December 15th

                                                         

It seemed as though no one wanted to go to bed tonight.  It was after 1am and the yarn lady was still reading in her bed and Pam was in the living room playing World of Warcraft and neither had fed Clementine or Ursula.  Clem climbed onto her “feed me” perch and meowed loudly. The yarn lady looked up at her and then at the clock, saying, “Mercy! It’s later than I thought.  This book is so fascinating I lost track of time.” She called for Pam to feed the kitties, since she it was past time to go to sleep.  Within 15 minutes both cats had been fed and Pam had retreated to her room for the night. 

The yarn lady turned out the lights and within about ten minutes was asleep. Clem had already done her under-the-blanket time so she was free to roam the house. She settled on a dining room chair awaiting tonight’s visitor.  She’d had an email from Archie earlier cautioning her not to eat the nutmeg, as it could give her hallucinations.  Clem knew nutmeg, it was one of the spices on the rack above the sink.  The yarn lady used it sometimes for baking.  It was rather stinky powder, so she wondered why Archie would have said she could use it to play hockey, or why the Jólasveinar would leave spices. 

Ursula was stationed on the armchair by the picture window. The sneakers were on the table awaiting tonight’s gift only a few feet away.  They were ready to catch some Christmas troll. Ursula dozed off as the night wore on, but Clementine stayed alert.  Finally, she heard a faint noise in the kitchen. She quickly slipped past the edge of the curtain separating the rooms and saw a very odd sight. Tonight’s Jólasveinar was tall and horribly thin. He looked like a skeleton wrapped in some skin and baggy rags. He was mostly bald had gnarled hands and a really long tongue that he was using to lick a spoon the yarn lady had left unwashed. She and Pam had made beef stew earlier and the spoon she’d used for serving had been still in the empty pot after she’d vacuum-sealed the leftovers for freezing.

He was relishing the rich taste of the stew when he heard a voice from near the floor. “Excuse me, but why are you licking the spoon?” Clementine asked in Íslenska. He was so surprised to be addressed by a cat who spoke his language that he answered, “Because I’m Þvöruleikir, the spoon-licker.  That’s how I get my nourishment, from the spoons I find in people’s houses.  This spoon has prime broth and bits of beef on it. I could lick a dozen of these.”

“Why don’t you just eat Pam’s leftovers? They’re right in the living room where she left them.” Clem felt she should be hospitable to someone who looked like he was suffering from malnutrition.

“Well, because they’re not on a cooking spoon. That’s the only food I eat, fresh from cooking and straight from the cooking spoon.” Þvöruleikir seemed a little confused as to why she’d suggest he eat from a bowl.  That wasn’t his task. 

Clementine nodded and told him he was welcome to see if he couldn’t get some more stuff on the spoon by rubbing it on the sides of the pot.  He looked at her, dumbstruck, as though that idea had never occurred to him.  He scraped the pot with the spoon for about five minutes, licking it clean each time he’d managed to get more stew on it.  This woke Ursula who wandered into the kitchen. 

Þvöruleikir introduced himself to Ursula and thanked the two cats. He presented each of them with a miniature spoon with some words stamped on it.  “I don’t suppose cats use spoons, but it’s what I’ve got.  Thanks for the stew!” He then let himself out of the condo by the sliding glass door onto the patio. 

“Well, that was weird,” Clem declared.  These trolls were ancient, according to what she’d found on the internet.  How could he survive on what he could lick off spoons? She then looked at the two spoons he had left.  Each of them had “Reykjavik International Games” engraved on it, as well as a year and an outline of an athlete.  So, he’d left them souvenir spoons. They might be the right size for a small child, but certainly not an adult…or a cat.  Spoons require thumbs.