Mrs. Claus and the Nisse

Not every tale in the history of Santa and Mrs. Claus is one of victory. Thus far in the history I have relayed about myself, Ingefaer, or Mrs. Claus to some, and my husband Klaus, also known as Santa Claus, the stories have been ultimately triumphant, progressive, and sometimes just short of miraculous. But nobody's perfect, and this year I want to tell you about a time I made a very big and terrible mistake.

Oh don't worry, it all turns out in the end, but I think there's a lesson to be learned in reminding you that even the immortal Mrs. Ingefaer is fallible, and it's okay for you to mess up sometimes too. Just learn from it and be better, like I did.

Last Christmas I told you about the tinker gnomes, now known around the North Pole as the E.L.F.s, or Efficient Little Fellows. I also explained how gnomekind has three sub-classes, one of which is the barn gnome. Growing up in northern Norway as I did, (so many many years ago) I was familiar with the stories of nisse, or barn gnomes, although in my childhood my family hadn't been blessed with one of them in our household.

Not too long after Klaus and I welcomed the ELFs into our enterprise, we started to notice that when we forgot to take care of brushing out one of the reindeer, or cleaning their stalls, the work was already done for us. I strongly suspected a nisse was afoot, and catching a glimpse of a figure in all grey with a bright red hat one evening confirmed it. We had another efficient little fellow, though I suspected he would never allow himself such a whimsical nickname. Nisse are easily offended.

The next afternoon, as I was unpacking a new crate of potion bottles with help from Krinkle, head stockist E.L.F. of the apothecary, I mentioned the brief chance meeting of the day before.

"Oh yes, that would be Horace. He's been here a while, you know. Gets aggravated every time you brush Solstice's flanks because he thinks you do it wrong. Anytime someone tries to talk to him, he either runs away, stares at them like a reindeer on a railroad track, or mutters about interfering humans. I thought someone would have told you about him.

"Apparently everyone else must have thought the same," I murmured. "Horace. The name suits him. I wish we could introduce ourselves to him, but I suppose the best thing to do is to just leave him to his work. Nisse do like to pretend the humans don’t know he exists. You trust his skill?"

Krinkle blinked back at me rapidly. "Mrs., I know you don't mean to insult, but please don't ever ask that question about a barn nisse again. In fact, I'd advise against even thinking it in your head. It is the cruelest thing a person could ever ask about them."

“So noted, thank you Krinkle,” I acknowledged, and we returned to work sorting bottles by size and purpose.

So Horace became another invisible member of our team. Occasionally if we needed to change the schedule of the reindeer’s feeding, or alter something in the barn, we would pass word along to him through one of the tinker gnomes Horace could tolerate.

And then life went on. Some years the Christmas preparations went smoother than others. Then came the year that almost all of our gnome helpers came down with tinsleitis two weeks before the holiday, the automatic gift wrapping machine broke down in early December, and we found ourselves about a week behind in just about everything.

That’s the year I forgot about Yule.

Winter solstice marks the longest night and shortest day of the year. And it’s also the night when the Nisse asks for his one and only payment for his services: a bowl of risgrot, or rice porridge, flavored with cinnamon and topped with a pat of butter. That’s it. That’s all he required. That and a nice warm barn to live in.

And in the rush of holiday deadlines, I completely forgot about Yule.

Worse than that, I didn’t even belatedly realize my mistake. Preparations just rolled on as all of us worked around the clock late into the night. I prepared potion after potion to increase productivity, help the sick heal faster. And finally…finally we arrived at Christmas Eve.

Now, kids of all ages, I have to give a warning for the following narrative. It’s one I’ve heard televisions give many times: don’t try this at home.

Because the Nisse chose his revenge. Starting early on Christmas Eve morning, he started feeding our crew of eight reindeer (Runeolf had yet to arrive for his flight) a steady diet of apple slices and broccoli.

Mortal reindeer have very sensitive stomachs, and you absolutely must not try to feed them anything outside of their diet. But faerie reindeer are immortal, and are made of stronger stuff. They are, however, still reindeer. And that means apples and broccoli cause a certain unfortunate reaction. One we quickly discovered when we entered the barn to get the deer ready for their flight.

“Oh my garland, Santa!!” Tartan, his right hand gnome for the gift distribution, exclaimed the second they opened the door.

It smelled of a very distinct sulphuric scent. One that only got worse as the night went on. My poor husband. Imagine if you will, imagine if you must: Santa in his signature position, standing in a sleigh, flying through the night sky…directly behind his nine flying reindeer.

For years after, word kept reaching back to us about the various children who came downstairs that Christmas morning only to find a room that smelled very much like flatulence. It’s very hard to enjoy one’s gift in a slowly dissipating cloud of gas.

Only one person fed our reindeer. I immediately knew who was to blame, and I was furious. Until, that is, realization slowly dawned. It was Christmas. Which meant Yule had come and gone, and poor Horace’s entire year of toil had gone unacknowledged, unappreciated.

Nisse who have been forgotten can turn dangerous. Some stories are passed around families in Norway of farm animals killed or stolen when the porridge isn’t given. Horace loved our reindeer, and appreciated his life here. We had gotten off easy, really. But he did have to make his point known. And he had.

On Christmas night, I filled the largest bowl in our whole kitchen, the one we normally used to feed two dozen E.L.F.s, and filled it with risgrot, adding a pat of butter the size of my fist to the top.

The reindeer were fine. And on Boxing Day they were spoiled rotten by invisible hands, and fed and groomed just as always. The next Yule, Horace not only received a giant bowl of rice porridge, but a plain but extremely warm grey sweater, knitted from yarn spun from shed reindeer fur collected all spring by yours truly. With every click of my needles I whispered an apology and a spell of good health and love.

And in all the centuries since, I never, ever forgot Yule again.

(Merry Christmas! Art by Lennart Helje)