hewer at na bylance camp, of The woodcutters' camps
“I am a logger cutting timber for the Kuttenberg shafts, just trying to keep the wet off my back.”
Things John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The cough is worse today, settling deep in my chest. Bloody hell, this damp will be the end of me, just as it was for Benesh. I asked Peter again to patch the thatch, but he threatened to put a Skalitz beggar in my place. I'd leave for Prague if the roads weren't thick with Cumans.
Nota scribaeThe man paused twice to hack up phlegm during the dictation. I have recorded only his words, not the sounds.
the second day of May, at None
Saw soldiers on the road near the treeline this morning. Sigismund's dogs, or just hungry men looking for trouble, I couldn't tell. Kept my head down and kept stripping branches. Christ almighty, the kingdom is bleeding, and here I am bleeding my hands for rented tools.
the first Tuesday after Easter, at Sext
The price of bread is a sin. Doubled since Christmas. How is a working man supposed to eat on a watery stew alone? I swung a rented axe from dawn till Prime, and I am weak as a newborn calf. Lord preserve us from these times.
Nota scribaeDictated near the cook-fire. The stew in question was indeed mostly water.
the eve of St Gregory, at Compline
Working the northern slope today. The wood is good, but every time I lift this rented blade, I feel the wrong weight of it. My father's felling axe was perfectly balanced. Peter keeps it locked away in Kuttenberg. I will earn it back if it kills me.
the Monday after Candlemas, at Terce
Sakra, the wattle blew out on the north wall last night. Woke up with frost on my father's old woollen tunic. I wrapped it tight, but the cold got in anyway. The priest says to write my life down for the Pope. Well, Holy Father, my life is freezing in a broken shed.
Nota scribaeI reminded him that the Holy Father will read this only on the Day of Judgment, but he insisted the words remain.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The roof is fine enough for a logger. If you want a dry bed, pay your father's debt and take your axe to town. Until then, cut your quota.
It's barely moss and rot up there! Sakra, how can I pay when the bread takes all my coin?