Winter Solstice in 9th century Iceland. Short days are perpetual twilight. Long nights are oppressively frigid.
And there is snow.
Lots of it.
Driven sideways by gusts of blade-sharp winds, it piles up against the sod walls of the turf houses in the village, some of which measure six feet thick. The whirling whiteness is blinding.
Taken together, these conditions require a special kind of endurance. Only one thing will help cushion you against the wild weather that is coming. If you have prepared yourself—and your family—by doing the work you knew was required earlier in the year, you have nothing to fear.
HOWEVER …
If you have not prepared yourself—and your family—by doing the work you knew was required earlier in the year, you do have something to fear.
That fear descends from the dark Icelandic mountains wearing thick, coal-black, frost-tipped fur that shields him from the cold. Twice the size of the houses, he glides between them with whisper-light steps. His massive paws leave canyon-sized imprints. Blazing yellow eyes see all.
This creature hunts men—not mice. He notices everything and that includes you—and your sin.
What did you do that was so terrible?
This past summer, instead of working – you were lazy. You did not help out. You did not pitch in. And that, in his inviolable moral code, is the greatest sin of all. If you are found guilty, he will morph into judge, jury and executioner and it will be as if you’d never existed.
It’s time for the Winter Solstice and he is starting down the mountain. He will see you soon.
He is … The Yule Cat.
THE TYRANNY OF ECONOMICS
Economics are tyranny in any country. In medieval Iceland, wool held sway over all. No wool = no income = no security. And woe betide you if, when the first nip of winter grazes your exposed arm, you’ve been too lazy to produce.
With no native metals to coin or trees to trade, and the soil poisoned by volcanic ash that made agriculture impossible, Iceland had few economic resources. What it did have was vaðmál (or wadmal) – wool. It was the only legal tender available. It could buy a sack of grain. Or a cow. It was your salary. You could even use it to pay your taxes.
Farms were essentially textile factories. Their output determined the survival of each household, from farm hand to farmer, during the approaching winter. Spring and summer were the optimal wool production seasons, but the real work began after the autumn slaughter. That’s when the pace hit Mach 1.
Wool prep was a family affair. Everyone worked. Greasy fleeces were washed and dried. Then came carding, where wire-toothed combs created fluffy rolls from slender fibers. The labor was monotonous. Repetitive. Basically, it was dead boring if your mind wandered. But if you could handle the combs—no matter your age—you worked.
Finally, drop spindles twisted the fibers into yarn. One weaver at a loom could consume yarn at the rate of five to ten spinners at a time. Demand never slackened. The rule never changed. All cloth must be finished before the Empress Winter draped her white cloak over the land and the Jól festivities began.
Now it is mid-December. Snow has arrived, the new clothes are finished and preparations for the Solstice have started. But for some families, there is a sadness in the air. At some point during the celebrations, they will lose someone dear to them. No one is really sure which is worse: the loss itself, or the hard fact that it could have been prevented.
Either way, one night, someone will be called to account. One night, a creature will arrive at a doorstep with a quiet step and a desire to do justice.
And we know who – and what – he is.
THE STORY OF BJORN
It’s Christmas Eve in the village. The Jól festivities are in full swing. In one cabin, the Jónsson family celebrates the culmination of a successful year. Their harvest was one of the best they’ve ever had. No one’s been sick. There’s a new baby.
They have earned the right to eat, drink, dance, play games and enjoy each other this night.
And give gifts.
As a reward for the work that turned wool into survival, everyone receives a new piece of clothing—wool socks for the children, a knitted cap with jaunty tassels for the father, kirtles for the wife and grandmother. These gifts are not luxuries. They are proof: of participation, responsibility, belonging.
Across the room, a man sits in a corner, separated from the revelry. His name is Bjorn Jónsson. His back is turned on the revelers. He looks anxiously out the window into the black night. His nephew, Magnús, runs over to persuade him to join them. But Bjorn’s brother – Magnús’ father, Hákon – calls the boy back sharply.
Bjorn knows why he cannot participate in the celebrations. He know he is being shunned by his family and he knows why. He knows why the few that glance his way wear expressions varying from pity and sadness, disdain and disappointment.
Bjorn is a marked man. Found guilty. Outcast by his family. By his community.
Why? What was his sin?
Laziness.
While the rest of his family worked the harvest, carded the wool, tended the sheep, Bjorn spent the summer lying in the warm grass. Flirting with the ladies. Taking walks through the woods. Drinking. Hanging out.
In short, he would do anything … except work.
And now, Bjorn sits by the window, trembling. He knows what is in store for him. He knows who is coming. At any time during the autumn, he could have saved himself. Could have pitched in. Could have been productive – even at the last minute.
But he didn’t. And he wasn’t. And regret now is too little, too late.
After awhile, Bjorn gets up and walks towards the door. His step does not falter and his posture remains straight. The house is as quiet as a tomb.
Suddenly, the building shudders and instinct makes everyone step back, to move farther away from the door. It shudders again. And again.
Bjorn wraps his hand around the doorknob, turns and takes one more look at his family. His grandmother stifles a sob. Magnús hides his face in his mother’s skirt. Despite the fact that no one will look at him, Bjorn raises his hand before turning to step out into the whirling snow.
With fear overcome by curiosity, some run to the window to look for Bjorn, but there’s too much snow. They can’t see him.
Outside, a low growl ripples through the air, quickly rising into a series of snarls that lash out like whips. Some women cover their ears and walk quickly across the room.
The wind stops. Two yellow lasers lights his way. Enormous paws flatten the snow.
Bjorn’s scream is cut short by the single, elegant motion of a long, perfectly-shaped claw.
By morning, there is no sign that he ever stood in the snow at all.
WHAT HAVE WE LEARNED?
If you have a black cat that’s as large and fluffy as a Maine Coon, you’d better not be lazy, particularly around Christmas, when he’s especially judgey. Some instances of sloth might be allowed to slide sometimes – pet humans must be indulged now and again. But if I were you, I’d make it a point never, ever to be lazy when it comes time for your fluffy floof’s dinner.
You might regret it.
In the meantime, do remember to trim those claws, won’t you? And ask for a pair of warm wool socks from Aunt Bertha.
‘Cause you just never know.
What do YOU think?