Gryla & the Yule Lads

Hello and welcome to Fab Figmentals, the podcast that explores the realm of curious creatures, magical monsters, and beautiful beasts!

I’m your host, Lindsey Morse.

Each episode, we dive into the folklore and history of a different legendary creature and share a story about it, and this week we’re going to continue our festive exploration of some of the darker creatures in the global Christmas pantheon by looking at Iceland’s yuletide lore. 

In Iceland, you won’t find much talk of Santa Claus or St. Nicholas. Instead, the holidays are ruled by a child-eating giantess named Gryla, her 13 sons - trolls collectively known as the Yule Lads - and their bloodthirsty feline, the Yule Cat. 

Let’s kick things off by talking about Gryla.

The larger than life Gryla is originally mentioned in the 13th century compilation of Norse mythology, Prose Edda. As well as being enormous, she’s also described as being repulsive in appearance. In the earliest poems, we’re told that she lives in a small cottage, often begging for food from her human neighbors. But in later literature she appears to have been forced out of town and into a faraway cave in the lava fields of northern Iceland - perhaps due to her taste for human flesh.

There she lives with her husband— actually, her 3rd husband— her thirteen sons, and her cat. 

Gryla is first connected to Christmas in the 17th century. Around this time, she seems to have developed the ability to keep tabs on children who are naughty. As Christmas Day approaches, she comes down from the rugged wastes of the north to search the farms, villages, and towns for a tasty meal of misbehaving kid. When she finds one, she throws him in her giant sack, drags him back to her cave, and makes him into stew.

But this won’t sate her for long— she’s said to have an insatiable appetite.

Today, we hear less and less of Gryla coming to human settlements in search of food. Instead, as we shall hear, it is the other members of her family who lurk around the cozy homes of Icelanders at Yuletide.

Today’s story comes from our very own Niall Cooper, host of our sister show, Assassination’s Podcast.

It’s called: “Gryla & the Naughty Children.”

As always, please keep in mind that our stories are often more Brothers Grimm than Mother Goose; they may not be appropriate for little ears. 

Now, let’s meet Gryla and her strange family. 

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“Gryla! Gryla! I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I’m cold!”

Gryla sighed. Her third husband wasn’t working out so well.

“Oh, Gryla. What sort of giantess have I married, that would neglect me so? You take care of those thirteen oafish lads of yours, but you neglect me, your husband and lawful master! I am hungry, thirsty, and cold! Make me soup - and do it now!”

Gryla, ancient as the rocks in which her cave was hewed, shook her grey-haired, wizened head. “Oh, fool that I am to have have taken another husband,” she whispered to her cat, who lay purring at her feet. “Of all the giants of Iceland, surely he is the most worthless.”

“Gryla, did you not hear me?”

“Hear you, husband? I think the whole island must have done so! Have you not considered going out from this cave to gather food for yourself?”

“What insolence!” the giant cried. “By Odin, that a giant should be so spoken to in his own cave!”

“My cave, husband. This is my cave. Before we were married, you had nowhere to lay your lazy head.”

“What’s yours is mine, dear Gryla. Now, make me some soup! This is the season that mortal men call Yuletide, and all across Iceland there are children being fattened on sweet treats. Their flesh shall be delicious!”

At that moment, the thirteen sons of Gryla stomped into the cave all laughing and talking over each other in a great ruckus. They had been playing on the lava flow, tossing around a giant boulder the size of a cottage; but their high spirits dissipated in the chilly atmosphere of the family home. Not one of the boys liked their new stepfather, and all hated the way he spoke to their mother.

“My boys,” Gryla said with a tired smile. “My dear, sweet ones. It is time to gather food for our dinner. Your new father’s prodigious stomach grumbles. Go out to the villages and see what the mortals have, for this is Yuletide, and they have many sweet treats at this time of year. Take what you will from them, for we are giants and this land was ours long before they came along, so really anything they possess is ours by right. And,” she lowers her voice, “if any chubby children should fall into your knapsack, I shouldn’t mind putting them in the soup pot, too, if only to satisfy and silence my husband.”

The thirteen sons of Gryla looked each to the other and laughed. The eldest, Stekkjarstaur STAHK-AHR-STURR, spoke up: “Mother, we shall go to the villages, but we shall not take the children to eat! If that lazybones husband of yours wishes to feast upon humans then let him get out of bed for a change!”

“Yes,” said another of the sons, Skyrgámur SKEER-GAH-MER, “we are the Yule Lads, the thirteen bringers of mischief. What sort of reputation would we get if we just went around snatching children for the soup pot!”

And with that, they all marched outside to play. 

“Gryla! Did you tell those feckless lads of yours to go fetch me my supper?”

