hauler at the winches, of Kuttenberg
“I haul rock up the ladders so masters can mint silver, brother. My legs are strong, and I earn my keep in the dust.”
Things Frantishek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Compline
The widow Drahomira took my last groschen before she'd unbar the cellar door tonight. I told her, sister, my back is breaking for Foreman Simon's crooked arithmetic. But she just points at her slate. Saint Barbara give me strength, the widows and the bakers will take everything we have.
Nota scribaeThe boy spoke so fast I could barely write it down before he was jabbing his finger again.
the second day of May, at None
That smooth-tongued whoreson Maresh still has my best tool. He claims he's keeping it safe because I don't hold it right. Brother, it cost me a month of sweat! I see right through his smiles to the thief underneath.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Vespers
I saw the masters giving Black Veit grief today at the workings. It's the same everywhere at the shafts, the strong preying on the weak. You have to be strong, brother, or they'll just grind you to dust.
Leave it be, Frantishek. The stone is hard enough without borrowing more trouble.
Nota scribaeDictated at the winches. He pointed his finger at my nose twice while speaking.
the feast of Saint Matthias, at Prime
Udo's chest rattles like a broken cart wheel today. I'm terrified of ending up like that, coughing my lungs out in the dark with nothing to show for it. Better to haul baskets than hew the deep rock.
My chest is fine, you little thief. I'd be breathing much better if I had my axe back.
the morning after Candlemas, at Terce
Udo took the lung fever for Candlemas, so I worked a double shift for him. Hauling until dusk! Since Foreman Simon marks his tally, I took Udo's rusty axe as my fair wage for the sweat I shed in his name. It's mine now.
It was lent in Christian charity! That axe was my brother Edward's. Give it back, you whelp, you've earned enough for your own.
You would have starved without my help, old man. The rusty axe is the fair price of your life, brother.
Nota scribaeWritten with freezing fingers in the morning chill before the shift began.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
She locked me out entirely, brother. The streets are bloody freezing. Lend me a penny for some ale?
Not a single groschen, Endres. You'll just drink it before None and leave yourself starving.