Episode 35 – Icy-Hearted Witch – Myths Your Teacher Hated

Episode 35 Show Notes

Source: Bulgarian and Icelandic folklore

This week on MYTH, it’s time for you to unwrap our holiday gift to you because it’s our annual winter holiday special. You’ll see that brave little girls make the best heroes, that squirrel tails will make you sneeze, and that even Father Christmas has to worry about worker uprisings. Then, in Gods and Monsters, you’ll discover why you really, really want a new pair of socks for Christmas. This is the Myths Your Teacher Hated podcast, where I tell the stories of cultures from around the world in all of their original, bloody, uncensored glory. Modern tellings of these stories have become dry and dusty, but I’ll be trying to breathe new life into them. This is Episode 35, “Icy-Hearted Witch”. As always, this episode is not safe for work.
Winter is coming, dear listeners, and that means it’s time for our annual holiday special. This year, we’re going to be covering a Bulgarian folk tale about the time that winter almost lasted forever.
It had been a cold, snowy winter, and it didn’t show any signs of letting up. If anything, the people of the little, nameless village thought that the winter was getting worse. One morning, the village woke up to find that it had been buried in snow. This is not an exaggeration: snow drifts had piled up literally to the roof of most of the houses. Terrified, the people dug tunnels through the snow banks to neighboring houses until everyone could gather together to discuss what was happening.
They all agreed that something needed to be done. One person had tunneled to the surface and reported that the snow was still falling. At this rate, the village was going to die together, buried beneath the treacherously beautiful snow. They had enough food stored for awhile, but if the snow didn’t melt in the spring, they wouldn’t be able to plant, and they’d all starve. Of course, it the storm didn’t let up enough to let them even go to the forest to cut firewood, they’d all freeze long before starvation became a problem.
“Something supernatural is clearly at work! I fear the evil Winter Witch has cursed the land! She has hidden the sun behind dark clouds and buried us all under feet of snow! If she has her way, this awful winter will never end; spring will never come and winter will be the only season.” This sounded a little crazy, but they were buried under snow and crawling through ice tunnels to even be able to speak to one another, so the village was open to a little crazy. Desperate times and all that.
“Okay, fine, let’s all assume that it is supernatural. What do we do?” The village talked at length about the issue, going round and round, until they finally settled on what everyone agreed was the only sensible option: someone had to make the journey up to the peak of the highest mountain and ask Father Frost, the wizard who lived there, for help. He was the king of the winter elementals, and lived in a palace made of solid ice at the top of the mountain. If anyone was strong enough to stop the witch, it was him. “Okay, great, that’s settled, but how do we get there? I don’t know if anyone could dig a tunnel all the way from here to the mountain peak!”
A voice from the crowd piped up, saying that they would really only have to tunnel out of the village. The snow on the peaks was sure to be thinner between the howling wind blowing it away and it sliding down to gather in the valleys and hollows (like the one the village was located in). Everyone agreed that this was a good plan right up until it was time for someone to volunteer to make the trip. If they hadn’t all been frozen, you would have heard crickets.
As the silence grew longer and more uncomfortable, one wizened old man finally stood up with an audible creaking and popping of his aged joints. “Shame on all of you youngsters! I would go if I were 20 years younger, but I fear that I couldn’t make the journey now and even if I did, it would take far too long. You’d all be dead before I could reach the Ice Palace.” From behind the old man, a young girl’s voice piped up. “Don’t worry, grandfather; I will go!”
This wasn’t playing out the way the old man had hoped. The little girl was his only granddaughter, and he’d been taking care of her for years, ever since both of her parents had died in some tragic but unspecified accident. He hadn’t really wanted her to volunteer for this difficult task, but after his speech, he couldn’t very well tell her no. Fortunately for him, everyone in the village loved her and none of them wanted to send this little girl off to her cold, lonely death. “You can’t let her go up there, Gramps! She doesn’t even have a warm coat!” someone yelled from the crowd. “Or a hat and a scarf!” yelled someone else. “Or even mittens!” added a third. These were pretty flimsy excuses, since the little girl could definitely just go get winter clothes, but the old man took heart from everyone’s objections. “Yes, my dear, they’re right. You’re far too young and tender for such a long, cold, dangerous trek through inhospitable terrain. Let someone else go.”
