hewer in the silver mines, of The mine camps
“I swing a pick in the dark and try not to get crushed. If it were not for John's luck, the mountain would have eaten me by now.”
Things William had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after Saint John Before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
Bread is twice what it cost last Easter. A man works all day coughing up black spit just to gnaw on a hard crust. If Tobias docks my wages again for a broken candle, I will starve before the ceiling gets a chance to crush me.
the second day of Easter week, at Compline
I asked John again to take the road north to Prague and find my brother Simon. The snow is melting, the roads are clearing. He promised at Saint Martin's feast he would go. Simon needs to know I am not dead.
My knees are too stiff for the road yet, lad. The spring mud is worse than the snow.
You promised, John. By Saint Barbara, you promised me.
Nota scribaeThe man wrung his scarred hands the entire time he spoke.
the Wednesday of the third week of Lent, at None
Heard a timber creak in the lower gallery today. Sounded just like the one that gave way three winters back. I dropped my pick and ran to stand right behind Four-leaf John. Where he stands, the mountain does not fall.
You looked like a frightened sheep, lad.
Let him be. We all remember the big collapse. Three good men crushed to paste.
the Friday after Saint Valentine, at Sext
The Cumans are burning villages to the north, they say. Bloody hell. If those whoresons get to Prague, what will become of Simon? He is only a carpenter's prentice. He does not know how to fight.
Prague has big walls, William. He is safer there than we are here in the dirt.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the works. He had to be told three times to stop rubbing his thumbs together.
Candlemas, at Vespers
I gave John my last three pennies to save for his journey. He said he would go see the great stone bridge in Prague and carry word to my brother. I cannot read or write a single letter, so John must be my voice.
He was drunk at Saint Martin's when he said that, William. The old fool is never walking to Prague.
He gave his word. He is an honest man and the luckiest hewer in the camp.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
If you did not burn your candles so fast or break your picks like a clumsy ox, you would have your full groschen.
Do not listen to the German, lad. We will find some cabbage stew tonight.