The first snowfall of December had come quietly to the little village tucked beside the Norwegian fjord, smoothing the roofs and whitening the bare birches so they resembled candle branches. Inside one such cottage, a young girl named Inga lay awake, listening to the wind paw gently at her window as if it wanted to say something. She was seven—old enough to know better than to believe in fairy stories, but young enough to keep listening for magic anyway.
She shifted beneath her wool blanket and stared at the faint moonlight seeping across the floorboards. Everyone else in the house was asleep: her mother after a long day baking brown bread, her father snoring softly by the hearth, and even the dog curled in a warm circle of fur. Only Inga remained awake, half by accident and half because she liked imagining what might be wandering the snowy world outside.
A soft thump came from the kitchen.
Inga froze. It was not the kind of thump a house makes when it settles. No—this was deliberate, as if someone had stepped inside who did not belong there.
Another sound followed: a muffled grunt. And then something scraping.
Inga pushed aside her blanket, slid her bare feet to the cold floor, and tiptoed out of her tiny bedroom. She crept slowly, one hand brushing the wall, until she reached the edge of the kitchen doorway. The moonlight coming through the window revealed a shape—large, shaggy, and utterly wrong for a kitchen.
The creature was hunched over the pots on the table. A long nose poked out from beneath a tangled beard, and his clothes were patched with mismatched scraps of wool. His boots looked as though they had walked through centuries.
Inga’s breath caught.
She knew that nose.
She knew that beard.
She knew the stories.
“Stekkjastaur…?” she whispered.
The creature jolted as though struck by lightning. He spun around, eyes widening to the size of winter apples. “NO—no, no, no,” he stammered, waving his arms frantically. “You did not see me. I’m… a broom. Yes. A broom that fell over.”
“You’re the Sheep-Cote Clod,” Inga said, stepping into the kitchen with that fearless certainty only children possessed. “The first of the Yule Lads.”
“I am a broom,” he insisted, backing up until he hit the stove. “A perfectly normal broom that is definitely not a magical Christmas troll.”
Inga crossed her arms. “Brooms don’t wear boots.”
Stekkjastaur looked down at his boots, cursed under his breath, and tried to stand like a broom. It was as convincing as a goat pretending to be a teacup.
“If you yell,” he whispered, panic creeping up his long face, “everyone will wake up. And then the whole season is ruined. Mother will say I am incompetent again. I’ll be the disgrace of the Yule Lads. Do you know how long it took to get this assignment back?”
Inga considered this. “So don’t give me a reason to yell.”
He blinked. “What do you want?”
“To help,” she said simply.
Stekkjastaur gaped. “Help? With my… sheep bothering?”
She nodded eagerly. “I know where Old Torvald keeps his wool. And the new lambs came early this year. If you want mischief, I know lots.”
He rubbed his beard. “This is highly irregular. Humans aren’t supposed to help. Humans are supposed to scream, run, or faint. Or all three.”
“I won’t do any of that,” she said. “But I will yell if you say no.”
Stekkjastaur slumped. “Fine. But only for tonight. And only because I cannot be caught again. The others would never let me forget it.”
The next night, Inga stayed awake intentionally. She knew the second Yule Lad arrived on December 13th: Giljagaur, the Gully Gawk. She sat by the window with a blanket around her shoulders, watching the moonlight spread over the snow like spilled milk.
A shadow detached itself from the barn and shuffled toward the cottage. Inga slipped down the stairs and waited by the kitchen door.
Giljagaur stepped inside, stooping so his long limbs didn’t knock over the pots hanging above him. He muttered something about skyr and hiding places and then nearly tripped over Stekkjastaur, who was already rifling through the flour barrel.
“You’re late,” Stekkjastaur said.
“And you smell like you bathed in a sheep,” Giljagaur replied. Then he noticed Inga. He froze. “Why is there a child here? Children are dangerous. They leak secrets.”
Stekkjastaur drew himself up. “She has… leverage.”