The little girl was having none of this shit, though. “Don’t be ridiculous, grandfather. My legs are strong, and I’m as swift and nimble as a mountain goat! I’m not afraid. I can do this.” “You’re also as small as a mountain goat and you don’t have their shaggy fur to keep you warm. You’ll freeze to death! It’s just bare rock with nowhere to shelter from the wind and the ice.” “I’ll be safe, grandfather. I have a big, warm heart full of love. It will keep me safe from the cold.” I honestly expect the old man to yell at her “That’s not how this works! That’s not how any of this works!” Instead, he’s apparently convinced by her crazy theory about not freezing to death because she just loves everybody too damn much. “I know you have a good heart, child, so go. You have my blessing. If you’re doing something for the good of others, your loving heart will keep you safe and see you through.”
The people were relieved that they weren’t going to have to go on this suicide mission (even if they were guilty about sending a little girl in their place and maybe a little worried that leaving such an important task to such a small child was going to doom everyone to a slow, agonizing death). Since she apparently somehow didn’t own any winter clothes (which surely had to have been a problem before now), the children of the village all donated their warmest clothes to her to see her through. She left the village in a snug, warm coat, a woolen scarf, thick fuzzy mittens, cozy socks, and sturdy boots. The men from the village helped her to tunnel to the edge of the valley, where the snow was indeed thinner, and then she waved goodbye to everyone and started up the mountain alone.
It had taken much of the day to dig tunnels between all of the houses in the village, discuss the situation, and then tunnel to the edge of the valley, and no one had wanted to delay this trip by another night, so the sun was starting to set as the little girl set out up the first slope. She moved slowly as darkness fell, making her footing treacherous, but a huge full moon soon rose over the mountain casting a bright, pale light over the land and lighting her way almost as well as the sun. She was strong and determined, so she never even considered stopping for rest as the night wore on.
She climbed all night, getting higher and higher into the mountains, cresting and crossing several smaller peaks as she went. As the sun began to rise again, she found that she could see the glittering peak where Father Frost lived ahead of her. It was still far off, but much, much closer than it had been. It looked like there was only one more slope to climb to reach the peak that held the palace. She grinned. She was going to make it much more easily than she had thought.
Suddenly, the wind began to gust violently about her, nearly throwing her off the steep incline of the mountain to her grisly death. Heart pounding against her ribs, she steadied herself against the wild gusts and backed away from the steep drop. The howling winds screamed angrily at her and, suddenly, she realized that there were voices in the maddening roar. “Who dares to trespass here in our land? Begone! Let’s blow her off the mountain! Let’s whirl her about and dash her head against the rocks until she’s lost and can’t find her way!”
The wind began to howl around her, buffeting her frail form, but she huddled deeper into her warm coat and continued on her way. Her village was depending on her; she couldn’t let them down. The violent winds raged about her for an endless time, and then, one by one, the whirlwinds slowed and stopped. One after another, they dropped to the stone, gasping and exhausted. “Impossible!” they gasped. “How can she still be going strong when we’re depleted like this? No mere mortal has ever outlasted us! We can’t let her win, but we’re far too tired to stop her. Blizzards! Brothers! Come to our aid! Freeze this impudent mortal where she stands. Turn her blood to ice and her breath to cold knives in her throat! KILL HER!”
The blizzards came down from the upper peaks to see what their little brothers, the whirlwinds, were screaming about. They were horrified to see all of their kin scattered about on the cold stone while a little girl stomped past their exhausted forms. Furious that such a tiny thing had beaten the winter elementals (even if the whirlwinds were the weakest ones), they heeded the calls to murder her. By this time, she had already crested the last peak and was starting up the final slope to Father Frost’s Ice Palace (which sounds like a kid’s ride at Disneyland). This could not be allowed to stand.
“You will pay, bitch!” they screamed at her as they rushed to attack. The sky turned white with raging snow as the blizzards unleashed their fury at the little girl. It was so thick that she couldn’t even see her own feet beneath her, and she was forced to slow down and feel her way up the icy, frozen stone, but she refused to stop moving. She was brave and determined, and she refused to let her village down, so she struggled through the murderous storms until they too lay spent and gasping on the cold stone of the mountainside.
