Gryla, Krampus, and the Yule Cat

Myndil's adventures take him all over Erie, but what happens when the fae send him northward?

To read the full novella, visit HERE

The people in the village were still huddled in their homes, peering out windows, waiting for the beast to go away, but even if Aodhgan should hunt enough deer or boar to keep Krampus out of their homes and in good standing with Gryla, the people in the village would only be in danger again a week hence. There was no time, however, to think of a better scheme: the raucous footfalls told them that Gryla was returning, and instead of hunting, Aodhgan had another idea: he was going to let Myndil happen to her. Gryla had never seen him before, so it was only fair. Everyone ought to have Myndil happen to them once in their lives, especially if their lives were hundreds of years long. She was owed at least three happenings by now, and could borrow a few from the abbot if she felt short-changed.

                Aodhgan might be able to overpower her, but he would rather not show his wolf if Myndil’s voice would do. He had talked his way out of Krampus’ basket, certainly he could talk his way out of his mother’s cauldron. The only concern was whether Myndil could do it fast enough to put her off eating him. Probability from circumstance was on his side, and when Gryla came trundling back from collecting water, looking about for a child in Krampus’ basket and finding nothing, Aodhgan put Myndil in Gryla’s way and stood back.

                Myndil smiled so good-humouredly.

                “Why’s everyone just standin’ here like they got nothin’ to do?” Gryla demanded. “Where’s the meat? You said you were gonna get it.”

                Krampus looked repentant and was about to answer when Myndil spoke. For some reason, Krampus felt this was a good idea; he looked pliable and absorbent.

                “Well,” Myndil began, his eyes scintillating, “we all did some talking and then had a little think about it, and we decided that it is much the best thing for the few people in this village to be left alone. They have sworn off having more children, on account of the chances of them being eaten, which are quite high, and those who are left are older and probably quite tough, if that old man we saw before was anything to go by, because I’m sure he would have tasted like leather, so the best thing to do is move to a new cave or a new village, one where they don’t know you and would be willing to give you a fresh start—not a fresh start at eating their children, of course—and—”  

                Gryla swung her cauldron at him. “You don’t stop all this channering, I’m feedin’ you to the cat!” she thrashed.

                She moved to grab him, but Myndil hopped to the side and danced away.

                “It’s not very nice to eat people without asking them about it first,” Myndil professed. “It’s very rude just to snatch them up and make them into an ingredient, especially if they should like to be something else. Some people would like to be a garnish or a filling instead. I know I should love to be in a pie, all wrapped and snug in warm pastry, or to be seared and made into nice filets with a delicate cream sauce-- but not at the moment, please, because we have got to be going, but—”

                “Kotturinn,” Gryla roared, “get them!”

                The giant black cat bounding about in the snow, entirely unsuspicious of any eating it was being asked to do, suddenly stiffened and perked up. Its whiskers twitched, and it fixed on Myndil, who was already waving to it and proclaiming how much he wanted to pet it. The cat trotted over and leaned down, pressing its nose into Myndil’s face, its nostrils flaring with each curious sniff. Its instincts were to growl and feign unhappiness until a treat appeared, but Myndil reached up and tapped the end of its nose with a “Boop!”

                The cat stared as if stunned by something. It had never been touched by food before.

                Myndil did it again, and the cat blinked and went “Mrrrow?”

                “Kotturinn!” Gryla spat, the cauldrons hanging from her ears flailing, “Eat him at once!”

                The cat did not hear, or at least it did not respond; it was too busy having its ears rubbed.

                “Look at your lovely furnishings!” Myndil exclaimed, combing them out with his fingertips, following the long spiral shape. “They are absolutely superb! They make you look so regal. Yes, you like that when I rub the bit here between your ear and eye. It feels very pleasant, doesn’t it? I know you’re marking me, but that’s all right, because it’s good luck to be owned by cats. Oh,” the cat suddenly bent its head down, “do you want me to scratch behind your ears? Aodhgan loves when I scratch behind his head, especially when he’s shedding—pffbfsbstbstpstbpbstlbtp!” He turned his head to blow away a large tuft of black fur that had flown into his mouth. “It’s already getting in everywhere. You do need a good brushing. You have quite a few mats back here which must be very uncomfortable. No wonder you were snarling before—no, don’t nip me, please.” The cat nibbled Myndil’s arm and he drew it away. “I know you are only playing, but your teeth still hurt, and I cannot have you injure my robes.”

                The cat bashed its forehead against Myndil’s and knocked him over. He recovered in a moment, but there was a giant feline mouth advancing, and just before the cat could savour him, Myndil cooed, “Who’s a good little baby? Is it you, kotturinn? Is it you? Are you a little baby?”

                The cat’s eyes widened, as though thinking about it and wanting to answer him. Is it me? Am I a good baby? If the food says I am, I must be, and the cat flomped over, curled its paws, and began to wiggle. For a beast who hardly knew what affection was, it was suddenly more than eager to learn, especially when Myndil was leaning against it and lavishing it long stomach with plentiful tickles.

                “What’re you doin’ to my cat?” Gryla exclaimed, trying to shoo Myndil away. “You’re hurtin’ it!”

                “No, I’m not—listen!” Myndil paused, and a low rumble vibrated along the ground. “She’s purring—my what a strident purr you have! It’s almost as bottomless as Aodhgan’s growl.”

                “Stop usin’ yer magic on my cat,” Gryla cried. “Yer breakin’ it!”

                “She is not broken. All cats purr--- or are supposed to purr. She’s only expressing how happy she is and how much she likes being scratched.”

                “Krampy, get this monster off the cat—use the whip! Don’t let him touch you with his fancy finger magic!”

                “I could pet you too, if you like,” said Myndil, holding up a hand swallowed in loose black fur. “I have two hands, you know.

                Krampus watched the cat curl this way and that, writhing in the ecstasy of human contact, smiling with eyes closed. It was unfair that a cat should be more appreciated than he was, and he threw down his basket, flumped over, and let Myndil do his worst.

To read the full novella, visit HERE