retired huntsman, of Suchdol
“I'm a retired huntsman, lad. Some men go mad when they lay down their trade, but I've earned a bit of rest.”
Things William had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday after St John at the Latin Gate, at Vespers
Christ almighty, John sent word from Kuttenberg that the birds are still plaguing him in the woods. He says they follow him in flocks, squawking and ruining his stalk. He wears my old oiled leather coat, you see. If he only knew why they follow that coat, he'd catch more game. I might tell him the secret, if he brings me ten groschen.
Nota scribaeHe paused to light his pipe, pointing the stem at my inkhorn.
the eve of Philip and James, at Sext
The damp has settled deep in my bones today. I spent the morning watching my granddaughter Cecily pull Kudla's ears. The dog bears it well enough. My dear Bohushka used to make a poultice that would draw the ache right out of my knees, but that secret died with her five winters ago. Anna sweeps around me, but I know I am underfoot.
You are no bother, Father. Just keep the dog from tracking mud onto the fresh rushes.
I told you to keep out of the wet brush, you stubborn old fool.
the Tuesday after Easter, at None
Father Edmund stopped me after Mass. He reminded me of the fifteen groschen in arrears to the parish. He used to turn a blind eye, but he says he will read my name from the pulpit if the silver is not paid. I've nothing to give him. I cannot beg Jan for the coin, the lad has nothing to spare.
Father, you should have told me. We will find a way. We can sell the spotted ram.
I'll not have you empty your purse for my pride, lad. Keep the ram.
Nota scribaeThe man's voice dropped so low I could scarcely hear him over the wind.
the Wednesday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
There are soldiers on the road near the Kuttenberg market. John says they are raising a levy and he is terrified. Christ almighty, in my day a huntsman hid in the trees and let the armies march past. War is a young man's folly. I sit by the fire and drink weak ale, and leave the marching to the fools.
It is easy for you to say, safe by the hearth. They will take my venison and give me a spear.
the second Monday of Lent, at Terce
I carved a small wooden buck for Cecily today. My hands are stiff, but the knife still knows the shape of the beast. It brings to mind the great stag I tracked near Rabstejnsko, the one that gave me the scar on my arm. A quiet man sees more in the forest, but these days I only see the fire.
The wooden buck is very nice, Grandfather. Kudla chewed on its leg, though.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is a cursed garment. I stood still as a stone yesterday and three jays landed on my shoulders.
Aye, lad. The woods are full of mysteries. You must learn to listen to them.