The Tale of Krispos by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online Page B

for himself. He wished it was hot, but no one wanted to stay indoors and tend a pot of mulled wine, not today.
    The sun set as he came back to the square. The village’s women and girls were having their revenge. Dressed in men’s short tunics and doing their best not to shiver, several of them pretended to be hunters bragging about the immense size of their kill—till one of them, fastidiously holding it by the tail, displayed a mouse.
    This time, the watching women cheered and most of the men jeered and threw snow. Krispos did neither. One of the female “hunters” was Zoranne. The tunic she wore came down only to mid-thigh; her nipples, stiff from the cold, pressed against its thin fabric. As he looked and looked, he felt a heat grow in him that had nothing to do with the wine he’d drunk.
    At last the women skipped away, to thunderous applause. More skits came in quick succession, these mocking the foibles of particular villagers: Tzykalas’ efforts to grow hair on his bald head—in the skit, he raised a fine crop of hay—Varades’ habit of breaking wind, and more.
    Then Krispos watched in dismay as a couple of farmers, plainly intended to be Idalkos and him, practiced wrestling. The embrace in which they ended was more obscene than athletic. The villagers whooped and cheered them on.
    Krispos stamped away, head down. He was at an age where he could laugh at others, but could not bear to have them laugh at him. All he wanted to do was get away from the hateful noise.
    Because he was not watching where he was going, he almost ran into someone coming back toward the center of the village. “Sorry,” he muttered and kept walking.
    “What’s wrong, Krispos?” He looked up, startled. It was Zoranne’s voice. She’d changed back into her own long skirt and a coat, and looked a good deal warmer for it. “What’s wrong?” she said again.
    “Those stupid jokers back there, that’s what,” he burst out, “making as if when Idalkos and I wrestle, we don’t just wrestle.” Half his rage evaporated as soon as he said out loud what was bothering him. He began to feel foolish instead.
    Zoranne did not help by starting to laugh. “It’s Midwinter’s Day, Krispos,” she said. “It’s all in fun.” He knew that, which only made matters worse. She went on, “Anything can happen on Midwinter’s Day, and no one will pay any mind to it the day after. Am I right?”
    “I suppose so.” He sounded surly, even to himself.
    “Besides,” she said, “it’s not as if what they made out was true, is it?”
    “Of course not,” he said, so indignantly that his changing voice left the last word a high-pitched squeak. As if from nowhere, the memory of Iakovitzes’ hand on his back stirred in his mind. Maybe that was part of why the skit had got under his skin so.
    She did not seem to notice. “Well, then,” she said.
    Back by the bonfires, most of the villagers erupted in laughter at some new skit. Krispos realized how quiet it was out here near the edge of the village, how alone he and Zoranne were. The memory of how she’d looked capering in that brief tunic rose again. Without his conscious mind willing it, he took a step toward her.
    At the same moment, she was taking a step toward him. They almost bumped into each other. She laughed again. “Anything can happen on Midwinter’s Day,” she said softly.
    When Krispos fled that embarrassing skit, he hadn’t worried about picking a direction. Perhaps not surprisingly, he’d ended up not far from his own house; as usual, his father had preferred one on the outskirts of the village. Suddenly that seemed like a blessing from Phos. Krispos gathered his courage, reached out, and took Zoranne’s arm. She pressed herself to his side.
    His heart hammering, he led her to his doorway. They went inside together. He quickly shut the door behind them to keep the heat from the firepit in the middle of the floor from getting out.
    “We’d better hurry,” he said