Giljagaur stared. “Leverage?”
“If I didn’t let her help,” Stekkjastaur said miserably, “she was going to yell.”
Inga smiled at him, sweet but with a spark of mischief.
Giljagaur rubbed his temples. “This is the worst possible night for this. I came to sneak skyr. Sneaking skyr is delicate work. You cannot do it with an audience.”
“I can help,” Inga said.
“No,” he groaned. “This is not how the Yule Lads are meant to operate. This is chaos.”
Stekkjastaur leaned over. “She knows where the good hiding spots are.”
Giljagaur paused. “Does she?”
Inga nodded. “And I know which pots creak. And which stairs don’t squeak. And where Mother keeps the special winter skyr.”
Giljagaur’s eyes lit up. “The special winter skyr…?”
Stekkjastaur whispered, “She’s very useful.”
Giljagaur sighed in defeat. “Fine. But only tonight. And only because winter skyr is very hard to come by. And because if you yell, child, Mother Gryla will come down from the mountains and chew me out.”
Over the next nights, more of the Yule Lads arrived—each one encountering Inga, each one stopping cold when they saw her, and each one hearing the same explanation from Stekkjastaur and Giljagaur.
Stúfur, tiny and bold, declared it was nonsense—until Inga showed him exactly where the frying pans were polished smooth enough to see your reflection.
Þvörusleikir, the Spoon-Licker, gave a long speech about protocol—until Inga pointed out where the wooden spoons lay drying.
Pottaskefill, the Pot-Scraper, accepted her immediately. “Finally,” he said, “someone who leaves food in the bottom of the ***
Askasleikir, the Bowl-Licker, sighed but agreed. Hurðaskellir, the Door-Slammer, loved her enthusiasm. Skyrgámur, the Skyr-Gobber, considered her a genius.
By the time Bjúgnakrækir, the Sausage-Swiper, arrived, the others had already briefed him. “Don’t worry,” Stekkjastaur said. “She’s on our side.”
“I don’t have a side,” Bjúgnakrækir said. “I just have sausages.”
Still, he let her help.
Gluggagægir, the Window-Peeper, nearly fainted when she tapped him on the shoulder. Gáttaþefur, Doorway-Sniffer, said her scent was “small human mixed with pine needles,” which Inga took as a compliment. Ketkrókur, the Meat ****** recruited her immediately. Kertasníkir, Candle-Stealer, said she was an ideal accomplice.
Through all twelve nights, Inga played with mischief—not harmful mischief, but curious and gentle pranks. A rearranged cupboard here, a mysteriously vanished sausage there, boots turned backward, yarn braided into the shape of dragons.
The villagers muttered that the Yule Lads were especially active this year. Things went missing, lids clattered, shadows moved at the edges of lantern-light. No one suspected a small girl was helping orchestrate it.
The Yule Lads, for their part, were astonished. “A human child,” they whispered. “A partner. A little accomplice.”
And Inga adored every second.
But on the last night—when Kertasníkir slipped his candle into his sack and the brothers began their trek back toward the mountains—Inga felt a tightness in her chest she could not explain.
Kertasníkir paused by her door. “You cannot tell anyone,” he said softly.
“I know.”
“Because they will not believe you. And disbelief is a kind of un-magic.”
She nodded, throat tight.
Stekkjastaur patted her awkwardly on the head. “You were… surprisingly competent.”
“That’s the closest thing he has to affection,” Giljagaur muttered.
Inga smiled.
One by one, they trudged into the night, their shapes blending with the snow and shadows, their laughter echoing faintly against the mountains.
When the last of them disappeared, the cottage felt unbearably ordinary.
Inga closed the door gently and whispered to the darkness, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
And she never did—not because she feared they’d get in trouble, but because she knew the truth:
No one would believe that on twelve snowy nights, she had run wild with mischief alongside the Yule Lads themselves.
