tannery yard worker, of Kuttenberg
“I haul hides in the yards to keep my throat wet and my brother fed. A shrewd man minds his debts and keeps his head down when the watch passes.”
Things Tuma Short had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after Saint John Before the Latin Gate, at Compline
The clerk was in the lower town again today with his bloody roll of names. I ducked behind the ale-wife's barrels till he passed. I need a handful of groschen by Sunday, or he'll hand me a halberd and march me out to take a Cuman arrow. I'd sell the clothes off my back, but they stink of the vats.
Nota scribaeHe spoke this in a frantic whisper, looking over his shoulder toward the door.
the eve of Saint George, at Vespers
Peter Gerber dropped his tongs in the slop again today. If the foreman sacks him for that ruined hand of his, who's going to haul the heavy hides? Me, that's who. I pity the lad, but my back can't take two men's work.
My hand is fine, Tuma. You mind your own hides.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
Fritz won't stop blathering about that Milena maid in Prague. I told him to save his breath and his pennies. He's safe here in Kuttenberg, mostly, and the roads are full of soldiers. Why a man would walk into a war for a maid is beyond me.
You wouldn't understand, Tuma. You only care about the bottom of a cup.
My mother Rose always said chasing women to other cities ends in grief.
the Monday after Saint Gregory, at None
That old miser Julian is telling everyone I stole his pewter jug. Christ almighty, the man has no shame! I paid his twenty groschen ale slate on Saint Blaise's day, and he gave me the jug as a pledge. When he admits the debt in front of witnesses and gives me my coin, he gets his pewter. Not a day before.
You common thief! It was lent for the feast. Return it or I'll see the watch informed.
Bring the twenty groschen, Julian, and witnesses. Then we'll talk.
Nota scribaeThe man's breath was foul with ale.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
A bitter cold morning down at the yards. We dragged hides till our fingers were numb. Standa is whining about a little wooden saint he lost, as if the Lord cares about a scrap of wood when honest men are freezing in the vats. At least old Godfrey isn't here to dock our pay for shivering.
My mother carved that saint, Tuma. Show some respect.
Godfrey would have made us break the ice with our bare heads. May he rot.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep your head down, Tuma. I've told you to stop drinking in the open.
At least you have two good hands to hold a halberd with.