others had rafters felling down, still others had chunks of clay gone from the wall to reveal the woven branches within.
His father sighed again. 'I suppose I should be glad we'll have roofs over our heads.' He turned to the families uprooted from Videssos. 'We might as well pick out the places we'll want to live in. Me, I have my eye on that house right there.'
He pointed to an abandoned dwelling as dilapidated as any of the others, set near the edge of the village.
As he and Tatze, followed by Krispos and Evdokia, headed toward the home they had chosen, one of the men who belonged to this village came up to confront him. 'Who do you think you are, to take a house without so much as a by-your-leave?' the fellow asked. Even to a farm boy like Krispos, his accent sounded rustic.
'My name's Phostis,' Krispos' father said. 'Who are you to tell me I can't, when this place is falling to pieces around you?'
The other newcomers added their voices to his. The man looked from them to his own followers, who were fewer and less sure of themselves. He lost his bluster as a punctured bladder loses air. 'I'm Roukhas,' he said. 'Headman here, at least until all you folk came.'
'We don't want what's yours, Roukhas,' Krispos' father assured him. He smiled a sour smile. 'Truth is, I'd be just as glad never to have met you, because that'd mean I was still back in Videssos.' Even Roukhas nodded at that, managing a wry chuckle. Phostis went on, 'We're here, though, and I don't see much point in having to build from scratch when there're all these places ready to hand.'
'Aye, well, put that way, I suppose you have a point.' Roukhas stepped backward and waved Phostis toward the house he had chosen.
As if his concession were some sort of signal, the rest of the longtime inhabitants of the village hurried up to mingle with the new arrivals. Indeed, they fell on them like long-lost cousins—as, Krispos thought, a little surprised at himself, they were.
'They didn't even know what the Avtokrator's name was,' Krispos' mother marveled as the family settled down to sleep on the ground inside their new house.
'Aye, well, they need to worry about the khagan more,' his father answered. Phostis yawned an enormous yawn. 'A lot of 'em, too, were born right here, not back home. I shouldn't be surprised if they didn't even remember there
'But still,' Krispos' mother said, 'they talked with us as we would with someone from the capital, from Videssos the city—someone besides the tax man, I mean. And we're from the back of beyond.'
'No, Tatze, we just got there,' his father answered. 'If you doubt it, wait till you see how busy we're going to be.' He yawned again. 'Tomorrow.'
Life on a farm is never easy. Over the next weeks and months, Krispos found out just how hard it could be. If he was not gathering straw for his father to bind into yealms and put up on the roof to repair the thatch, then he was fetching clay from the streambank to mix with roots and more straw and goat hair and dung to make daub to patch the walls.
Making and slapping on the daub was at least fun. He had the chance to get filthy while doing just what his parents told him. He carried more clay for his mother to shape into a baking oven. Like the one back at his old village, it looked like a beehive.
He spent a lot of time with his mother and little sister, working in the vegetable plots close by the houses. Except for the few still kept up by the handful of people here before the newcomers arrived, those had been allowed to run down. He and Evdokia weeded until their hands blistered, then kept right on. They plucked bugs and snails from the beans and cabbages, the onions and vetch, the beets and turnips. Krispos yelled and screamed and jumped up and down to scare away marauding crows and sparrows and starlings. That was fun, too.
He also kept the village chickens and ducks away from the vegetables. Soon his father got a couple of laying hens by doing some timber cutting for one of the established villagers. Krispos took care of them, too, and spread their manure over the vegetables.
He did more scarecrow duty out in the fields of wheat and oats and barley, along with the rest of the children. With more new arrivals than boys and girls born in the village, that time in the fields was also a time of testing, to see who was strong and who was clever. Krispos held his own and then some; even boys who had two more summers than he did soon learned to give him a wide berth.
He managed to find time for mischief. Roukhas never figured out who put the rotten egg under the straw, right where he liked to lay his head. The farmer and his family did sleep outdoors for the next two days, until their house aired out enough to be livable again. And Evdokia ran calling for her mother one day when she came back from washing herself in the stream and found her clothes moving by themselves.
Unlike Roukhas, Tatze had no trouble deducing how the toad had got into Evdokia's shift. Krispos slept on his stomach that night.
Helping one of the slower newcomers get his roof into shape for the approaching fall rains earned Krispos' father a piglet—and Krispos the job of looking after it. 'It's a sow, too,' his father said with some satisfaction. 'Next year we'll breed it and have plenty of pigs of our own.' Krispos looked forward to pork stew and ham and bacon— but not to more pig-tending.
Sheep the village also had, a small flock owned in common, more for wool than for meat. With so many people arriving with only the clothes on their backs, the sheep were sheared a second time that year, and the lambs, too. Krispos' mother spent a while each evening spinning thread and she began to teach Evdokia the art. She set up a loom between two forked posts outside the house, so she could turn the spun yarn into cloth.
There were no cattle. The Kubratoi kept them all. Cattle, in Kubrat, were wealth, almost like gold. A pair of donkeys plowed for the villagers instead of oxen.
Krispos' father fretted over that, saying, 'Oxen have horns to attach the yoke to, but with donkeys you have to fasten it round their necks, so they choke if they pull hard against it.' But Roukhas showed him the special donkey- collars they had, modeled after the ones the Kubratoi used for the horses that pulled their yurts. He came away from the demonstration impressed. 'Who would have thought the barbarians could come up with something so useful?'
What they had not come up with was any way to make grapes grow north of the mountains. Everyone ate apples and pears, instead, and drank beer. The newcomers never stopped grumbling about that, though some of the beer had honey added to it so it was almost as sweet as wine.
