woodworker of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I mend broken chairs and shape cart spokes, and try to keep my head down when the shouting starts.”
Things John Marsh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Vespers
I have spent half the day sweeping the yard looking for the little wooden top I carved. A neighbour's boy was to have it. I know I left it by my bench. It is a small thing, but a man should not lose the work of his own hands.
Nota scribaeHe looked under the bench three times while dictating this.
the feast of St Florian, at None
My father Heinz and uncle Claus are at it again over grandfather Peter's land strip. You can hear them from the lower town. Claus is shouting about the groschen he borrowed in ninety-nine. I just put my head down and let the mallet fall harder.
He promised it to me on his deathbed, John! Claus knows it!
He owes me more than that miserable strip of dirt is worth, the greedy whoreson.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Sext
My brother Nicholas came through the yard today in his fine new coat, calling himself a nobleman. He looked at my sawdust breeches as if I were beggar's muck. He will not even let young William wed the tanner's girl. Pride is a heavy beam to carry, and it rots.
Emma is common dirt, John. We have blood to uphold now, even if you are content to wallow in sawdust.
She is not dirt! You know nothing of her heart, father.
Nota scribaeDictated in a low voice so the brother would not hear.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
Poor Kunigunde was weeping by the church. Father Clement found nineteen kopy of groschen under the altar that her late Jarda hid there, and the priest says it belongs to God now. It is not my place to question holy men, but Jarda meant that silver for his widow.
What is placed upon the altar is given to the Lord, John Marsh. Do not speak of things beyond your tools.
He worked so hard in the woods for those coins. My poor Jarda.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
The deep frost is making Alice's joints ache terribly where that cowardly carter Geoffrey crushed her. I am carving her a little fox out of soft lime wood to make her smile. At least the cold keeps the wood dry for shaping cart spokes.
I cannot bear to hear her weep in the night. I am going out to the square.
I forgive him, uncle. Geoffrey was just frightened. But the fox is very beautiful.
Nota scribaeHe stopped twice to brush wood shavings from his clothes.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I did not take it, uncle. I have been out walking past the tanner's yard all day.
Do not fret, uncle John. The wooden bird you made me last winter still brings me joy.