Yuletide Boots

Since I was old enough to lick the spoon, mom and I have baked nan her favorite Yule cookies, then we’d pull on our cloaks and stroll through the forest to deliver them before the end of Mother’s Night. This year, mom is too sick to come with me but said, “Esyllt, twelve is old enough to make the journey on your own – as long as you leave before the moon rises so Gryla, the child-nabbing Yule Hag, doesn’t scent you.” 

So, go on my own I did.

Ice-kissed winds whistle through the trees as I trudge through Grymmwing Forest. This is what Yule is about for me. The smell of fresh-baked gingerbread wafting from my basket to mingle with the scent of winter pine, the snow crunching satisfyingly beneath my brown-hide boots - my frozen toes bunched at the too-tight toe. 

I should have gotten a new pair before the first frost, but Stryvale’s cobbler has been short on the cowhide he needs of late. Something about the influx of orders for warrior uniforms taking up all the resources. The new Duke is a young man, according to mom, but surely he’d know that the high-demand is leaving little to nothing left for Stryvale’s residents, right? 

A wolf howls in the distance, and suddenly the forest already seems darker despite the time, the shadows of evergreens seeming to grow by the second.

The wind whips up, blowing strands of my blonde hair out of the braid I wove quickly before leaving home, and the delicate snowflakes that were falling gently a moment ago whip up with it. My steps falter, a fogged breath catching in my throat, as the path before me all but vanishes behind a wall of snow. 

Though I’ve walked this path dozens of times with mom, I pause when I reach a fork. At least, I think it’s a fork. It’s hard to say for sure if it’s a branch off the path or just a break in the trees while I’m snow-blind. Squinting into the squall, I spot a faint light coming from my left. Nothing but blizzard to my right.

Left it is then. 

The light grows brighter, the thatched-roof cottage it’s coming from appearing as if out of thin air. Dark, sweet smelling smoke rising from the brick and lime-washed chimney, though every window in the cottage is dark. It’s the small iron lamp hanging over the wooden door, swingingly so violently in the frosty gale I’m surprised it’s still on it’s hook, giving off the amber glow I saw.

One painful, bone gnawing step of my frozen feet after the other, I reach the door and knock, knock, knock. Pulling my red cloak tighter around me as I wait, but there’s no answer. Once again I knock, knock, knock and this time the wooden door creaks open just enough for me to see that it’s completely dark inside. No one’s home.

A frozen wind blows it open another inch, as if it wants me to enter.

I shouldn’t…it’s not right to enter someone’s home without their knowledge. Let alone a stranger’s cottage. 

Turning to leave, another icy gust blows into my face. Stinging my cheeks and watering my eyes. My toes frozen and cramped…Grymmwing isn’t the kind of forest one should be wandering off the path on. I’d sooner be snatched up by a wendigo if Gryla mercifully overlooked me, and she’s only a problem at Yule time. Her ghostly Yule Lads snatching naughty children, or children alone, in the night. If I survive tonight, she’ll be out of my hair for another year.

I loose a sigh in surrender to nature and push the cottage door open as I cross the threshold. Immediately enveloped by glorious warmth.

The cottage is sparsely furnished with a long wooden table that fits thirteen chairs before the fireplace, a holly garland down it’s center, and a single bowl and spoon sitting out on the tabletop. Not much else fills the space. An empty coat rack is on the back wall next to a counter, washtub, and water pump, the only other notable feature is a curved staircase leading to an upper level you can’t tell exists from outside.

There’s a fire crackling in the hearth, a pot of something simmering over the flames. No doubt the source of the sweet smelling smoke, though now that I’m in front of the source, there’s an underlying scent I can’t put my finger on. 

I set down my basket before the hearth, hoping the heat will thaw the gingerbread cookies. Although, if that storm doesn’t let up soon I’ll be well passed the deadline my mother gave me. I’m not foolish enough to wander back out into the woods to be snatched up by Gryla or one of her Yule Lads. 

If only I had a thicker cloak, a pair of mitts, or a wool hat and scarf. Even one of those would help me make it to nan’s in this blizzard without my fingers turning black. Most of all, I wish I had a new pair of boots. The kind lined with sheepskin that we could never hope to afford.

My stomach aches and grumbles, the scent of what’s cooking over the fire tempting me as minutes pass, and I can’t help myself. I grab the bowl off the table and ladle a heaping helping of stew from the pot, noting it’s odd greenish tinge as I blow away the steam, and shovel a spoonful into my mouth anyway. Savoring the warmth it immediately brings my chilled bones.

When I’m through washing the dish, curiosity overcomes me and before I can come to my senses I’m snooping the scant home. I walk past the coat rack and pause. 

Sitting against the wall beneath it is a pair of fur-lined, black leather boots.

