woodworker of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I build furniture, turn bowls, and boil pitch when asked. The work keeps my hands busy and my mind quiet.”
Things Oswald Petzold had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
I swept the shavings from the floor again tonight. I ran my hands through every pile of sawdust. The little wooden pendant is still gone. The absence of it gnaws at me. I cannot abide losing the one thing I had left of her.
Nota scribaeThe man rubbed his chest constantly while speaking, staring only at his boots.
the eve of St George, at None
Lord Thomas of Bohunowitz sent word for a large pot of my best boiled pitch. I spent hours in the woods boiling and straining the sap. I do not care why a nobleman wants pitch, but I will not hand it over without ten groschen in my hand. The gentry think Kuttenberg craftsmen work for promises.
You insolent joiner! My cousin Hugh in Paris gave us an idea that requires pitch, and you will surrender it or face the bailiff.
Ten groschen, my lord. Silver, not Parisian ideas.
the third day of Easter week, at Terce
I took some time away from my yard to mend wooden stakes down at the Lorec vineyards for Godfrey. He is a hard worker, though sour about his time in the levy and the death of Maresh. I listened to his complaints without arguing. Sometimes a man just needs to speak his bitterness aloud.
You are a good listener, Oswald. And your stakes hold firm. Poor Maresh would have liked you.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
I saw Kunz the herdsman out on the pastures today. The old man refuses to speak to his neighbors over some petty village feud. He is an absolute fool. Life is far too short to hold onto anger. We are here, and then a fever comes, and we are gone.
You know nothing of the matter, wood-shaper. I have my reasons.
Nota scribaeHe spoke this very slowly, pausing long between his words.
Candlemas, at Compline
My thumb finds only cloth. The wooden pendant she carved for me is lost. It was worth only pennies, but it was a holy relic to me. Three winters she has been in the earth, and now I fear I will forget her face. I am entirely undone.
May the Lord give you peace, Oswald. We all remember Pavlena fondly.
Nota scribaeDictated with a heavy sigh. The man looked as if he had seen a ghost.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It breaks my heart to see you like this, Oswald. Pavlena would want you to rest.
I will rest when I find it, Jan. Or when the Lord takes me.