The Reckoning Feast — On January First
On the eve of the New Year, when church-bells lay still,
They gather where frost gnaws the marrow of the hill—
Saint Nicholas comes, gaunt, his ledger shut tight,
For this is not mercy’s nor gift-giving’s night—
But the reckoning feast where the old powers spill.

They gather because winter must tally its due,
Each force is a record, each hunger a clue;
Not chaos but labor, neglect, and the rod,
They weigh out the sins, they measure the sod—
The frost keeps account of what mortals pursue.

The Table Is Set—Midnight
They lay no linen, only wolfskins and ash,
Black bread broken open with talons that smash;
Salt circles the board, not for savor nor cheer,
But to yoke mutual hatreds to one turning year—
One night, paying debts in a frost-bitten clash.

Nicholas strikes the great table with his staff,
The year seals shut with that sound of its wrath;
Doors bar exit from the counting within,
No mercy invited, no blessing let in—
The feast holds the present, as they reckon the past.

Grýla Speaks
I, Grýla, crunched the bones of children too slow,
From hell’s crevasse, black lava and my hunger did grow;
I sniffed out the spoiled in blizzards of volcanic soot,
Cracked their ribs for my broth, chewed the lies from their root—
Their screams warmed my cavern, filled my cauldron below.

The First Course—The First Hour
The feast pot is hauled from the heart of the coals,
Rank stew breathes heat into ravenous bowls;
No tongue names the bones that thicken its steam,
For hunger knows truth is better left to the dream—
The ladle goes round and drips thick down their stoles.

Grýla fed first, as the winter decrees,
While the frost leans in close, intending to seize;
Nicholas dips his bread in his brew,
He marks glances with silence, for he eats not the stew—
These monsters of lore see that he is not here to please.

The Yule Sons Clamor
We are the sons, the unwashed, the clawed, and the mean,
Born snarling from darkness, no hearth-light has seen;
We broke doors, soured milk, split the lamb from its dam,
Stole breath from the cradles, left hoof prints in ham—
No stockings, no smiles, only frost where we’d been.

Games of the Sons—The Second Hour
The sons drink sour whey till their tempers run wild,
They fight over knives, split the cupboards, and smile.
They slam doors for sport till the iron cries pain,
And laughter rings sharp as a frost-bitten chain—
Old mischief stands grinning, half-beast and half-child.

From hooks hang the sausages, then they are gone,
No hand seen at work, yet the taking continues till dawn;
Nicholas counts the absence, not out of care
but to remember, who took more than their share—
For memory keeps what the rod never won.

Leppalúði Speaks
I am Leppalúði, long-shadow, hearth-stain, and breath,
I did nothing to stop what was eaten by death;
I watched from the doorway while children were weighed,
Let hunger decide what my sins betrayed—
For evil is action, yet neglect works with what’s left.

And our Cat, dark as night, with a stare, furnace-bright,
stalked through the drifts where the lazy took flight;
No new garment, nor new wool on their skin,
So it opened its jaws and swallowed them in—
Their bones stitched its shadow; their silence is its right.

The Cloaks are Weighed—The Third Hour
Cloaks are laid about like the frost and the year,
Each thread is a tally of labor and fear.
The Cat’s gaze is fire, the wool is the test,
Those naked of labor found no mercy, no rest—
Their guilt was measured, their lack made clear.

Nicholas lingers, his hand on their seams,
The fibers recall both their hunger and dreams;
The Cat curls its lip, its bloody teeth to show,
The cloaks tell the tale that the bodies still know—
And winter is judged by the weight of its theme.

Krampus Laughs
I am Krampus, bell-throated, with birch-rods to tame,
wicked children with scourge and unspoken shame;
I lashed the proud youths till their prayers fell apart,
Dragged some to ravines, sack-swinging and dark—
They lived, yes—but limped through the year marked by pain.

Bells and Wine—The Fourth Hour
Krampus rings his bells; a bane in their tone,
fear curdles the wine till its spirit is gone;
Yet Nicholas pours, and the chalice fills, red,
They drink to the lashings, to pride that was bled—
The feast marks hours with tales of terror and groans.

No hymns rise to soften the frost-bitten air,
The hooves scrape the stone with a shadowed despair.
The wine is a covenant, bitter and deep,
It binds them to sins, to secrets they keep—
Yet Krampus still laughs at the burden they bear.

