As the House Fills: The Middle Five Yule Lads

By the time the first four Yule Lads have arrived, the household among the lava fields has already changed its rhythm.

Boots line the doorway in uneven pairs. Someone is always moving through the kitchen. Cups are counted more carefully now. Spoons hang a little higher than before. The fire stays lit longer into the night, as if it has learned to expect company.

Grýla notices the difference right away. She always does. Leppalúði fixes what needs fixing and leaves the rest alone. They both know what comes next.

Because once a house has adjusted, it rarely stays settled for long.

The path down the mountain grows busy again.

Pot-Scraper

Pottaskefill (POT-tah-skeh-fill)

Pot-Scraper listens before he moves.

Laughter swells. A story begins. Heads turn and attention wanders. When the moment feels right, a soft tap sounds at the door. Children run to see who has come. By the time they return, he is already at the pot, scraping the last bits with care and speed.

He does not empty it completely. What clings is taken. What rests is left behind.

In a house this full, that matters, especially when something is almost finished and no one has said whether it is yours to take.

Grýla surveys the pot later and says nothing. Leppalúði shifts the next meal so everyone eats together, slower than usual. No one rushes away.

Nearby, Pot-Scraper lingers, pretending not to notice. Timing can feel clever, he is learning, but it can also take more than it should.

Bowl-Licker

Askasleikir (AH-ska-slay-kir)

Bowl-Licker prefers the spaces beneath things.

Under beds and benches, he waits close enough to hear feet shuffle and bowls scrape against stone. When a bowl is left on the floor, he reaches out, pulls it into his world, and licks it clean.

The problem is not the bowls. It is where he chooses to be.

People trip over him. Children laugh, then feel awkward. Once, Grýla clears her throat. Leppalúði moves the bowls to a higher shelf and sweeps the floor with slow, careful strokes.

From the edge of the room, Bowl-Licker watches. Closeness can comfort, he is beginning to understand, but it can also crowd, and stepping out from underfoot turns out to be harder than he expected.

Door-Slammer

Hurðaskellir (HUR-tha-skell-ir)

Door-Slammer knows exactly what he is doing.

Twilight softens voices. Heads begin to nod. Then the door slams, once, sharp and loud. The echo follows. More important is the reaction that comes after.

This time, it is not the surprise he enjoys. It is the response.

Grýla turns slowly. Leppalúði does not look up at all. He rises, checks the hinges, and oils them until the door closes with a dull, obedient sound.

Later, Door-Slammer tries again. The sound is smaller now. So is the reaction, and the quiet that follows asks a different kind of question than the slam ever did.

On the step, he sits thoughtful. Noise still has power, but it does not last as long as he hoped.

Skyr-Gobbler

Skyrgámur (SKEER-gow-mur)

Skyr-Gobbler loves comfort.

He lifts the lid of the skyr tub and eats until the spoon scrapes the bottom. Hunger fades, but he keeps going. Only the empty scrape tells him to stop. An empty tub feels safer that way.

Skyr should be abundant. In this house, it usually is.

The lid goes back on the next morning without comment. Leppalúði sets out bowls and divides what remains evenly, then adds more from the cellar. There is enough. There has always been enough.

This time, Skyr-Gobbler eats more slowly. Control, he is learning, can come from trust rather than taking everything at once, a difference that matters more than he expected.

Sausage-Swiper

Bjúgnakrækir (BYOOG-nah-cray-kir)

Sausage-Swiper watches from above.

From rafters and beams, he waits while others argue and laugh below. Smoke gathers where he sits, warm and distant. When the moment is right, a hook lowers and a sausage lifts free without a sound.

Planning works. Waiting works. Distance works best of all.

Grýla counts the sausages before dinner and counts again after. Leppalúði adjusts the strings so they hang lower, within reach, where no one has to climb to take what they need.

Sausage-Swiper stays where he is, thoughtful. Coming down would mean asking. Staying put still feels easier.

Nine Yule Lads now fill the house.

Noise lives in every corner. Food disappears more quickly. Doors open and close more often than they should. Yet something else has settled in alongside the chaos.

The boys are closer.

At the center of it all, Grýla stands watchful and steady. Leppalúði moves between rooms, repairing, smoothing, and reminding without speaking. Together, they hold the shape of the household as it stretches, and something about fullness begins to feel different than it once did.

Outside, snow continues to fall. Inside, the fire burns brighter than before. A crowded house, it turns out, can still learn how to feel like home.

Farther up the mountain, more footsteps are already on their way down.

The final four are coming.

If you’d like Santa to share a story or bring a little wonder to your home or event this season, my visit calendar has a few open spots. I would love to meet you.

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