hewer at the mine, of Kuttenberg
“Twenty years I have pulled silver from the rock, and all I have to show for it is dust in my lungs. I lead a crew of squabbling curs who care nothing for the stone.”
Things Wenceslas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The Tuesday after St George, at Vespers
God's wounds, Master Bynyek docked me ten groschen because that whelp Jezhek the Gob slept on the pumps and let a support timber crack. I am the senior man, so I bear the stripe. I asked the lad for my silver, and he told me to ask the devil. I cannot strike him myself or I am sacked.
Nota scribaeDictated near the weighing house. The man breathed out a heavy sigh before every word.
The second day of Easter week, at Prime
Otto still has the heavy hammer I lent him before the debts were called in. Without my iron, I must rent a blunt one from the master, and my wage is halved. Every day I ask, he has a new excuse. A man needs his tools to work, by the cross.
Laetare Sunday, at Sext
This crew is an absolute ruin. Today I watched David and Wilhelm fighting like wild dogs over a rusted eating knife, while Mathes sat hoarding Wilhelm's brass lamp. We used to be brothers down in the deep galleries. Now there is no respect, only bickering over scraps.
Nota scribaeThe ink froze in the pot while he paused to shake his head at the floor.
The Wednesday after St Matthias, at None
My purse is entirely empty. Milada's nephew took the tavern and called in every slate at once, threatening the pillory for any man who could not pay. I settled my modest debt, but it took all my groschen. Now the men pawn their picks just to survive the week.
My gums are bleeding and I have no coin for an onion. The nephew is a cruel bastard.
Candlemas, at Compline
Poor Milada died today of a chest fever. She was a good soul. She kept our bellies full on credit when the silver veins ran thin and the winter was hard. Up in heaven she will not have to hear the banging of the mint.
A dark day for the Saint Barbara men. We will never see her like again.
Nota scribaeHe wiped his eyes with a dirty sleeve, smearing his face black with soot.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The devil has more coin than I do, old man. It was the wood's fault, not mine.
You will respect the stone, boy, or the mountain will crush us all.