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 5:48 PM UTC
The first snowfall of December had come quietly to the little village tucked beside the Norwegian fjord, smoothing the roofs and whitening the bare birches so they resembled candle branches. Inside one such cottage, a young girl named Inga lay awake, listening to the wind paw gently at her window as if it wanted to say something. She was seven—old enough to know better than to believe in fairy stories, but young enough to keep listening for magic anyway.
She shifted beneath her wool blanket and stared at the faint moonlight seeping across the floorboards. Everyone else in the house was asleep: her mother after a long day baking brown bread, her father snoring softly by the hearth, and even the dog curled in a warm circle of fur. Only Inga remained awake, half by accident and half because she liked imagining what might be wandering the snowy world outside.
A soft thump came from the kitchen.
Inga froze. It was not the kind of thump a house makes when it settles. No—this was deliberate, as if someone had stepped inside who did not belong there.
Another sound followed: a muffled grunt. And then something scraping.
Inga pushed aside her blanket, slid her bare feet to the cold floor, and tiptoed out of her tiny bedroom. She crept slowly, one hand brushing the wall, until she reached the edge of the kitchen doorway. The moonlight coming through the window revealed a shape—large, shaggy, and utterly wrong for a kitchen.
The creature was hunched over the pots on the table. A long nose poked out from beneath a tangled beard, and his clothes were patched with mismatched scraps of wool. His boots looked as though they had walked through centuries.
Inga’s breath caught.
She knew that nose.
She knew that beard.
She knew the stories.
“Stekkjastaur…?” she whispered.
The creature jolted as though struck by lightning. He spun around, eyes widening to the size of winter apples. “NO—no, no, no,” he stammered, waving his arms frantically. “You did not see me. I’m… a broom. Yes. A broom that fell over.”
“You’re the Sheep-Cote Clod,” Inga said, stepping into the kitchen with that fearless certainty only children possessed. “The first of the Yule Lads.”
“I am a broom,” he insisted, backing up until he hit the stove. “A perfectly normal broom that is definitely not a magical Christmas troll.”
Inga crossed her arms. “Brooms don’t wear boots.”
Stekkjastaur looked down at his boots, cursed under his breath, and tried to stand like a broom. It was as convincing as a goat pretending to be a teacup.
“If you yell,” he whispered, panic creeping up his long face, “everyone will wake up. And then the whole season is ruined. Mother will say I am incompetent again. I’ll be the disgrace of the Yule Lads. Do you know how long it took to get this assignment back?”
Inga considered this. “So don’t give me a reason to yell.”
He blinked. “What do you want?”
“To help,” she said simply.
Stekkjastaur gaped. “Help? With my… sheep bothering?”
She nodded eagerly. “I know where Old Torvald keeps his wool. And the new lambs came early this year. If you want mischief, I know lots.”
He rubbed his beard. “This is highly irregular. Humans aren’t supposed to help. Humans are supposed to scream, run, or faint. Or all three.”
“I won’t do any of that,” she said. “But I will yell if you say no.”
Stekkjastaur slumped. “Fine. But only for tonight. And only because I cannot be caught again. The others would never let me forget it.”
The next night, Inga stayed awake intentionally. She knew the second Yule Lad arrived on December 13th: Giljagaur, the Gully Gawk. She sat by the window with a blanket around her shoulders, watching the moonlight spread over the snow like spilled milk.
A shadow detached itself from the barn and shuffled toward the cottage. Inga slipped down the stairs and waited by the kitchen door.
Giljagaur stepped inside, stooping so his long limbs didn’t knock over the pots hanging above him. He muttered something about skyr and hiding places and then nearly tripped over Stekkjastaur, who was already rifling through the flour barrel.
“You’re late,” Stekkjastaur said.
“And you smell like you bathed in a sheep,” Giljagaur replied. Then he noticed Inga. He froze. “Why is there a child here? Children are dangerous. They leak secrets.”
