Jólakötturinn

Deep in the valley at Blönduhlíð, 

Where trees don’t grow, and the daylight drowns

In the lashing snow that claws at your face 

Like a cat o' nine tails and smothers the towns,

Between two great rows of sheer mountain stacks 

Sat a small bright house, and a little red barn,

That lay as if caught in the giant paws 

Of a Sphinx brooding over a ball of red yarn.

 

It was here that Guðrún had taken me in 

As a lodger to work till the winter had passed.

She taught me to separate þel from tog, 

To card and to spin and to set the dye fast.

Five daughters had she, who worked without ceasing.

Their carding combs scraped and their spinning wheels whirred

Till the mountains of fleece became piles of skeins,

And Guðrún just smiled as we worked, and she purred:

 

“Yuletide is coming; there’s no time to spare,

For vile Jólakötturinn prowls in her lair.

She’s mad and she’s hungry, so children, beware

If by Christmas you’ve no new-made clothing to wear.” 

 

All through those dark winter days we all toiled,

Grim faces aglow in the candlelit gloom.

Lilja and Þóra frowned over their knitting,

While Embla and Elva were warping the loom.

With a pounding of treadles and rattling of heddles,

And slamming of beaters, the weaving began.

Little Svala was pale as she knotted her braids,

And into her frightened young ears, Guðrún sang:

 

“Yuletide is coming; there’s no time to rest,

For there’s only one feast that the Yule Cat loves best.

So don’t think of shirking your woollen-work, lest

Jólakötturinn come and you’re not smartly dressed.”

 

When Christmas Eve finally came, I was glad

To escape from that room for a couple of hours

For my turn had come to run out to the barn

And give hay to the sheep and to milk the old cows.

When I sat down to milking, I buried my face

In the lovely old milking cow’s warm brindle flank,

Then steeling my nerve, took spare milk to the cats

(For the cows yielded more than the family drank).

 

In a flurry of fur and a torrent of mewing, 

The army of barn cats surrounded my feet,

And fought for a place at the manger, although 

They’d an ample selection of vermin to eat.

I wondered what terrors this Yule Cat might bring,

As I pitchforked the haystack with vigour renewed,

Avoiding a nest of new kittens that squirmed 

As their mother sat hissing and licking her brood.

 

I filled up my barrow with feed for the sheep,

But when I returned to the haystore I screamed,

So loud that the children came running outside

In their fresh felted mittens and coats newly seamed.

I stared at the nest in the hay, with a horror

So deep and so dark that I thought I would faint.

The daughters of Guðrún looked one to the other

Wrapped in their new scarves like a lick of red paint.

 

The new mother cat, with her teeth dripping blood,

Was mewing a song of deranged, reckless joy.

Her little white kitten relieved of its head

Lay limp as a mop, or an unwanted toy.

The barn cats were seething around us like bats

Until Guðrún stepped in from the cold, and they fled.

Surveying the scene, Guðrún nodded as though

She had seen her fair share of such things, and she said: 

 

“Yuletide is come; the great beast has been loosed.

It’s time to be judged for the work you’ve produced.

The Yule Cat finds all whom ennui has seduced.

In time, all our chickens must come home to roost.

 

For this land has no love for the babes she has bred.

She smiles on us living, and purrs when we’re dead.

If you keep to your chores, you’ll be warm and well-fed.

If you don’t, your dear Mother will bite off your head.”