“Yes, yes, husband. Now go back to sleep.”

Gryla’s cat got up and stretched, arching its back, its long tail pointing all the way up till it touched the tips of the stalagmites that hung from the roof of the cave. “[yawn] Oh, Mistress Gryla, why do you tolerate that brute?”

“Cat, that is no concern of yours … but, ah, my lot is not an easy one.”

“Hmm, no. Nor is mine, having to listen to his bellyaching while his is awake and his snoring whilst he sleeps - which is most of the day. Let me help you, mistress. If only to shut up your good-for-nothing husband.” And with that, the cat padded out of the cave.

Through the villages, the thirteen sons of Gryla played their games. The eldest chased the sheep from the farmers fields, eating a few along the way.

Skyrgámur, snuck into houses and ate all the yogurt, for that was his favorite snack.

And the other young giants played their own pranks: peering through windows, slamming doors in the middle of the night, stealing candles, and gobbling up smoked sausages hanging from the rafters.

It was all such fun! But they were good lads, despite their mischief. So, wherever they played a prank, they made sure to leave a little gift.

The families of the villages knew that the thirteen giants came around every Yuletide. So, at that time of year, the children of each house would leave a shoe upon the windowsill. And into that shoe, the giant who visited their home would deposit a small present by way of thanks, and an apology, for the tricks that they had played.

Except, of course, where the children were naughty. For the giants would sometimes visit houses where the children’s rooms were untidy. In other homes, they witnessed children talking back to their parents. So, as punishment, they would only leave a potato in the waiting shoe.

But the young giants were not the only ones doing the rounds that Yuletide. No, Gryla’s cat was also on the prowl.

He watched as the thirteen Yule Lads played their pranks, and he watched a they left their gifts. And he thought to himself: What saucy boys Mistress Gryla has! They only think to play their games. Meanwhile, their poor old mother has to endure the constant griping of her husband. But I am a good and loyal cat. So I shall aid my mistress. And, well, if I get a nice bowl of soup out of it, then it would only be my just desserts. 

The cat, visited each human house after the giants had come and gone. He looked through the windows with his great green eyes as the children slept inside.

I must confess, the cat said to himself, that I do feel rather bad about snatching children from their beds at night. They look so gentle and at peace. But, needs must, I suppose - so I will have to steal them from their comfy beds and take them back to my mistress for her soup pot.

The cat noticed that on the windowsills stood the children’s shoes. Some filled with treats and others with a potato.

Ah, what have we here? The sons of Gryla have rewarded the good children. But for the bad, they have only left a moldy old potato. Why, this is a sign, surely! The good children who have been rewarded, I shall leave alone. But the wicked children - those shall I take!

And so, the cat snuck into the rooms of the children who had only received a potato from the Yule Lads. He picked them up in his jaws, one by one, house to house, and carried them away to the cave of his mistress.

“Cat, oh faithful old cat!” Gryla cried upon his return. “You have brought meat for my soup pot. At last, I can make supper for my husband, who has never stopped grumbling from the time you left. Where did you find such succulent morsels? Here, bring them to me.”

Gryla took the children and threw them into her enormous pot, poured water over them, and set it upon the fire.

“These are naughty children,” the cat replied. “Your sons visited their houses when they were playing their Yuletide pranks. The good children they rewarded, the bad ones I took home to you, mistress.”

“Ha!” cried Gryla’s husband stirring in his bed. “Your stupid cat is more useful to me than all thirteen of your oafish lads combined. While they cavort around the countryside playing their silly games, this mangy creature has brought home fresh meat for the soup pot. I shall eat my fill tonight! If there’s anything left after that, you can eat, too, wife. Then the cat may lick the soup pot, as a treat. But your thirteen sons, they shall not have a bite!”

Gryla and her cat looked at eat other. They both smiled. “Husband, dear,” Gryla said smoothly. “As you shall be eating the lion’s share of this soup - which is only right and proper, as you are lord and master of this cave - I beg you to come over here, that you should select some herbs and spices to season your supper just as you please.”

“Argh! Must I do everything?” he asked indignantly. “Can my wife not even make a pot of soup without my aid? Well, I don’t want you messing it up, so I suppose I’ll have to!”

He got up from his bed, which was a most unusual sight, and made his way towards the fire. At that moment, the cat darted in front of him and got under his feet. “Damned idiot beast!” the giant cried as he lost his balance. And as he teetered, Gryla nudged her husband, who fell at once head first into the soup pot. The children were all tipped out onto the floor, and Gryla quickly took the lid and placed it upon the pot, and weighted it down with a boulder. And there her husband cooked for many hours, till the flesh fell from his mighty bones.