“What the fuck, guys? How is a tiny mortal beating our asses like this? This is embarrassing! We can’t let her win, but she seems utterly immune to rage and fury. Maybe we should try the opposite then?” The whirlwinds scoffed. “What, you mean caress her cheek, stroke her hair, and gently carry her up the slope to the palace?” “Don’t be an asshat, bro. Of course I don’t mean anything like that. I meant that we should try calling our big sister the Winter Witch to help out. She’s so gentle and polite that no one ever sees her claws until it’s far too late. They don’t know that her name is Freezing Death and never suspect she has any evil intentions. This little bitch will welcome our sister with open arms and sis will stab her in the heart!” Some versions of the story say that they called for their mother instead of their sister, but I like the idea of a perverted Billy Goats Gruff situation with the evil winter elementals calling for their older, meaner siblings each time they get their asses kicked by this badass little girl. In some version, Frozen Death is different from the Winter Witch, but in those versions, the witch never comes back into the story, so I think this version works better.
Anyway, the whirlwinds and the blizzards called for their sister to bring her special brand of slow, sleepy suffering to bear on this impertinent mortal treading in their domain. The witch, who had expected the mortals to send someone to try and break her grip on the seasons (although she’d expected someone more dangerous looking), came immediately. The winds stopped dead, and the sudden silence was almost deafening after the violent storms. The little girl picked up her pace a little, relieved to have clear going again.
Unbeknownst to her, the witch was already there. The Winter Witch had great power, including the ability to become invisible. In her natural form, she was tall, pale, regal, and coldly beautiful, although this beauty was marred by one thing: the witch had no face of her own. The story doesn’t say what she had instead, although I picture a horrifyingly black pit where her face would be out of which pours the icy chill of death and the certainty that something old and terrible is watching you and waiting. Having no face of her own, she was fond of taking on the face and form of people close to her chosen victims, their images plucked from their unsuspecting minds by her magic. To the little girl, Freezing Death went in the form of the girl’s long-dead mother.
The girl had only vague memories of her mother, having lost her parents when she was very young, but the lovely, familiar form in front of her sent shivers of longing down her spine. She felt her breath catch in her throat, and in the ensuing silence, she heard her mother start to sing. It was a lullaby, one she hadn’t heard since her mother died. Every night, the little girl’s mother had tucked her into bed and sang her this lullaby to help her go to sleep. Tears stung her eyes, and her throat felt raw with need and longing. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed hearing this song.
“Am I dreaming, or is this some sort of miracle? My mother has come back as an angel to comfort me, it must be. I have never forgotten her face, and and this song still warms my heart.” She was moving slower now, the snow crunching loudly under her boots in the quiet of the lull. The harsh noise made it hard to hear her mother’s song so, for the first time since she’d set out the day before, the little girl stopped moving toward Father Frost’s palace and stood, swaying, to listen.
“My mother’s voice is so beautiful, and I haven’t heard it in so very long. It’s so much easier to hear when I’m still, but now that I am, my legs are tired. Maybe I should sit down, just for a little while, so I can listen.” She sat down in the snow, heedless of the cold, and leaned against the rocky face of the mountain. “That’s better. I’ll just rest here until she’s done singing. Just until the end of the song.” Her eyelids felt heavy, and against her better judgment, she felt them close slowly as weariness washed over her. Still, she was amazed at how beautiful her mother’s angelic face was as she closed her eyes.
Her breathing slowed, and soon, the little girl was dozing in the snow. The witch grinned, or at least, she would have if she’d had a face to grin with. “That’s right, little girl. Sleep. Sleep here on the cold mountainside forever, a warning to all others who dare trespass here!” Pleased, the witch flew off to tell her brothers that the little girl was dying. And so she was. The girl slept, a smile on her lips, but the rosy red of her cheeks faded to pale white, then an icy blue, and then a waxy yellow. She was freezing to death, locked in the subtle spell of the Winter Witch’s hypothermia.
