former silver ore tallyman, of Kuttenberg
“I sit by the hearth with a cup, waiting for the rain to stop.”
Things Hans Kohl had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Thomas Little sent another boy to fetch me. Says we must sign that parchment before Pentecost. I told the boy to tell him I am busy drowning. Let him keep his sixty groschen and buy a different partner.
Nota scribaeDictated in the tavern. He was leaning heavily against the wall.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Humphrey's man came for the rent this morning. I told him to look up at the bare rafters and ask his master when the tiler is coming. The bastard just held out his hand. May Humphrey burn in purgatory.
Pay your coin and fix the tiles yourself, lad. Weeping cures no leaks.
The rent is due regardless of the weather. Be grateful I do not turn you out.
the Tuesday after Laetare Sunday, at Compline
My head throbbed like a miner's drum all day, and Joseph Fuller would not shut his mouth at the alehouse. Boasting about the roads again. I pity young Nickel having to listen to that windbag. I had to walk out into the cold.
If you had seen the things I have seen, Hans, you would speak of them too.
It was not so bad. At least it was warm by the hearth.
Nota scribaeHe spoke quietly, holding his head.
the first Friday of Lent, at Terce
Bought a stale loaf from the stalls. Saw my father down the street by the tally boards and turned the other way. We have nothing to say to each other now. Just let me eat my hard bread in peace.
You cannot hide in the tavern forever, son. Jacob is asking after your brass tools.
the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, at Sext
We buried my mother Edith. The sweating sickness took her fast. If I had not drunk my wages away, I might have found a physician for her. Now her chair sits empty in the corner, and I cannot look at it.
She was a good woman, Hans. Mended my shirts many a time. God rest her.
Drink for one night, lad, then back to the counting board. She would not want you starving.
Nota scribaeHe wept as he spoke this.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Get out of that bed, Hans. The ink will not wait for you forever.
The bed is wet, Thomas. The ink would run anyway.