parish herdsman in Suchdol, of Suchdol
“I watch the parish flock and keep my head down. It is an honest living, heh heh.”
Things John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Compline
The spring damp has a wicked bite this year. My heavy shears are heavy indeed, but they still cut true, heh heh. I had to keep the ewes close to the village today. Saw a dozen hungry-looking soldiers on the Kuttenberg road. Father Dietrich says we must pray for peace, but I'd settle for a dry wind.
Nota scribaeHe laughed nervously throughout the dictation. I recorded what he said without adding his strange chuckles.
the Thursday after the Ascension, at Vespers
Does anyone going to Prague know where Agnes lives now? Just to send my regards, heh. It is only that I could use a bit of willow-bark, and she always knew the right measure. My bones feel the rain coming long before the clouds show. Old Paul never felt the damp, but he left me a fair bit of it.
I am in the Old Town now, John. You should try wrapping it tight in warm rags like Paul used to say, if you have no willow-bark.
Paul's rags are what gave me this grief in the first place, bloody hell. But thank you, Agnes.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Paid my penny for a candle for Edmund today. I reckon he died over some foolish wager years ago, but a brother is a brother. The soldiers passing through lately make me think of him. He took the King's shilling and never came back. At least he doesn't have to muck out pens.
Nota scribaeHe dropped a copper penny in the dirt and took a long, clumsy time picking it up.
the Wednesday in the third week of Lent, at Terce
Bread is dearer than ever, but the wardens still expect miracles. A ram got loose near the scree slope today. I chased it down, but my left side seized up right proper. Almost tumbled down the rocks. I got him back though, heh heh. Nobody saw a thing, thank the saints.
You are clumsy, John, but the flock is whole. Try to walk more carefully near the stones.
Candlemas, at Prime
The winter fever took old Paul four winters back, and I still wear his wool-lined cloak. It hides a multitude of sins, heh heh. The cold makes my fingers stiff as wood. I rub them near the fire in the outbuilding before dawn, praying the priest doesn't ask me to lift anything heavy before Sext.
Be thankful you have a cloak at all, John. Many are freezing on the roads this winter.
Ay, Father, I thank the Lord for it every morning.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the church pens. The stench of sheep was overpowering.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The Lord provides the wind He sees fit, John. And the sheep look well enough, though you took entirely too long shearing the old wether.
Ay, Father, I was just making sure the cuts were neat. Better safe than sorry, I reckon.