It was then that a deus ex machina appeared for no good reason. Beside the little girl’s boot, the snow began to stir. A small hole appeared and in it, a tiny whiskered nose. The snow parted as a small white mouse clambered out of the snow and onto the little girl’s unmoving boot. He sniffed hesitantly. “Oh no, this poor little girl! She’s freezing to death. We need to do something!” The mouse whistled, and many more mice appeared from the snow. He showed them the dying little girl, and they all agreed to help for reasons that aren’t explored even a little bit. It’s a fairy tale; don’t expect too much logic here.
The mice swarm over her, trying to warm her with their bodies and massaging her hands and feet to help the blood flow, but they soon realize that they are too small to do much for her. The mice were on good terms with the snow rabbits, though, so one of them scurried off to get help, returning with a swarm of large, white bunnies. The rabbits joined the mice in burying the girl in warm fur and in massaging her limbs to get the blood flowing again. Above, the snow-covered pine trees came alive with chatter, and soon many brown squirrels were joining the furry dog pile. The massed warmth worked, reviving the girl and putting the roses back in her cheeks. The little girl moaned and her eyes flickered, but they were frozen shut by two teardrops. One of the squirrels flicked the frozen tears away with its tail, and the girl opened her eyes.
She thanked the animals profusely for their help. “No problem, little girl, but what are you doing all the way up here on the deadly mountain slope, so far from your people?” “I’m headed to see Father Frost and ask him to do something about this unending winter the Witch has trapped us in.” There was an angry chittering from all around. “We fucking hate that Winter Bitch! This endless winter is killing us all, so it seems we helped ourselves here by helping you.” “And I’m very glad you did, new friends, but I should be going. I want to get to the Ice Palace before the witch realizes I’m still alive.” “Great! We’re coming with you. We want to help.”
They’d just saved her life, so she really wasn’t in any position to tell them no. Thus, the little girl began climbing up the final slope to the Ice Palace surrounded by a furry carpet of rodents. The winter elementals thought her long dead, so no one interfered as she made the final climb to Father Frost. In what seemed no time at all, the group stood before the massive gates to the palace. This was it. Hesitantly, the little girl reached out and knocked. The gates were thick, so her knuckles barely made a sound. Gathering her courage, she tried again, pounding on the door with her gloved fist. The hollow boom echoed in the quiet of the mountaintop. Nothing happened. No one came to the door, no one called out to see who was there, no sound whatsoever came from inside the palace.
“Well fuck,” said a squirrel. “Where the hell is Father Frost? Has something happened to him?” The little girl swallowed with a loud gulp, then steeled her nerves. She was terrified, but she couldn’t afford to stop now. “I don’t know, new friends. I guess we’ll have to go look for ourselves.” The squirrels scampered up the icy pillars and spread out, checking each of the windows until eventually, they found one that was cracked open slightly. All of the squirrels converged on the open window and squeezed through, then swarmed the front door. Together, they used their squirrel ingenuity to get the key into the lock and turned, allowing the little girl to open the gate. She entered, followed by the mice and rabbits.
The little girl led them down a long, glittering corridor carved from solid ice to a massive crystal hall, glittering in the reflected sunlight. The room was massive, with a huge arched ceiling overhead, but all eyes were drawn by the imposing figure of a regal old man in silver embroidered finery seated on a huge, elaborately carved throne of solid ice. He sat there, motionless in his royal-looking clothes. The group approached him and saw that the eyes beneath the thick, bushy brows were closed, and the long, luxurious white beard stirred ever so slightly with his slow, even breaths. Father Frost was in a deep, deep sleep.
Everyone gathered around, unsure of what to do next. “Father Frost?” the little girl called timidly. No answer. “Fuck this,” said one of the squirrels. “I’ll wake his old ass up.” Before the little girl could even think to try and stop the squirrel from being so very hasty, it had already scampered up the throne, into the sleeping man’s lap, up his chest, and onto his shoulder. As everyone looked on, wide-eyed, the squirrel tickled Father Frost’s nose with its bushy tail. Everyone froze as Father Frost sneezed mightily, the blast echoing through the frozen hall. Well, everyone except the squirrel, who leapt off the wizard’s shoulder and got the fuck out of there so it could pretend it had no idea what had happened. The little girl was terrified that the imposing figure was going to wake up in anger, but as his frosty blue eyes opened, his bearded face crinkled into a kindly smile.
