miner and toolmender, of Kuttenberg
“I swing a pick down the shafts all day and file them sharp again at night. I keep my head down and my forge lit.”
Things Andrew had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday after the Ascension, at Vespers
Iron's gone up again. The Hungarians are on the roads and the carters say nothing's getting through. A man would be a fool to part with good metal now. Right then, if you've got a sharp tool, best keep it in your own hands.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Compline
Got a letter from Ellen in Prague. She says the city is loud and the bread is good, but I reckon the rock here is better company than carters. I'll stay where I am. I fixed three axes tonight and the soot gets in everything, but it's quiet enough.
You're a stubborn lad. A clever man goes where the ale flows free, not back into the dirt.
Nota scribaeDictated with fingers black as pitch. He left marks on the table.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Hugh says the pick is buried under his gear and he can't get to it today. Right then. I just want it back. It took me a month to temper that iron. The handle is ash, fits the hand perfectly. I don't want a row, just the tool.
Ash Wednesday, at Sext
The dust in the lower gallery was choking today. Makes a man remember his mortality. Poor father. I sat with the older men for stew and didn't say much. I just hope the roof holds up better than it did three winters ago.
Nota scribaeHe paused a long time after the word mortality.
Candlemas, at Vespers
Hugh came to the forge complaining of a cracked pick. I lent him my best one, the one I made myself. Heavy, balanced. He swore by the saints he'd bring it back before Ash Wednesday. It's a fine piece of work, that pick. The tempering holds up.
You're a good lad, Andrew. Saved my shift, you did.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My wedge is blunted. You'll file it for a pint, ay?
Bring it to the forge tomorrow evening. God willing.