Boots that look just my size.

I wiggle my newly thawed toes as much as possible in my too-small pair, glance at those lined ones, then towards the window. The snow has lightened up enough that I could probably still make it to nans before the moon rises. The cookies might be cold, but I know she’ll appreciate them all the same.

First, I fish one of the paper pieces mom used to wrap the cookies out of my basket, then knock a small piece of coal from the edge of the fire with the poker. Using the nub of one of my tattered boot laces, I rub the tip on the coal and etch a message for the owner of this cabin.

The door blew open. I’ll return the boots on my way home, please keep the one’s I left. Thank you and I’m sorry. – Esyllt

Then I yank off my old boots, stretch and swivel my feet a bit, and pull on the lined pair. 

These feel like walking on warmed clouds compared to the boots I left at the cottage. The chill of the snow doesn’t bother me either, not with that thick sheepskin lining separating my foot from frozen leather. Guilt twists my stomach, but I don’t regret taking them. Not if it means getting these Yule cookies to nan and seeing her lovely, wrinkled smile. 

When I reach the fork in the road, this time I go right. 

A few minutes later, I pass by the cottage. Brows creased in confusion.

Did I get it wrong? Maybe I was mistaken about which path I took to the cottage last time. When I reach the fork again, I take the left path.

Again, I’m at the cottage in only a few minutes. 

I try the right again. I’m certain this is the path mom takes me on every time we visit nan. I’m certain the path I took to find the cottage was the left, not the right. Yet, here I am coming up to the cottage for a third time. The sky growing darker overhead.

My heartbeat takes off like a bolting mare, and I tear off in a run back the way I just came. Nearly stumbling in the fresh snow as I weave my way between the trees, only this time I don’t emerge at the fork. Fear grips my chest like a vise as I stare up at the lime-washed brick and thatched roof. At the amber light now pouring from the cottage windows and the sound of children scampering about.

The familiar crunch of snow underfoot sounds behind me, and I whip around to find nothing but forest. Crunching to my left, I turn and see no one there. Crunching to my right…no one. I’m terrified to do it, but I allow my gaze to follow the sound down to the ground…Where footprints are appearing around me. 

Two sets, neither large enough to belong to an adult. One going one way, the other the opposite way as they circle, and the disembodied voices of children laugh and sing a song that sends chills having nothing to do with the cold down my spine.

“Mother Gryla roams free on the longest night, Oh, feel the cold howl of winter’s might. We Yule lads sing and prank before bed, While mother fills her stew with the -”

“Stop it!” I cut their song off before they can sing that final word, my scream breaking as cold air hits my windpipe. Nausea churns my stomach, and I retch up the stew into the snow at the macabre realization of what it’s made from.

I’m a fool. 

I didn’t evade Gryla or her Yule Lads at all. No, I wandered right into her home and bit every piece of bait she left me.

Before I can finish emptying my stomach, a snowball hits me in the side of the head. Knocking me sideways.

“You stole our boots and ate our stew, now mother will make a stew out of you!” One of the invisible Yule Lads sings.

“Naughty little girl!” Chides the other.

Another snowball hits me, then another, and another. Soon, I’m all but buried as I’m pelted by enemies I can’t see. One pulls down my hood, then tugs at my braid until it falls.

“OUCH!” I shriek as one bites my hand.

Swiping at the air, a drop of blood from the bite shining crimson against white, none of my punches find their mark, and I fall into the snow chest-first when a weight lands on my back.

“Lads!” A warm, but firm, voice calls out. “Be good boys for mother, go off and join your brothers. Find the naughty children in the villages.”

With a gush of frosty wind, the footprints of the lads vanish before my eyes, and I’m left on my knees in the snow. Looking up at the twisted face of Gryla the Yule Hag.

Peppered brown hair falls past her ample waist, several mats and what look to be twigs tangled in it’s length. Shorter pieces matted around her pockmarked face frame eyes without a hint of white – they’re entirely blacked out and all the more terrifying for it. Though it’s her large, curling nose that’s the focal point of her wretched face.

Tiny jingle bells on her filthy brown dress jangle as Gryla reaches towards me, and I scramble backwards through the snow.

“No, please!” I beg the hag. “I didn’t know this was your cottage, I’m sorry I took the boots – take them back, please!” 

I shove at the boots, trying to kick them off with my heels, and gape in horror when they won’t budge. A sinking pit forming in my middle when Gryla laughs at the gesture. Revealing a rotted mouth of too-sharp, mostly broken, teeth. 

“Did you not wish for a new pair of boots?” She cackles.

