hewer at the Osel shaft, of Kuttenberg
“I swing a pick faster than any man here. Five years and I'll be foreman, ordering them around.”
Things Markvart the Hare had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at None
Old Hannes got his foot in the way of my barrow in the gangway. Clumsy old fool couldn't move fast enough, and now he is limping like a beggar. I told him to go sort ore with the housemaids if he cannot walk a wet plank. Bloody hell, I cannot be slowed down by cripples.
Nota scribaeDictated loudly in the street. He spat three times during the telling.
the Friday after Easter, at Vespers
Wilhelm is whining about his iron pick again. I told him I would give it back by Easter, but the truth is he does not swing hard enough to need good iron. It does better work in my hands. The silver does not care whose name is on the handle, only who breaks the rock.
A thief is a thief, Markvart. You promised it back. My wages are cut to a hauler's share because of you.
Give the lad his iron back before I crack your jaw.
the feast of Saint Rupert, at Prime
I cannot stop laughing at Gilbert the Mouth. When the bailiff called the muster, the coward pissed his braies and paid Drunkard Endres good silver to take his place. Endres took the coin and drank it all at the alehouse! Now Gilbert has no silver and no padding. Christ almighty, what a fool.
Keep your mouth shut, Markvart. At least I have silver to spare.
Nota scribaeThe dictator found this exceedingly funny and wasted my ink laughing.
the Tuesday after Saint Matthias, at Sext
Stripped down to my braies in the deep gallery today. The heat is like a baker's oven, but I shifted more ore than any three of these old sods in the cellar. Foreman Hans was watching me work. I saw him nod. He knows who the real hewer is. I will be an overseer before long.
Hans only looks at the rock, you arrogant ass. He does not even know your name.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
Foreman Hans handed down a new rule. Only men with their own tools draw a hewer's wage now. The rest of us get hauler's pennies. It is a curse on my back. I will not drag barrows in the dark for pennies just because I lack a good iron pick. I must find one.
It is a harsh rule, lad, but we all suffer it.
I have a spare pick, Markvart. You can borrow it, if you swear on the Virgin to return it by Easter.
Bless you, Wilhelm. You will have it back, I swear.
Nota scribaeThe man smelled strongly of sweat and stale ale.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You dropped a full load on my toes on purpose, you whoreson. God will punish your arrogance.
Cry harder, Hannes. Or ask the masters for a stool to sit on.