barely. Pass the bread.
Nota scribaeHe paid the penny for the writing in coppers, all of them sticky.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Give it back, you thief. Katchka ate her last meal on that plate. I never told the watch a bloody thing.
You are a liar. Apologize first.