hired hand boiling pitch, of Podseminsko
“I bake pine to charcoal and boil pitch for Master Lambert. Hard labour, but the fires are warm.”
Things John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after Ascension, at Vespers
The hearth spirit drinks the milk I leave out, but the bastard still has not given back my wooden swallow. By Saint Lawrence, I have sifted through every ash pile from here to the riverbank. If I catch the little devil, I will boil him in pitch.
Nota scribaeDictated while staring into the kiln. He smelled so strongly of pine tar that my eyes watered.
the eve of St George, at Compline
Pushed the handcart all the way to Nebakov in the bloody mud. The miller there had the gall to whine about soot on the delivery. I told him to boil his own foul-smelling tar if he wants his water wheel clean.
the Wednesday of Holy Week, at None
Master Lambert is still sitting in Jicin arguing over timber rights, while I do the work of three men. The war took all the strong lads who used to help haul the carts. Just me and the sparks now.
Lambert knows you will never let the fires go out, lad. He will take his sweet time.
Nota scribaeHe spat a thick glob of black phlegm onto the ground after naming his master.
the morrow of St Gregory, at Sext
I dropped my wooden swallow. The pale birch one. It must be between the wood shed and the kilns, but I cannot find it. It is useless to anyone else. If a man here picked it up, give it back, or Christ almighty I will break your jaw.
Nobody stole your little bird, John. It is likely just buried deep in the mud.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
Five winters today since the sweating fever took my Katherine. I paid the priest at the churchyard my last three groschen to put her in the frozen earth. At least she does not have to feel the damp in this draughty shed. God rest her.
She was a good woman. The garrison men still remember her laundering.
May the Lord grant her peace in heaven, away from the toil of this earth.
Nota scribaeThe man wiped his soot-stained face with a filthy rag before speaking this.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It was likely a stray tomcat drinking your milk, John. Leave the dirt be and get some sleep.
No cat leaves marks like that in the soot, Zinek.