woodcutter at pekaruv Dum, of Pritoky
“I am the youngest woodcutter for Master Philip. I owe a sacred debt to the Holy Mother, and my soul is in peril because I dare not leave the yard to pay it.”
Things Thomas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Ascension, at None
Every time the wind howls through the yard, I know it is a judgment. I promised the Blessed Virgin a candle at Sedletz when I had the sickness, and still I have not gone. If Master Philip catches me leaving the saw, he will cast me out.
Nota scribaeHe crossed himself four times while speaking this.
the feast of Saint Pancras, at Sext
Lord have mercy on us all. Nicholas took on the heaviest felling today, which I am thankful for, but he curses so fiercely it chills my blood. I fear the ground will open and swallow the woodyard.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Saints preserve us. I watched Adam in Mistress Denise's yard today. He jumps at every sound, like a man with a heavy conscience. I prayed three Our Fathers for his soul, though I dare not speak to him. It is terrible to carry a secret burden.
Mind your own yard, Thomas. My hands work hard enough without your prayers.
I dropped a bowl, that is all. Keep your prayers for yourself.
Nota scribaeDictated in a whisper so quiet I could barely hear him.
the Wednesday of Holy Week, at Terce
We ate our hard bread by the woodpile. Master Jacob had a heavy hand when he was alive, Lord rest his soul, but I think Master Philip is just as stern. I keep my eyes on the sawdust and pull the saw. It is safer that way.
My father paid his men and I feed mine. Be thankful you have bread at all.
The ovens must be fed, lad. Hard bread makes strong arms.
Candlemas, at Prime
They lit the blessed candles at church today. I did not go. My arms ached from the saw, and my heart was heavy. I swore a sacred oath when I lay dying of the fever, and I have broken it. Holy Mother, do not turn your face from me.
Bloody hell, Thomas, just ask the master for a day to walk to Sedletz. He won't eat you.
I cannot ask him, Nicholas. I cannot. He will cast me out on the road.
Nota scribaeThe man wept slightly and asked if the Pope's decree might save his soul.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You pull the saw well enough, Thomas. The Virgin can wait until the woodpile is high enough for the ovens.
Christ almighty, lad, stop trembling. The master won't kill you for a single day.