The Yule Cat: A True Account

My friend Nick keeps nine reindeer who speak. People find that remarkable. Personally, I think my companion is far more impressive. My cat assists my husband and me in our seasonal duties by devouring lazy children — specifically the ones who refuse to help their families with basic household work. You may or may not know my name, or my kitty’s, but you certainly know my husband. And Nick, of course, is known everywhere. That is mostly because humans favor gifts over accountability. I understand this preference, even if I don’t approve of it. Krampus and I do not work for applause. We work to maintain balance. Fear suits us just fine. Frankly, it’s healthier for you. It keeps you motivated, which burns calleries. Trust me.

Though we do adore the flair which comes with personal touch, we simply cannot visit every one of you in person. Even with the use of our powerful winter magic, there are limits — especially when humans multiply with such enthusiasm. When you escape a direct encounter, your punishment still arrives without fail, never fear. Misfortune. Ill luck. A season gone wrong. Cause and consequence always find you eventually. No one truly avoids Krampus and Grýla. Some of you believe stories about me that paint a very different picture. A slovenly husband who is not Krampus. Thirteen unruly children cluttering my cave. Those tales are simple inventions, created by weary peasant wives burdened with idle spouses and too many mouths to feed. Why invent such nonsense? Because fear is easier to tolerate when it resembles you. If I were just another overworked mother with too many children and a useless husband, perhaps I wouldn’t be so frightening. Unfortunately for you, I am nothing like that. I punish laziness. Why would I live with it? The oldest accounts were closer to the truth. In those oldest of tales, the Yule Lads were not my sons — they were my brothers. Troublesome, yes. Lazy, no. My parents indulged them far too much, but that is hardly my fault. You may wonder why Nick, a saint by reputation, works alongside us at all. Let me be clear: this is not one of those ridiculous stories where Santa is secretly evil. Nick understands justice. He understands balance. The old poem was correct when it called him a jolly old elf — because that is precisely what he is. Krampus and I are trolls. So many humans insist my husband must be a demon. They forget that trolls in Nordic lore have hooves, horns, claws, fur, and tails. We look alike because we are the same kind. Christians have an unfortunate habit of assuming anything horned is monstrous, which is amusing considering human behavior. You might consider a mirror before casting judgment. Now that identities are settled, I will tell you how I found my cat. He was a kitten when I first saw him — a scrap of black fur crying helplessly in the snow. His coat was so dark it cut sharply against the white drifts, drawing my eye at once. He was fleeing children. They were throwing stones. Why torment something so very much smaller? Humans have feared black cats for centuries, and cruelty seems to come naturally to children raised without discipline. His fur was soaked — I could see why. Not long before, other children had tried to drown him. He had fought his way free, only to be hunted again. But he was a little fighter even then, my cat, and wasn’t about to give up or give into the fate that humans would wish upon him simply for the color of his night black fur. But you see, don’t you, how you are all driven so by fear? It controls you, so yes, we do use it to make you be good as much as we are able. I say as much as we are able, because wickedness comes to so many of you far too naturally and easily. Those first children were already marked on the Naughty List. Nick’s list, technically — but Krampus and I read it just as closely. Nick needs to know whom not to reward. We need to know whom to punish. The kitten ran straight into me. So hurried was he to escape those brats, that he did not see me as anything to fear. I was impressed by his good instincts. He showed no fear, even as frantic to escape his persuers, his claws caught in the wool of my dress. I lifted him immediately, pressing his shaking body to my chest. With one arm I held him secure. With the other, I revealed myself. With a single gesture of my clawed hand, the veil dropped. I enjoyed their screams. My birch rod struck legs, backs, and backsides as they fled, howling, slipping in the snow, sobbing for their parents. Many of them soiled themselves. “Bring them,” I snarled after them. “Parents who raise creatures like you deserve correction as well.” The kitten purred in agreement. He stared after them with a focus far beyond his size, yellow eyes burning with something cold and deliberate. I had the distinct sense he was memorizing them. I carried him home through the night, singing softly to calm him. On the way, I stopped only once — to collect sheep’s milk from my eldest brother, Stek. Cats enjoy milk, and the poor thing had earned comfort. All thirteen of my brothers still reside with our parents, though they wander freely during the festive season. I knew where Stek lingered. He gave me the milk without question, clearly eager for me to leave before humans noticed too many of us nearby. The Icelandic wind cut sharply as I hurried home. My cave — the one I kept even after marrying Krampus — is warmed by a hot spring. That spring is the reason I never abandoned it. Krampus’s German cave has no such luxury. He was waiting when I arrived. “Nick sent cookies,” he announced cheerfully, holding a plate of gingerbread men with most of their heads missing. “I thought you were working,” I said. “We compared lists,” he replied with a grin. “That counts.” “You’ve been drinking.” “A little,” he admitted with a grin that made me chuckle. He and Nick were always drinking over the naughty and nice lists this time of year. It was then that he noticed the kitten, so I filled him in. I set the cat down to prepare his milk while Krampus started a fire to warm it. The kettle steamed as I nibbled gingerbread. Then — “Where did he go?” Panic struck until a tiny mew answered from Krampus’s sack, still scented with cookies. The sack wriggled. Krampus laughed softly and retrieved the kitten, crooning to him as though they’d known each other forever. The cat drank eagerly. When finished, he rubbed against us both, purring like distant thunder. “He isn’t afraid,” I murmured. “Cats understand magic,” Krampus said. “And claws.” By morning, the kitten had decided he lived with us. As I warmed his milk, I told Krampus my plan. Mortal cats do not live long. But lava milk, ancient herbs, and troll magic might change that. “I will give him the choice,” I said aloud — for the cat’s benefit. “If he drinks, he becomes more than mortal. If not, we keep him as he is.” He drank without hesitation. I named him Yule. He grew quickly. Too quickly. Within months he was enormous, once yellow eyes glowing blue as ice. By the next winter, he had not forgotten those children. They were the first he ate. Now, while Krampus and I roam the dark correcting the wicked, the Yule Cat hunts as well. He knows the scent of laziness. And he enjoys the taste.