1d
Long ago, in a little Norwegian fishing village nestled between the sea and the mountains, October meant nothing worse than storms and the gathering in of turnips. The barns were full, the cellars heavy with grain, and the smokehouses thick with the scent of sausages.
But one autumn, when the moon hung swollen and red over the fjord, a mischief none had reckoned with came stumbling down the high slopes: the thirteen Yule Lads, far too early for Christmas.
They were meant to arrive in December, when hunger gnawed and households needed reminding of charity and patience. But in October they came, when food was plenty and doors swung open, and that made them dangerous in a new way.
The first was Sheep-Cote Clod, who liked nothing better than to pester the sheep. Yet in October, the sheep were still fat and frisky, and he rode them through the meadows shrieking like a child. Flocks scattered, fences broke, and shepherd boys wept as they tried to herd the beasts back again.
Gully Gawk lurked near the streams, but instead of sipping stolen milk at dawn he leapt headlong into the buckets of fresh cream, sloshing about until women smacked him with ladles.
Stubby waddled behind, stuffing himself on blood pudding and boiled mutton. He was too early for scraps and leftovers, so he raided the steaming pots right off the hearth.
Spoon-Licker went mad with abundance. Every spoon in the village went missing, and when at last the villagers found them, they were piled like firewood under his bed, sticky and shining.
***-Scraper and Bowl-Licker behaved even worse. Instead of catching at the last bits of winter stew, they stole whole kettles, dragging them smoking across the cobblestones, spilling broth and barley all the way.
The people groaned, “It is one thing to steal scraps in December, another to rob us when the harvest is fresh!”
And then came Door-Slammer, who loved nothing better than banging doors at night. In October the gales blew fierce already, and every slam echoed like cannon-fire. Roofs shook, shutters split, and babies woke wailing in their cradles.
Skyr-Gobbler waded into the dairies like a drunken bear, face dripping with cream. The villagers swore he would empty every vat before the month was gone.
Sausage-Swiper and Meat-Hook raided the smokehouses, and because October was butchering season, they were bolder than ever. Hooks clattered, strings of sausages swung through the air, and men slipped on greasy floors trying to chase them.
By the time Window-Peeper arrived, children were carving lanterns of turnips and telling ghost stories by the hearth. Imagine the terror of looking up from your candle to see his bulging eyes pressed against the glass! More than one lad fainted outright, and girls shrieked until their mothers rushed in with brooms.
Doorway-Sniffer, great nose quivering, caught the scent of fermenting apples and went staggering about drunk on cider fumes. He lay across thresholds giggling, tripping up anyone who tried to pass.
Last of all came Candle-Stealer, a perilous one in October nights, when folk needed their lanterns to walk the dark lanes. He snuffed the little lights, pocketed the candles, and left villagers stumbling in mud and frost.
By All Hallows’ Eve the village had had enough. The priest tried to chase them off with hymns, but the Lads slammed the church doors in his face. Farmers locked their barns, but the trolls broke the bolts. At last the people gathered together, pots in hand, lanterns blazing, and marched up the mountainside.
There they found the Lads sprawled in the meadow, bellies full of sausage and skyr, groaning like drunkards. And when the villagers shouted and clanged their pots, the mountain roared back. Grýla, their terrible mother, rose up from her cave.
“You gluttonous fools!” she thundered, snatching her sons by their ears. “Too early, too greedy! Mischief belongs to the hungry dark of December, not to the fat belly of October!”
The Lads howled, but Grýla dragged them back into the mountain, slamming the stones shut behind her. The fjord grew quiet again, save for the wind.
From that day on, the villagers would shake their heads when October storms blew. “Better the ghosts of All Hallows,” they’d say, “than the Yule Lads out of season.” For trolls in their proper time can be endured, but trolls come early are worse than famine
But one autumn, when the moon hung swollen and red over the fjord, a mischief none had reckoned with came stumbling down the high slopes: the thirteen Yule Lads, far too early for Christmas.
They were meant to arrive in December, when hunger gnawed and households needed reminding of charity and patience. But in October they came, when food was plenty and doors swung open, and that made them dangerous in a new way.
The first was Sheep-Cote Clod, who liked nothing better than to pester the sheep. Yet in October, the sheep were still fat and frisky, and he rode them through the meadows shrieking like a child. Flocks scattered, fences broke, and shepherd boys wept as they tried to herd the beasts back again.
Gully Gawk lurked near the streams, but instead of sipping stolen milk at dawn he leapt headlong into the buckets of fresh cream, sloshing about until women smacked him with ladles.
Stubby waddled behind, stuffing himself on blood pudding and boiled mutton. He was too early for scraps and leftovers, so he raided the steaming pots right off the hearth.
Spoon-Licker went mad with abundance. Every spoon in the village went missing, and when at last the villagers found them, they were piled like firewood under his bed, sticky and shining.
***-Scraper and Bowl-Licker behaved even worse. Instead of catching at the last bits of winter stew, they stole whole kettles, dragging them smoking across the cobblestones, spilling broth and barley all the way.
The people groaned, “It is one thing to steal scraps in December, another to rob us when the harvest is fresh!”
And then came Door-Slammer, who loved nothing better than banging doors at night. In October the gales blew fierce already, and every slam echoed like cannon-fire. Roofs shook, shutters split, and babies woke wailing in their cradles.
Skyr-Gobbler waded into the dairies like a drunken bear, face dripping with cream. The villagers swore he would empty every vat before the month was gone.
Sausage-Swiper and Meat-Hook raided the smokehouses, and because October was butchering season, they were bolder than ever. Hooks clattered, strings of sausages swung through the air, and men slipped on greasy floors trying to chase them.
By the time Window-Peeper arrived, children were carving lanterns of turnips and telling ghost stories by the hearth. Imagine the terror of looking up from your candle to see his bulging eyes pressed against the glass! More than one lad fainted outright, and girls shrieked until their mothers rushed in with brooms.
Doorway-Sniffer, great nose quivering, caught the scent of fermenting apples and went staggering about drunk on cider fumes. He lay across thresholds giggling, tripping up anyone who tried to pass.
Last of all came Candle-Stealer, a perilous one in October nights, when folk needed their lanterns to walk the dark lanes. He snuffed the little lights, pocketed the candles, and left villagers stumbling in mud and frost.
By All Hallows’ Eve the village had had enough. The priest tried to chase them off with hymns, but the Lads slammed the church doors in his face. Farmers locked their barns, but the trolls broke the bolts. At last the people gathered together, pots in hand, lanterns blazing, and marched up the mountainside.
There they found the Lads sprawled in the meadow, bellies full of sausage and skyr, groaning like drunkards. And when the villagers shouted and clanged their pots, the mountain roared back. Grýla, their terrible mother, rose up from her cave.
“You gluttonous fools!” she thundered, snatching her sons by their ears. “Too early, too greedy! Mischief belongs to the hungry dark of December, not to the fat belly of October!”
The Lads howled, but Grýla dragged them back into the mountain, slamming the stones shut behind her. The fjord grew quiet again, save for the wind.
From that day on, the villagers would shake their heads when October storms blew. “Better the ghosts of All Hallows,” they’d say, “than the Yule Lads out of season.” For trolls in their proper time can be endured, but trolls come early are worse than famine
