December 20th

 

The Jólasveinarnir lounged in their tent at the Destiny’s Bridge Senior Colony, warmed by a propane heater and plenty of blankets.  Early in their visit to New Jersey, Stúfur had stumbled into this camp of stray humans and after an embarrassing encounter with Reverend Steve the trolls were offered a large tent, a heater, blankets and cots for the remainder of their stay. It appeared that the Amerískur didn’t take very good care of their impoverished countrymen, even the old ones who were supposedly wiser. This camp was full of elders who had been turned out of their homes to starve. Reverend Steve had explained to the Jólasveinarnir on their first day here that there was nowhere for these people to go. They hadn’t the money to rent a place to live because the folks who built houses made big ones that took a lot of money to rent and run. So, they ended up in places like Destiny’s Bridge where folks like Reverend Steve and his helpers helped them by providing tents and heaters and food from people who gave it to them. Reverend Steve didn’t care that they were trolls. He said that many of the folks here were different in many ways, and as long as they kept their area clean and didn’t cause problems that trolls, elves and even hobbits were welcome.

Among themselves, the Jólasveinarnir had decided that Reverend Steve might not be entirely in touch with reality. Hobbits and elves weren’t real – they were from stories the humans told each other because they had too much spare time. Well, odd or not, he was a nice guy, and it gave them a comfortable safe place to stay during the day when the sun was shining.

Today’s discussion was about how to deal with the cats in two of the houses they visited. The cats knew they would come every night, so should they stop going to those places and find new ones? Their other targets slept through the night and the Jólasveinarnir could get in and out without difficulty. Askasleikir said that they should poison the cats and get on with their job, but the others ignored him. As far as they could tell, he didn’t like anyone – troll, human or animal and the consensus was that he'd be voted off the team in the off season. No one needs a cranky pants. After some discussion, everyone but Askasleikir agreed to just go about their business and make sure that there were plenty of cat-friendly treats and presents. The only cat they’d had much to do with was their mother’s monstrous cat, Urðarköttur, who liked to eat Gryla’s leftovers whenever she happened to catch a human and make a stew out of him. Supposedly, the cat also liked to eat babies he’d pluck out of their cribs, but if that was true it hadn’t happened for hundreds of years…that they knew of. The idea of small friendly cats was a delight to the Jólasveinarnir who’d met them. Perhaps they could convince one of them to come back to Ísland with them when they were done. 

 

Clementine had prepared for tonight’s visitor by snagging a package of the yarn lady’s sausages out of the freezer. He was supposed to be a sausage stealer who hung from the rafters and grabbed them. Ursula said that the house she’d grown up in with the yarn lady and Pam had exposed beams in the ceiling, because it had was built around the time the earth was cooling. Clem figured she meant it was an old house, but there were no beams in this house that she knew of. Something had to hold up the ceiling she supposed, but it wasn’t visible. Maybe it was magic, or some really strong glue. The sausage stealer would have to settle for getting them off the counter, still in the vacuum sealed pouch, since she wasn’t about to mess with that thing. Those pouches were so thick that even Ursula, who liked to chew on anything plastic, said they were too thick for her to enjoy chewing.

Everyone was sound asleep when Bjúgnakrækir arrived. He gently rapped on the door frame and Ursula’s head shot up. Bjúgnakrækir politely introduced himself and explained that his assigned task was to steal sausages. Ursula told him that Clem had left a vacuum bag of a few on the counter, but asked why each of them had a different task, and why those tasks were…weird. 

The troll sighed and sat down on a large pillow on the floor. “It is because of tradition…and our foremother, Gryla. We Jólasveinarnir live a long time, and centuries ago Gryla decided that her sons should get some of their winter food from the humans who had moved into our lands. I’ve met those old guys – they’re still alive and let me just say that they are some strange dudes. Each of them had some odd food preference that became a never-to-be-changed traditional task that each subsequent generation must do. As I said I’m Bjúgnakrækir, but to be more specific, I’m Bjúgnakrækir the 16^th. I’m the oldest son in the 16^th generation of lineage of Gryla’s son Bjúgnakrækir. The younger sons and the daughters have it a lot easier. They can be named whatever the parents want and can chose any path for their lives. Some of my uncles are fisherman, my mother is a master weaver. I, alas, am the Sausage Stealer. In the early generations, Gryla made all the sons take the name of their father, but that stopped when they realized there were too many bands of Jólasveinarnir and not enough villages. Now it is just the oldest sons of each generation, well and a couple of bands of female Jólasveinarnir who said it was unfair that the men had all the fun. Each band sets up their own little area in the cave and becomes something like a small village themselves, self-governing of their own affairs. If something happens to one of us, we recruit a replacement from among the younger siblings of the one replaced. I’ll tell you for sure that we’ll be replacing Askasleikir come spring. If he doesn’t leave on his own we’ll vote him out and let him find some nice isolated place to live where he can be grumpy by himself.”

As he shook his head, Ursula thanked him for sharing that information and offered to show him where the sausages were. She had so much new information her head felt stuffed with facts. Bjúgnakrækir thanked her and left, placing something small in each of the sneakers on the front table.

Clementine came out of the bedroom as Ursula was trying to arrange all this information in her small brain. She hoped Clem had been listening as she could feel the facts escaping through her ears into the night air. “Help, I can’t remember all that! It’s too much information.” Clem laughed as she sprang onto the table with the sneakers. She poked her head in one, emerging with a tiny hot dog in her mouth. She dropped it to the floor and jumped down. “Hmm, looks like we got an edible tonight. Ha, I’ve never seen a hot dog this small.”

Ursula looked at it and laughed. “They’re called cocktail sausages and they come in little jars, or sometimes they’re frozen in bags. People wrap them in dough and make pigs in a blanket. They’re yummy.”  She jumped up and grabbed hers and they happily shared a snack on the living room floor, thinking about the troll’s story. They each decided that it was good that cats don’t do silly things like that Gryla did. Cats were too smart for such convoluted traditions.