Everywhere one looked, they saw winter growing, night-by-night. Icicles grew longer. Snowdrifts grew higher. Even store windows grew more and more crowded with the gifts of the season.
Yuletide (also known as Christmas) would soon be here, too. Freda did not know which she loved more about Yuletide, Christmas presents, or her mother’s bedtime stories. On one hand, Christmas presents were good things to be played with, eaten, or worn. On the other, bedtime stories fueled her imagination. Tonight, it would be a bedtime story.
“There are thirteen crafty lads,” began her mother.
“Why are there thirteen crafty lads?” interrupted Freda.
“I don’t know,” replied her mother, “there just are.”
“Then there is the mother,” said Freda.
“Yes, there is the mother,” replied her mother, who began her story again, “There are twelve crafty lads…”
“Why is mother so important?” Freda interrupted again.
“She’s the mother, of course.”
“Of course,” repeated Freda.
“There are thirteen crafty lads. For most of the year, they live in the mountains. They live with their father, Leppaluoi, and their mother, Gryla. They also lived with their pet, the Yule cat.”
“I do not like the Yule cat,” said Freda.
“I know,” her mother replied before continuing the story.
“Gryla and Leppaluoi are ogres. The Yule cat is almost as mean. The thirteen crafty lads, however, are quite mischievous. Every Yuletide, they come down from the mountains and play tricks on the townspeople.”
Fred pulled her blanket over her head.
“Do you want me to stop?” asked mother.
Freda shook her head as she remained under her blanket.
“On each night of the Yuletide, the Yule lads visit all the houses of Iceland, looking for unlocked doors and windows. If they find an unlocked window, they sneak into the houses. However, if they find a children’s shoe sitting in the windowsill, they cannot help but fill the shoe. If the child is bad, they leave a potato. But, if the child has been good, they leave trinkets and candies for that child to discover the next morning.”
“Why don’t they steal the shoes?” asked Freda.
“What would a gnome need with a girl’s or boys shoe?”
“I am not sure,” replied Freda.
“Maybe you can think about that while you sleep tonight,” said mother. After her mother closed the bedroom door, Freda snuck over to the window. She adjusted her little black shoe, making sure the first Yule lad would be sure to see it.
Freda opened her door just enough to let in a sliver of light from the front room. She figured it would make sure the first crafty lad did not sneak into her house.
Freda slept well, only to be awakened by her brother.
“He must’ve made a mistake,” said Stefan.
“Who?” asked Freda.
“Stekkjastaur.”
Stefan dug through the contents of Freda’s little black shoe. It was filled with caramels, all wrapped in colorful tin foil, and a paddleball.
“Did you get a potato or something?”
“No, I got caramels and tape for my hockey stick.”
“Then get your hands off my shoe,” said Freda.
“C’mon,” he ordered, “Get up.”
Freda pushed her brother out of her room and got ready for breakfast.
“Did either of my children get a potato in their shoe?” asked father.
“No,” replied Freda.
“That’s good,” he replied, “Stekkjastaur must have been too busy with the sheep to check his naughty and nice list.”
“Obadiah,” scolded mother.
Stekkjastaur, also known as ‘sheep-botherer’, was the first of the crafty lads. He was famous for chasing sheep through the barnyard. Often, a farmer could hear the alarm of his sheep bleating late at night. Stekkjastaur was much too quick to be caught, even with his two peg legs.
The next morning, a farmer would often find tiny peg-prints all over his barnyard. Today, Freda searched the barnyard. Just like every other year, there were peg-prints just outside the barn.
“It looks like Stekkjastaur’s been here,” said father.
A pair of muddy stilts leaned against the inside of the barn. Neither Freda nor Stefan thought the least about it. Instead, they went to school and swapped their caramels with friends, receiving candy bars and homemade cookies for their trades. When they came home,
On the second night, Freda’s mother told the story of Giljagaur, the Gully Gawk. He was the Yule lad famous for lurking in the gullies. He watched the barns, waiting for farmer’s to go to bed. Late at night, he would sneak into the barn and steal milk.
“Can we leave a tall glass of milk for Giljagaur?” asked Freda.
“I already have,” said mother as she pointed to the glass on the windowsill next to her little black shoe.
“Good,” replied Freda. Freda hoped the crafty lad would leave the cows alone. She also hoped it would encourage him to leave more gifts.
Late that night, she heard stirring outside. She went to her window. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, but Freda saw no other movement. She went back to bed and listened intently to the sounds outside.
One cowbell rang. After a few moments, a second bell rang. A third cowbell rang, too. Freda rose from her bed and looked at the neighbor’s farm. All of their cows were in the field. That was unusual for this time of night.
The next morning, it was the main topic of conversation.
“Did anyone hear the neighbor’s cows?”
“I did not,” said her father.
“You might’ve been hearing things,” said mother.
“I saw it for myself.”
“How?”
“I looked out my window.”
“Must be Giljagaur.”
“My milk was gone this morning. That’s proof.”
“I suppose it is,” said her father. He opened the newspaper and began reading.
Freda started to say something, but decided against it. Instead, she just ate her breakfast.
The third night brought Stúfur, the stubby gnome. Freda ate her sweet potato pie, sure to leave the crusts. Pie crusts were Stúfur’s favorite. He left her more candies and a hair brush.
On the fourth night, it was time for the spoon-licker to arrive. Þvörusleikir (Thorvorusleikur) helped himself to all the spoons in the sink, saving Mrs. Samuelsson’s soup lade for last. It was covered in clam chowder, which was Thorvorusleikur’s favorite soup of all.
On the fifth night, they were visited by Pottaskefil, the pot-scraper. On night six, they were visited by Askasleikir, the bowl-licker. On night seven, it was the door-slammer, known as Hurdaskeilir. On night eight, Skyrgamur, the Skyr-gobbler drank all of the Skyr in the Samuelsson’s refrigerator.
On night nine, Freda sneaked to the barn. She was hoping to see Bjúgnakrækir. He was the sausage-swiper.
Freda went to the barn, where her father hung the freshly-made sausages. As she neared the barn doors, she heard hay rustling inside.
“Is that you, Bjúgnakrækir?”
The noises inside stopped.
Freda tiptoed toward the barn. She swung the door open with one quick tug. The hay rustled. A low growl came from the shadows. It was just next to Chief’s horse pen. The horse neighed softly, a little spooked by strangers in her barn late at night.
“Come out, whoever you are,” said Freda bravely. She reached around in the darkness, grabbing a flaghlight. She turned it on and shined it upward, looking for the sausage-stealer. She only found sausages rattling around. The growling came again. She shined her flashlight into the corner. The sheepdog from next door crouced in the corner, with a string of sausages gripped firmly in his teeth.
“It’s alright boy,” whispered Freda.
The dog growled as Freda got closer. Finally, he darted to one side and then another. In a flash, he escaped out the barn door. She heard him running through the field and scurrying under the fence down the hill.
“Are you okay, Chief?” she said as she patted her horse on the nose. The horse whinnied and stomped its hooves. Freda combed out his hair and returned to her bed after the horse had settled down.
When she got back to her bed, she brushed her hair, thinking it might do just the same for herself. As soon as she laid down, she fell directly to sleep.
Luckily, night ten was much calmer. Gluggagaergir, the window-peeper was to arrive. Freda pulled her curtains tight and fell quickly and quietly asleep. On night eleven, Gattathefur sniffed at the doors, but it was long after everyone was asleep, so nobody heard him, either. He left a package of Yule candles and a brand new pair of stockings. Freda would wear those on night twelve - Thorlakur’s day.
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