Seeing the little children upon the floor of the cave, warm from their bath but not quite cooked, Gryla took pity on them and let them flee, admonishing them to be better behaved next year, lest her cat come to get them again - and then she would not be so magnanimous. 

So, that Yuletide, Gryla and her thirteen sons ate a most delicious soup, and plenty was left over for the cat, who savored every drop.

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As we heard in today’s story, Gryla’s sons, known collectively as the Yule Lads, really aren’t that bad. They’re like a collective Santa Claus, rewarding the good and punishing - though only very mildly - the naughty children.

Fun fact: The Yule Lads’ names reflect their special talents, look, or appetite. One that we encountered in the story is called Stekkjastaur, which means Sheep-Cote Clod - he’s the one who bothers the shepherds’ flocks at night.

Another we encountered is named Skyrgámur, which means Skyr Gobbler. Skyr is the local yogurt in Iceland, increasingly popular in other countries too these days.

The other Yule Lads’ names translate into equally fascinating epithets like Spoon Licker, Sausage Swiper, Window Peeper, Meat Hook, and Candle Beggar just to name a few. 

Despite his reputation, Candle Beggar was recently voted the favorite of all the Yule lads in Iceland. Even though he steals candles to eat them, he seems to be the most generous of the bunch. This might have something to do with him arriving last, on the morning of Christmas Eve.

Their pet, the Yule Cat, provides a darker layer to Iceland’s Christmas lore. Skulking about the snowy landscape during the darkening days of December, he is said to eat people who haven’t picked up any new clothes to wear before Christmas Eve. 

I guess that’s one reason to stock up on ugly Christmas sweaters.

Interestingly, it seems that the Yule Cat is a relatively recent addition to Icelandic myth, with the first accounts popping up as recently as the 19th century. According to Wikipedia, the threat of being eaten by the Yule Cat was used by farmers as an incentive for their workers to finish processing the autumn wool before Christmas. The ones who worked hard would be rewarded with new clothes, but those who did not would get nothing and thus would be preyed upon by the monstrous cat.

In 1932, Icelandic poet Jóhannes úr Kötlum wrote several poems about this motley crew of Christmas characters, and one is all about the Yule Lads. Each of the troll brothers is given his own stanza, and the poem explores each one’s unique (and strange) attributes. 

The poem has been translated into English by Hallberg Hallmundsson, and I’d like to close out the show by sharing an excerpt with you. We’re going to jump around the piece to meet Sheep-Cote Clod, Stubby, Door Slammer, and Candle Beggar. I’ve tidied up some of the rhymes, but the content is mostly unchanged. 

The first of them was Sheep-Cote Clod.

Who crept up stiff as wood,

to prey upon the farmer's sheep

and gulp down all he could.

He wished to suck the milk of ewes,

—it wasn’t meant to be—

his joints were stiff and stuck in place

he couldn’t bend his knee.

Stubby was the third one called,

a stunted little man,

who watched for every chance he had

to run off with a pan.

And scurrying away with it,

he’d gnaw off all the bits 

of cooked on food and crunchy fat

nom! nom! his favorites.

The seventh was Door Slammer,

quite a noisy, vulgar creep: 

as gleeful as a singing lark

when folk lay down to sleep.

There’s never snoozing in the house

with all his creaky binges:

all stomping floors and slamming doors, 

incessant squeaking hinges.

And at last came Candle Beggar

—by far the least obscene—

who’d pop in late on Christmas Eve,

the final of thirteen. 

He’d sneak after the little ones

who knew his goals and tricks

so they’d scamper off and hide their lights

to save their candlesticks. 

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Thank you so much for tuning in to this episode of Fab Figmentals!

Research, writing, and sound editing are done by me, Lindsey Morse. Niall Cooper assists with writing and editing, and is the mastermind behind today’s story. Our theme music was created by Graeme Ronald. 

Do you have a suggestion for a future episode? Or maybe just want to reach out and say hi? You can get in touch with me via our website, FabFigmentals.com, or on Twitter @figmentals. I’d love to hear from you.

You can also support the show and unlock bonus material by supporting the show on Patreon. You’ll find us at patreon.com/fabfigmentals.

I’m in the process of moving across the country, so I’m going to take a few weeks off to get settled while I research some more fabulous figmentals to share with you in the coming year. The show will be dark for a few weeks, but I’ll be back on January 22nd.

Thanks so much to everyone who tuned into the show this past year. It’s been a lot of fun sharing my love of folklore and mythology with you all, and I’m grateful for each and every one of you. 

It’s been a wonderful 2019, and I can’t wait to see what figmentals await us in 2020.

We’ll see you in the new year.