farmer of the far strip, of Kuttenberg
“I grow cabbage and onions in the dirt outside the walls while the rest of the town waits on coins that never come.”
Things Grete Mannlicher had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The soil is finally warming up. Put in a full day pulling weeds while the soldiers clattered by on the road. They didn't look twice at a woman covered in dirt, which is just how I like it. A sharp spade is better than any council decree.
Nota scribaeDictated from a bucket. Her hands were indeed black with soil, which she wiped on the ledger.
the feast of St Mark, at None
Some fool from the tavern told me the bailiff is asking questions about the lease on the far strip. Let him ask. My father Otto taught me how to dig a proper trench, and I've sweat enough on that land to own it twice over.
Father meant that strip for me, Grete! He said it on his deathbed, clear as day!
He mumbled, Clara. And you wouldn't know which end of a hoe to hold if it hit you.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Heinz was snoring so loud he shook the roof, so I was out the door before the bells. Emma Carter is hoarding pennies for Walpurg's old bakehouse, relying on those corrupt Germans on the council. A fool's game. Seed and soil don't ask for a bribe.
A bakehouse keeps you warm in winter, Grete. Your cabbages will freeze just as fast as you.
Don't speak ill of the dead bake-woman. I still owe a vow to Sedletz and don't need her ghost haunting the ovens.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Terce
Prices for a loaf are up again. They say the King's brother has his Hungarian soldiers eating the whole country bare. I planted extra onions. You can't trust anyone but yourself and the ground you stand on.
The soldiers have plenty of coin to spend, though, if you know what to sell them.
Flighty nonsense. Coin doesn't feed you when the mill is burnt.
Nota scribaeShe was asked to leave the King out of it, but refused.
Candlemas, at Vespers
Clara cornered me by the butcher's stall to whine about her inheritance again. Said she'd sell the land if she had it. Rust and rot take her. I just turned and walked away. I'm not giving up an inch of that dirt to pay for her ale.
Just let it rest, wife. We have enough trouble without the whole lane hearing about it.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted by a dispute over a side of pork, but we finished.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Honest dirt or not, you could at least wash before you walk back through the quarter. It's unseemly.
You can eat my dirt when the bread runs out, Alice.