“Why, hello, everyone! And who might you be?” “Hello, Father Frost!” chorused the animals and the little girl in response. The girl explained why they had come and everything that had happened since she first set out from her village. The kindly old man listened gravely, his face darkening as he learned what had transpired. “I see. The winter elementals are supposed to be my servants, but it seems that they have decided to throw in with the wicked Winter Witch. In a thousand years, I’ve never overslept before! I always gather up my subjects when Spring is approaching and I lock them up in their bedrooms until the last leaf of Autumn falls. That heinous bitch must have thought that she could stay on earth and rule it forever if she could keep me asleep. The elementals must have slipped something in my tea that made me so sleepy, I just had to nap! Thank you all for waking me up. I’ll set things right again. Stay here where it’s safe and watch.”
From deep in his robes, the old wizard pulled a silver whistle and blew on it. There was no sound, but a shiver passed through everyone gathered as though a chill had crept momentarily down their spines. In less than a heartbeat, all of the elementals that served the King of Winter were assembled in the hall. He walked through the hall, looking each one of them in the eye, judging them. Those who had taken no part in the plot, he handed a toothbrush and sent them off to bed with a gentle ‘good night.’ Those who had been naughty, however, he presented with the tea he had been given. None were willing to refuse, not even the witch (for Father Frost was deadly powerful when roused to anger). All of them immediately fell into a deep slumber and were locked in the cellar, where they would slumber for as long as the old man’s anger did (which could be millenia). And thus began that whole idea of ‘he knows if you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good so be good for goodness sake or be put into a millennia long sleep.’
In thanks for their help, he gave each of his guests a delightfully tasty ice pop to eat on the way home. For her special bravery, the little girl was gifted a necklace with a tiny crystal heart on a silver chain which, he said, would help her to tell good people from wicked, and truth from lies. He ushered them on their way home, which he promised would be a much easier journey, then cast open the gates to his palace, which cleared away the clouds and ushered in the first day of spring. The sun was shining, new buds were just starting to burst out of the earth, and birds could be heard chirping from the valley below. The little girl and the animals parted ways, promising to be friends forever and to aid one another whenever the need should arise, and then the girl went home, where she was greeted like the returning heroine she was. The Springtide celebrations lasted for more than a week, with the little girl crowned in the first snowdrops of the season.
It’s a nice, sweet little story of the fear that winter can bring and the joy that spring’s return can make blossom. When the sky is gray and the earth seems dead, stories like this can help you get through to the warmth of the spring again. In some versions of the story, Father Frost is recast as Father Christmas, but the story is older than the St. Nicholas tradition, so I opted for the older version instead. And now, as promised, my special holiday gift to you: I give you a small bonus story, the short, odd tale of the Cat on the Dovrefjell, collected by Peter Christen Asbjornsen and Jorgen Moe in 1841.
Once upon a time, there was a man up in Finnmark, in Norway, who had caught a huge white bear, which he planned to take to the King of Denmark. It was a long way, so he found himself on the mountain known as Dovre on Christmas Eve. It was a fairly remote area, but he found a small cottage on the mountain and knocked, asking for lodging for the night for himself and his white bear. The owner, a man named Halvor, was understandably taken aback.
“I’m afraid I can’t so that, good sir. Not because I don’t want to have a bear living under my roof, mind, it’s just that it’s impossible to let you stay here, or anyone else who might happen by for that matter. You see, every Christmas Eve, a pack of ravening trolls comes rampaging down out of the mountains to invade my little house. Every year, the place is so full of the stinky bastards that I have to run for my life and spend the night without even a roof over my head, so you can understand why I can’t offer you what I soon won’t have myself.”
