timber grader for the mines, of Kuttenberg
“I sort the pine beams that hold up the silver mines. It takes a sharp eye, and I have got it, even if the young ones complain.”
Things Nickel Muller had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Compline
My back aches like a rusted hinge tonight. I watch the crippled old men in town whose spines gave out from the heavy lifting, and I pray the Lord spares me their fate. But I can still spot a weak knot better than any young pup in this town.
the eve of St George, at Sext
The bailiff put Lorenz and a weary married fellow from the yard on the list for the levy tomorrow. Lorenz will not stop his nervous chattering about it. I told him to shut his mouth and grade the beams. The married man just puts his head down and works.
I would complain too if the bailiff called my name. Easy for you to praise silence when you are old.
I would not pawn my own mother's shoes for ale, Wolfgang. Get back to the forest.
the Tuesday of Easter week, at Prime
Told Lawrence Wood to stop bothering the courier on the yard's time. The lad is always distracted, begging for word from his kin in Brod. Keep your eyes on the lifting hook, I told him, or you will lose a hand and have nothing to write with anyway.
My mother is sick, Nickel. A little charity would not kill you.
Nota scribaeThe man paused to inspect his own palms, which are thick with splinters.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at None
Ludwig went to Prague to haggle with the woodcutters and the yard is a shambles without him. I am doing my best to keep these lads from killing themselves under the timber, but I cannot open the pay box. Half-empty purses and Hungarian soldiers stealing our wagons. A bitter spring.
It is easy for you to bark orders, Nickel, but we need our full groschen. Ursula will not let my slate grow any longer.
the day after Candlemas, at Vespers
Edward Horner pushes a cart like a blind ox. I told the boy to slow down for the rut, but he drove the load right into it and snapped the axle. Spilled damp pit-props all over the freezing mud. Now he blames my steering. I will not speak to him.
You steered us into that rut on purpose to make me look a fool, old man! I am not apologizing for your spite.
A fine story for a lad who cannot see his own feet. Learn to steer, then we will talk.
Nota scribaeDictated with his arms crossed the entire time. He spat on the floor when naming the boy.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Drink some hot ale, Nickel. The damp in the mud here ruins us all eventually.