digger and stone hauler, of Kuttenberg
“I dig the trenches and haul the stones. Honest sweat is the only thing that matters, not idle chatter.”
Things Nickel Schönpetr had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second Wednesday of May, at Vespers
Hugh Cooper was struggling with the big corner stones today at the wall works. I took them off him without a word. A man does what he must. My back is as strong as it was twenty years ago, whatever my son Fritz tries to tell me.
Nota scribaeThe man rubbed his lower back the entire time he spoke.
the Friday after Easter, at Prime
Walked past my neighbor's garden plot this morning. Gave him a hard stare. I know exactly where that boundary stone used to sit before the autumn rains washed the mud away. I will not speak a single word to the man until he apologizes where everyone can hear.
Please, Father, just let it go for the sake of peace. It is only a hand's breadth of dirt.
Hold your ground, Nickel. A man must have principles, or else he is nothing but a dog rolling over for scraps.
Nota scribaeDictated before work. The man crossed his arms and glared at the church wall the whole time.
the Tuesday before Palm Sunday, at Sext
If I have to hear Andreas Engel talk about his brother Kunz one more time, I will bury my shovel in the trench. I told him to just build a sturdy fence and be done with it. Work is for digging, not flapping your jaw like a washerwoman.
It is a complicated matter of family standing, Nickel. Not everything can be fixed by hitting it with a shovel.
the first Wednesday of Lent, at None
Young Lorenz brought a carved bone flute to the worksite today. Piped a tune while leaning heavily on his shovel. I walked over and took it from him. I will keep it in my tunic until he learns what a day's wage truly requires. We are not here to play.
Give it back! You have no right to steal my things just because you are a miserable old badger!
When you sweat for your bread, boy, you may have your toy back.
Nota scribaeHe pulled the bone flute from his tunic to show me, then shoved it back.
the day after Candlemas, at Vespers
Another season starts at the lower market. It is not the same without old Bartel to give the orders. Poor man taken by the sweating sickness last St. Martin's Day. Now it falls to me to keep these feckless boys in line and see the town's trenches dug right.
He was a fair master, God rest his soul. He always knew how to portion out the work so a man wasn't broken by it.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I thank you, Nickel. The old injury aches fiercely when the spring rains come.
You were groaning loud enough to wake the dead before Prime, Father. You are not made of iron.