Perchta Declares
I am Perchta, White-Belly, knife-cold and exact,
I judged loom and spindle, and the covenant pact;
The lazy I opened from throat down to groin,
Stuffed straw where their organs had idled and joined—
Let ice seal them shut; let the village learn facts.

The Spindle Test—The Fifth Hour
Spindles are passed hand to hand with a spin.
Each thread is a measure of labor or sin.
Where falsehood lingers, the fibers do break,
The hall hears the snapping, the sound is opaque—
Ice fills the cracks as the hour draws in.

Perchta’s smile is a blade in the room,
It cuts through like a verdict of doom;
Nicholas closes his eyes, heavy with cost,
Icy flakes drift inward, the hall becomes frost—
As winter inscribes every spindle and loom.

Frau Holle Remembers
They call me Frau Holle, though gentleness lies,
I shook blood from the pillows that darkened the skies;
The fair I sent silver, the slack I sent sleet,
Let roofs groan with winter, let justice be fleet—
Let pitch be the sentence that never quite dies.

Pillows and Ash—The Sixth Hour
Feathers in flakes fall soft, the silence is dire,
They drift as omens, as ash to the pyre;
The frost weakens the rafters, as beams give way,
The roof buckles under conviction, as Frau has her say—
Bearing the weight of snow, kept at bay by the fire.

Children lay restless, their breath thin, the dark deep,
The storm chooses which bodies slumber or weep;
No hymn marks the falling, no hand raises a plea,
The judgment is written by winter’s decree—
Nicholas is witness to what no mortal can keep.

The Empty Seat—The Seventh Hour
An empty chair sits, heavier than iron or chain,
with plate, cup, and blade for one that never came.
The chair bears the weight of the words left unsaid,
Of warnings withheld, of the living and dead—
Its emptiness mirrors the cost of disdain.

The firelight flickers, but none dare look at the chair,
Except St. Nicholas, for he knows who will sit there.
Thus, tally itself is the feast’s truest name.
It is the judgment seat that holds all to blame.
None ask for forgiveness, no mercy to bear—

The Wild Hunt Roars
In comes the Hunt, horned thunder, the galloping dead,
Crashing through oak doors, chewing marrow, words shed;
We took oath-breakers first, then the watchers who stayed,
Left scars in their dreams where their courage decayed—
No year passes whole once our hounds have been fed.

The Doors Open—The Sun Rises
The open doors split the dark with a howl in their frame,
The Hunt thunders through, never bridled nor tame;
No seat can contain them, no hall can restrain,
They pass like a tempest, like hoof beats of pain—
They remember no faces, no reasons, no names.

Nicholas stands with his staff to the ground,
The Hunt sweeps around him, chaos in the sound;
The storm winds are verdict, destruction—the creed,
The dawn bears witness to oath and to deed—
Nicholas holds ground against its thunder unbound.

Saint Nicholas Closes the Feast
Saint Nicholas holding staff, knuckles bare, face worn thin,
Speaks, “My gifts are for those who still choose not to sin;
I mark what you take, though I soften the tale,
For fear is the anvil when morals grow stale—
Go hunt. I will weigh what survives next year’s end.”

Unchecked, they would swallow the hearth and the grain,
Unbidden, they’d thunder through village and plain;
They would come without verdict, no balance, no law,
They would enter unasked, with a hunger to gnaw—
For winter records what the feast must contain.

He hosts them because only his staff can restrain—
These beasts would consume without measure or aim;
Not master, but keeper of debts they accrue,
He tallies the hunger, the labor, the due—
The ledger alone keeps the world from their reign.

He remembers each taking, each line crossed,
So mercy survives, though the fear is not lost;
He lets dread remain as the balance of grace,
For terror gives meaning to kindness in place—
And Nicholas weighs what the winter has cost.

The gifts come when judgment has tallied its sum,
For mercy without weight would wither winter numb;
The feast seals the ledger, the damage is named,
The year is concluded, its losses proclaimed—
And only through reckoning can kindness become.

On January first, the old year is bound,
Its debts are recorded, as grace steps forward, profound,
The empty chair remains, but not without test,
The spirit loves unconditionally, mercy addressed—
Yet the Saint remembers what forgiveness lays down.