The nameless bear trainer (who I’m going to call Bart after the famous trained bear) laughed heartily. “Is that all? No problem! Bear will sleep by stove, and I will sleep in storeroom. You can go hide if you like; Bart will stay here.” Halvor tried to talk him out of it, but he eventually caved. He didn’t want to argue with a man who was friends with a massive bear at the best of times, and a day when rude-ass trolls were headed your way was far from the best of times. Halvor and his family fled out into the snowy mountain wilderness while Bart and the bear settled in.
Before Halvor’s family had left, they had set the table with cream porridge, fish and sausages, and everything else they had that was tasty. It made a grand feast in an attempt to appease unruly uninvited house guests. Not long after the family had abandoned ship, the trolls came down from the mountains. They came in all shapes and sizes: some were tall and slim, some were short and squat, some had long tails and some had no tails at all. Most had long, knobby noses that they used to sniff the air as they entered. The one thing they all had in common was a greedy appetite and poor manners. They crowded around the table, eating and drinking everything they could get their hands on, and generally raising hell.
Just as everyone was starting to have fun (and maybe get a little drunk), one of the younger trolls noticed the large white bear lying under the stove. How they had all missed a massive fucking bear in the room is beyond me, but apparently they were really focused on their rabble rousing. Any sane, intelligent being would have shrieked and gotten the fuck out of that death house, but the teenage troll went a different way. He took a large, boiling hot sausage, shoved it onto a fork with his dirty fucking hand, and poked the bear in the nose with it, simultaneously stabbing and burning it. As he did so, he called out “Kitty want some sausage?”
The bear did exactly what you would expect. It snarled in pain, rose up on its hind legs, pawed at the air, and roared angrily at the assembled trolls. It then began to smack the trolls around, crushing bones and rending flesh. The horde of trolls, taken completely by surprise, screamed in mortal terror and rushed out of the house the way they should have when they first noticed a goddamn bear. They raced out into the snowy night and vanished into the mountains.
Fast forward to a year later, and Bart and the bear had long since moved on, but Halvor and his family were still in that little house on the mountain. It was again Christmas Eve, around midday, and Halvor was out in the woods gathering wood for the fire that night. They needed plenty of wood to cook the feast the trolls demanded to not utterly destroy the house, and Halvor was dejectedly preparing. As he was chopping, Halvor heard a voice from the woods. “Halvor? Hey, Halvor!”
He turned to see one of the smaller trolls. “Yes, troll?” “Hey, uh…do you still have that big cat at home?” Halvor paused for a moment, confused until he remembered his ursine guest from the year before, and then he had an idea. “The cat? Oh, yeah. Yeah! We do still have the cat. She’s at home right now lying under the stove. In fact, she had seven kittens this year, far bigger and fiercer than she is herself.” The troll squeaked. “Well, holy shitballs! This fucking sucks. I guess the party at your place is off from now on. That cat of yours is terrifying, bro.” He disappeared back into the woods, and Halvor never saw him (or any of his disgusting brethren) ever again.
So there you have it, two different takes on the now standard “scrappy hero saves Christmas at the last minute” trope, plus a little advice for your own holiday. If you have holiday guests that you’d rather not have, just invite a bear over and pretend it’s a cat while it maims and dismembers them. And with that helpful hint, it’s time for Gods and Monsters. This is a segment where I get into a little more detail about the personalities and history of one of the gods or monsters from this week’s pantheon that was not discussed in the main story. This week’s monster is an Icelandic Christmas tag team of horror known as Gryla and Jolakotturinn.
Let me start out by saying that they don’t fuck around in Iceland. Krampus is pretty metal, sure, but he’s got nothing on Gryla, a man-eating ogress who’s been living in the mountains since at least the 13th century, although she didn’t become a Christmas monster until the 1600s. Known as the Christmas Witch, she’s the mother of an entire family of Yuletide monsters who terrorize villages as the festivities approach.
The ancient festival of the Yule, which predates Christianity, was a much stranger and darker holiday than the modern Christmas, and was seen as a time to gather together family, both living and dead, against the growing cold and darkness of the frighteningly short days of the northern winters and against the supernatural threats of trolls, ogres, giants, elves, and other spooky critters that go bump in the night. Gryla, whose name roughly translates to “growler”, is on her second marriage (some say three), although I’d be nervous if I were him. Her first husband was also a deadly monster, but he wasn’t horrible enough and Gryla grew bored with him. In a scene that reads like some hybrid of a country song and a death metal song, instead of divorcing her sorry soon-to-be-ex, she ate him alive as he screamed in pain and terror.
