hewer at the main works, of The mine camps
“I pull silver out of the dark so the King can lose his wars. My lungs are black and my knees ache, but I am still above the dirt.”
Things Four-leaf John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Vespers
William is at me again about walking to Prague. Christ's wounds, my knees barely get me up the ladders at the end of a shift. The lad thinks Simon is waiting for a letter. Simon is a carpenter now, he has forgotten what slate smells like.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted twice by the man coughing.
the eve of the Ascension, at None
Tobias docked me two pennies for a bent pickhead. The German whoreson sits in the counting house breathing clean air while we choke. One day the mountain will shake and we will see if his ledgers hold the ceiling up.
He docked me for a tallow stub last week. May the devil take him.
If you struck the rock and not the iron bands, your tools would not break.
Nota scribaeI advised against the foul language, but he spat on the ground and insisted.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
We buried poor old Klement today. The bad air took him in his sleep. I took his spot by the fire, it is a bit warmer there. Up in heaven there is no Tobias to count his candles.
He was a good hewer. Owed me a groschen, though.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Compline
The sutler raised the price of cabbage stew. Says the soldiers on the roads are eating it all. Christ's wounds, what soldier eats boiled cabbage? I will be eating my own boots before Whitsun.
I saw Cumans riding past the monastery. They eat horses, not cabbage.
Prague has good bread, John. White bread. We could leave tomorrow.
the day after Candlemas, at Sext
My chest is heavy today. Fifteen years breathing black dirt catches up to a man. I found a four-leaf clover by the shed this morning. Reminds me of the cave-in. The Lord spared me then, but He makes me pay for it every shift.
It is a sign! The Lord protected you so you could make the journey north.
It is a weed, lad. Just a weed.
Nota scribaeDictated during his midday rest. The man's hands were black with soot.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You swore on Saint Martin's feast you would see the stone bridge! He is my blood, John.
I had drank five cups of sour beer, lad. A man says many things.