blacksmith of Suchdol, of Suchdol
“I work the forge in Suchdol making tools for the silver shafts. I keep my head down and the fire hot.”
Things John Polner had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The damp is in the air again and my old bones ache. A guild man from Kuttenberg came looking at the picks. I kept my left hand buried deep in my apron and let Robert show him the edges. The master praised the work and left. Praise be.
Nota scribaeDictated while staring into the fire.
the Tuesday after Easter, at None
John brought me a sack of fine onions and cabbages, and I fixed the shoes on his mare. A good trade that saves me walking to the market to haggle over pennies. The Hungarian levies on the road make the journey more trouble than it is worth anyway.
The mare walks straight again. The cabbages should last you a good while.
the second Sunday of Lent, at Compline
Drank with Thomas Fisher today. He spent the whole time cursing his boys. I hear them shouting across the yard every day. Richard and William bickering, young Hynek sulking by the gate. I said nothing. A man has enough burdens without taking on the grievances of another house.
They will learn respect or I will drive them out. Zlata would weep to see them now.
Nota scribaeThe man drank three cups of ale before speaking a word.
the feast of Saint Matthias, at Terce
We had a heavy load of brackets to shape for the lower shafts. Robert handled the striking hammer well enough, though he tires quickly. I manage the tongs and the finishing work. My hand was stiff as a board by noon, but the iron does not wait for a man's comfort.
I am getting stronger, master. The heavy hammer feels lighter this week.
Candlemas, at Prime
Five years today since the hemp rope snapped and the oak trunk crushed my hand against the cartwheel. Thomas dragged the timber off me, but the bones healed crooked. Every winter frost reminds me of it. I pray the mining foremen never see how weak my grip has become.
I should have checked that rope twice, John. It weighs on me still.
God watches over you, John. The forge still burns bright.
Nota scribaeHe asked to pause halfway through to rub his hand.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I will bring you some willow bark to chew, John. It helps the swelling when the weather turns.
I struck them true, master. He had no cause to complain about the edges.