Stekkjastaur drew himself up. “She has… leverage.”
Giljagaur stared. “Leverage?”
“If I didn’t let her help,” Stekkjastaur said miserably, “she was going to yell.”
Inga smiled at him, sweet but with a spark of mischief.
Giljagaur rubbed his temples. “This is the worst possible night for this. I came to sneak skyr. Sneaking skyr is delicate work. You cannot do it with an audience.”
“I can help,” Inga said.
“No,” he groaned. “This is not how the Yule Lads are meant to operate. This is chaos.”
Stekkjastaur leaned over. “She knows where the good hiding spots are.”
Giljagaur paused. “Does she?”
Inga nodded. “And I know which pots creak. And which stairs don’t squeak. And where Mother keeps the special winter skyr.”
Giljagaur’s eyes lit up. “The special winter skyr…?”
Stekkjastaur whispered, “She’s very useful.”
Giljagaur sighed in defeat. “Fine. But only tonight. And only because winter skyr is very hard to come by. And because if you yell, child, Mother Gryla will come down from the mountains and chew me out.”
Over the next nights, more of the Yule Lads arrived—each one encountering Inga, each one stopping cold when they saw her, and each one hearing the same explanation from Stekkjastaur and Giljagaur.
Stúfur, tiny and bold, declared it was nonsense—until Inga showed him exactly where the frying pans were polished smooth enough to see your reflection.
Þvörusleikir, the Spoon-Licker, gave a long speech about protocol—until Inga pointed out where the wooden spoons lay drying.
Pottaskefill, the Pot-Scraper, accepted her immediately. “Finally,” he said, “someone who leaves food in the bottom of the ***
Askasleikir, the Bowl-Licker, sighed but agreed. Hurðaskellir, the Door-Slammer, loved her enthusiasm. Skyrgámur, the Skyr-Gobber, considered her a genius.
By the time Bjúgnakrækir, the Sausage-Swiper, arrived, the others had already briefed him. “Don’t worry,” Stekkjastaur said. “She’s on our side.”
“I don’t have a side,” Bjúgnakrækir said. “I just have sausages.”
Still, he let her help.
Gluggagægir, the Window-Peeper, nearly fainted when she tapped him on the shoulder. Gáttaþefur, Doorway-Sniffer, said her scent was “small human mixed with pine needles,” which Inga took as a compliment. Ketkrókur, the Meat ****** recruited her immediately. Kertasníkir, Candle-Stealer, said she was an ideal accomplice.
Through all twelve nights, Inga played with mischief—not harmful mischief, but curious and gentle pranks. A rearranged cupboard here, a mysteriously vanished sausage there, boots turned backward, yarn braided into the shape of dragons.
The villagers muttered that the Yule Lads were especially active this year. Things went missing, lids clattered, shadows moved at the edges of lantern-light. No one suspected a small girl was helping orchestrate it.
The Yule Lads, for their part, were astonished. “A human child,” they whispered. “A partner. A little accomplice.”
And Inga adored every second.
But on the last night—when Kertasníkir slipped his candle into his sack and the brothers began their trek back toward the mountains—Inga felt a tightness in her chest she could not explain.
Kertasníkir paused by her door. “You cannot tell anyone,” he said softly.
“I know.”
“Because they will not believe you. And disbelief is a kind of un-magic.”
She nodded, throat tight.
Stekkjastaur patted her awkwardly on the head. “You were… surprisingly competent.”
“That’s the closest thing he has to affection,” Giljagaur muttered.
Inga smiled.
One by one, they trudged into the night, their shapes blending with the snow and shadows, their laughter echoing faintly against the mountains.
When the last of them disappeared, the cottage felt unbearably ordinary.
Inga closed the door gently and whispered to the darkness, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
And she never did—not because she feared they’d get in trouble, but because she knew the truth:
No one would believe that on twelve snowy nights, she had run wild with mischief alongside the Yule Lads themselves.
Request permission to use this poem