apothecary at Kuttenberg market, of Pritoky
“I am an apothecary, a man of learned trade and clean hands. I seek only to mix my salves in peace without fools shouting at me.”
Things Jan Cross had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Compline
The pious widow Else is a fine housekeeper to old Leonard, as we all know. But a woman should not keep old scraps of parchment cluttering her chests. Fire is the safest place for the foolish writings of the past. I say this only for the tidiness of the parish.
Nota scribaeHe spoke very fast and would not look me in the eye while dictating.
the feast of St Florian, at None
Saint Cosmas give me patience! Heinz Muller was shouting in the alehouse again that I moved the boundary stone. I am a man of science! The frost and the spring thaw heaved that stone, as any fool can see. I have no need to steal his dirt.
The frost does not heave a stone two paces into a man's shed, you thief.
The earth is a mystery to a simple merchant like you, Heinz.
Nota scribaeHe waved his hands so violently he knocked over my ink.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Sext
A good trade in Kuttenberg today. A burgher bought three pots of chamomile salve and paid in good silver. It takes a sharp mind to know the roots, not just a strong back like the diggers. My hands are clean and my coin is honest.
Some of us have to work the dirt so you can eat, Jan.
the third Sunday of Lent, at Vespers
I saw old Leonard brooding in his yard again. He is letting Joseph the clerk worry him into an early grave over the silver for Bartholomew's memorial mass. God rest the man, but a ledger should not dictate the living. John carries the whole farm while the old man frets.
Joseph will read my name from the pulpit if I do not pay. It is my son's soul at stake.
Candlemas, at Prime
The winter breaks, and already the roads are thick with mud and soldiers. I walked to the Kuttenberg market alone today. Heinz Muller would not walk with me, nursing some imaginary grievance about his property line. A sad thing when a man's wits turn to sour milk in his old age.
My wits are sharp enough to see my shed shrinking, Jan.
Nota scribaeDictated at the market. He seemed more anxious than sad.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My chests are my own affair, Jan Cross. Mind your herbs.