ore sorter at St Barbara, of Kuttenberg
“I sort the worthless rock from the silver stone all day, and my hands never stop bleeding.”
Things Ernest had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The soles of my boots are peeling right off from the damp in the adits. I have two groschen for nails, but the smiths here chase me off like a thief. I will be barefoot in the freezing water on my next shift if no honest man buys them for me.
Nota scribaeDictated in a frantic rush. The boy wiped his bleeding hands on his tunic the entire time.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Richard Weaver is passing through and going north, but he flatly refuses to carry a word to my mother Vendula. The Hungarian soldiers went right through her parish and I know she is starving. His refusal is pure, arrogant spite.
I am a woodworker, not a king's messenger. Stop your weeping, Ernest, I have my own troubles on the road.
Christ almighty, Ernest, shut your mouth about your mother and let a man drink his ale in peace.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Compline
I starved myself through the Lenten fast to buy a padded gambeson for Anthony, so the bailiff would not lash him at the muster. The treacherous snake marched straight to Casper the pawnbroker, handed my gift over for a pittance, and drank it all away.
A man needs ale more than a stuffed jacket, Ernest. Casper gave me three groschen for it, which was a robbery, but the beer washed the dust out of my throat.
You are a snake, Anthony. If I had the courage I would strike you.
Nota scribaeHe looked on the verge of tears as he said this.
the Friday after St Valentine, at Prime
Shivering at the gates of the Italian Court in my thin tunic. Prokop walked the line and took one look at my tools. Because I lack a proper pick, he sent me to the darkest, wettest galleries to haul muck again.
Bring a sharp pick and you will work the dry face. Until then, you sort rock in the wet like the rest of the boys.
Candlemas, at Sext
My wooden sleeping pallet is completely rotten and the widow says she will throw all five of us into the mud if we do not pay our pennies. The edges of the raw ore are sharper than a skinning knife and my fingers carry the proof.
We will sleep in the mud soon enough if the watch catches us. Hold your pennies close.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Wrap your feet in rags, lad. The smiths will not sell to the likes of us, and that is a fact.