With her second husband, she had a whole passel of monstrous children, all bent on terrorizing humanity as Christmas approaches, although you’ll have to wait until next year to learn about the Yule Lads since they’re not the focus of this story. Gryla was seen as the embodiment of the horrors of winter, and what’s more, she could control the landscape and the weather (hence the ‘witch’ part of her title). As governess of such a brutal landscape, it should come as no shock that she’s equally brutal. She is a giant troll with goat hooves for feet (the better to get around on the frozen rock) and thirteen lashing tails (or forty, if you believe one old poem).
Each winter, as Christmas (and the winter solstice) approach, Gryla sneaks down out of the mountains in search of naughty children. Dressed in ragged clothing, she wears a large sack on her back for storing anyone she catches, leaving her hands free for the swords or knives she carries for butchering them. See, unlike Krampus, she doesn’t just whip naughty children (even if he does kill the few especially naughty ones), she murders and eats them, if they’re lucky. If they’re unlucky, she throws them in her sack to be brought back to her hut still breathing so that she can boil them alive for her favorite stew (the torture gives it that special something). She is accompanied by her huge, ferocious feline friend Jolakotturinn, or the Yule Cat.
Some versions of the story say the cat lives in a cave with Gryla’s first husband (who she didn’t eat when she grew tired of him), although most say that he lives with Gryla herself and her dirty baker’s dozen of Christmas demons. Most kids have probably gotten socks as a holiday gift at least once in their lives (it was an annual disappointment for me growing up), and most kids probably put new socks right above getting coal in their stocking as far as good gifts go, but in Iceland, those Christmas socks might just save your life.
In a truly terrifying form of class warfare, the Yule Cat wanders around on Christmas Eve, devouring anyone who hasn’t received new clothes during the winter. Unsurprisingly, the Yule Cat, much like Krampus and Gryla, was used as a horrifying incentive for finishing chores. Children who finished all of their chores by Christmas were given warm new clothes; those who didn’t had to face the fangs of the hungry kitty. Larger than the very houses in the village, the cat prowls through the streets on Christmas Eve and peeks into the windows of each house. All good children who have clothes wrapped under the tree are safe; lazy, naughty children have to watch as the Yule Cat first eats their dinner and then drags them out into the chill night air to be disemboweled and filleted before being eaten, still alive and in agony.
While this seems like a punishment for being poor (and make no mistake, it is exactly that), it was also intended to inspire wealthier kids who didn’t need to fear the predations of this merry murderer to donate clothes to those in need and spare them from a horrible death (real or mythical). So if you happen to find yourself in Iceland on Christmas Eve, make sure you’re very, very good and that you have a nice new pair of socks waiting for you under the tree if you don’t want to meet a grisly, gruesome end and have your intestines used as tinsel.
That’s it for this episode of Myths Your Teacher Hated. Keep up with new episodes on our Facebook page, on iTunes, on Stitcher, on TuneIn, and on Spotify, or you can follow us on Twitter as @HardcoreMyth and on Instagram as Myths Your Teacher Hated Pod. You can also find news and episodes on our website at myths your teacher hated dot com. If you like what you’ve heard, I’d appreciate a review on iTunes. These reviews really help increase the show’s standing and let more people know it exists. If you have any questions, any gods or monsters you’d want to learn about, or any ideas for future stories that you’d like to hear, feel free to drop me a line. I’m trying to pull as much material from as many different cultures as possible, but there are all sorts of stories I’ve never heard, so suggestions are appreciated. The theme music is by Tiny Cheese Puff, whom you can find on fiverr.com.
Next time, we’re going to get onto island time and head to Java and Bali for some fun in the sun. You’ll learn that even the ancients thought that cucumbers looked like dicks, that you should never agree to let someone eat your baby, and that salt can be much worse for your health than you thought. Then, in Gods and Monsters, you’ll see that there are some vampires that not even sparkly skin can make pretty. That’s all for now. Thanks for listening.