hired hand at the mill, of Rabstejnka
“I haul sacks and keep the hopper full so the master's flour doesn't end up in the river. It is back-breaking work.”
Things Jan had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the third Sunday after Easter, at None
Tomorrow is Sunday mass and I am dreading it. I still do not have the silver for poor James's candles, and the priest has stopped smiling at me. I am certain he will read my name out before the whole parish as a thief of God.
Nota scribaeThe man rubbed the back of his neck the entire time he spoke.
the eve of St George, at Prime
The lower stone is wearing dangerously thin. I know these stones better than anyone, and it needs a mason to dress it properly. I told the master, but he is too tight-fisted to pay for the work. It will ruin the flour if we are not careful.
You mind the hopper and leave the stones to me, you old fool.
Nota scribaeThe dictating was interrupted by the miller shouting for the man from the yard.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Vespers
Simon is whining again about his vow to walk barefoot to Sedletz. I told him to just walk the bloody road and be done with it. And I am sick to death of tripping over John in the dark while he searches the floorboards for Marushka's bone comb.
the feast of St Gregory, at Sext
Some soldiers came down the road and requisitioned three sacks of our best wheat. The master is docking our wages and bread for it, as if I invited them into the yard myself. The war makes everything harder to earn.
I hid behind the woodshed until they left. Bloody Cumans, I reckon.
Candlemas, at Compline
Lit a rushlight in the loft for poor James today. It is a bitter winter. The winter sickness took John's mother, and camp fever took James in the mud last autumn. I rashly pledged good silver for masses for his soul, and now I cannot pay.
He was a good lad. Better him than me marching in the mud, though.
Nota scribaeThe man sighed heavily before speaking, smelling strongly of old sweat and rye.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Maybe if you swept up the spilled flour properly instead of gossiping, you'd have your silver.
Sakra, I sweep every last grain, master. You know I do.