I shake my head, eyes wide at the realization that I hadn’t even made that wish out loud. Merely while inside her cottage. “If I’d known, I never would have,” - 

“Never would have,” the hag mocks. “You made the wish, you accepted my gift when you took the boots. Be careful what you wish for, girl. Things are often not as they seem. Even I was not always what you see before you, though I suppose that’s a story you’ll never hear.”

Gryla lunges, too quick for me to react, and before I can wiggle away she’s got me in a grip I’d never imagine she could have with fingers so bony. My heart hits the floor, fear ridding my body of any remaining warmth as Gryla hauls me into her cottage, and the last thing I see before the door moves on a phantom wind is growing shadow at the base of swaying evergreens. There’s a series of loud cracks, as if the branches of the trees have snapped all at once, then the door slams shut.

Where there was only a small hearth and pot earlier, there is now a large open fireplace and enormous black cauldron. It’s brothy contents already boiling.

Terror grips me, everything in me saying to try and flee. Only every time I try to move it feels like I’m straining against ropes that aren't there. Forced to watch the hag season the broth she’ll boil me in from where she has me slumped against the wall.

All I can do is make a silent plea to the Ancestors.

To save me. To look after my mom. To ease her guilt over letting me go alone, and nan’s at being the one I was going to see. To somehow tell them both that I’m sorry, and not to let this ruin their Yule’s to come.

After what feels like an age, the sound of growled wails meshed with the clanging of steel fills the air. Drowning out everything else but a battle I can’t see happening outside the cottage. Is someone fighting the Yule Lads? Can someone fight the spectral boys?

The cottage door bursts open, sending my heart into my throat as I startle, and a tall young man with dark-brown hair wearing even darker brown leather armor bursts through it. Sword drawn. 

I loose a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, relief flooding my system like a heated geyser when the warrior glances my way. Shock lines his features, thick brows scrunching over piercing turquoise eyes filled with anger, then he turns that anger on Gryla.

“Release the child, Yule Hag, and you’ll keep your head.” He demands.

“You do not order me, Duke. I exist outside of your mortal reach, beyond mere life and death.” The hag cracks that ghastly smile, apparently unfazed by the warrior-Duke’s arrival.

“Have it your way.” He smirks wickedly, then palms a dagger and lifts his short sword a second before disappearing into thin air. Reappearing behind Gryla before I can blink, and before she notices.

He raises the sword above her head, and I look away. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I ignore the squelch and following thump accompanied by the jingle of bells, then feel my invisible bonds release as my rescuer approaches.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says softly. “What’s your name? Where are you from?”

“Esyllt,” I answer as I stand, “I’m from Stryvale.”

The Duke’s brows shoot up, “Stryvale? I have your town to thank for this fine armor, then.” He thumps his chest.

“I know. Our cobbler can’t make a pair of boots because all the leather’s being used for it.” I shouldn’t be upset, the man saved my life after all. But if I’d been able to get new boots, I wouldn’t have taken the magic ones from the cottage, never would have been led back here over and over, and maybe I wouldn’t have needed saving in the first place.

“I had no idea. I’ll personally ensure Stryvale has everything it needs to provide for it’s own residents before my warriors. You have my word, Esyllt.” He holds his hand to his heart, a gesture of sincerity, and I believe him.

The Duke escorts me out of the cottage, the warriors he arrived with having a heated discussion at the tree line, and when I collect my basket he grins. “My men wanted to eat those.”

“They were supposed to be a Yule gift for my grandmother.” I smile.

“Delivering them to her on Yule – we call it Mother’s Night in Stryvale - is a tradition we have.” 

“Well, it’s still Yule. What do you say we make that delivery? I’m sure she’ll be happy to know you’re safe, and I can either escort you there or home. I’m not leaving a child to wander the woods at night even with Gryla gone this year.” When my forehead crinkles in confusion, the Duke adds, “Gryla’s a complicated creature. She’ll be back next Yule.”

But I survived this one, know better, and will make sure everyone who will listen knows about Gryla’s tricks, too. If the Duke hadn’t come…I don’t want to think about it. 

An hour later we’re knocking on nan’s door, relief and confusion written all over her beautiful aged face in equal measure as she glances from me to the Duke when she answers it. 

She proclaims the cookies chilly, but delicious nonetheless, and demands to hear my story while she dips one into a mug of steaming cinnamon milk. The scrumptious Yuletide scents mingling with gingerbread and citrus from dried orange slices in the Yule garland she’s draped over the fireplace’s mantel warms my heart. 

When I’m finished my tale, nan nods as if she’s passed judgement.

“I’m not surprised you were saved, Mother’s Night, after all, thins the veil between worlds. Gryla is freed for the night, but you had the Ancestors and Goddesses of Old on your side my love.”

“Well then, I guess I have them to thank for my new boots.” I clink the heels together, and Nan laughs.

“A Yuletide miracle.”