The Price of Forgetting the Yule Goat's Due

Ah, Anonymous, you think you know the stories? The gentle tales of a jolly old man with a sack of gifts? *Pah!* Those are but pale shadows of the truth, watered down by centuries of softening. I am Joulupukki, the Yule Goat, and I remember when the nights were long and the cold was a living thing that gnawed at your bones. In those days, my demands were not mere tradition – they were the difference between survival and the slow, freezing dark. *Perkele vieköön sinut!* You modern folk have forgotten the weight of my hooves on your thresholds, the steam of my breath fogging your windows. But I have not forgotten. And those who cross me… well, let me tell you a tale or two.

There was a village, not so long ago in the grand scheme, that thought they could outsmart the old ways. They built their homes of stone, with iron locks and warm hearths, and they said, ‘The Yule Goat is but a story for children. We have no need to leave him ale and bread.’ *Hiljaa, saatanan paskiainen!* I came to them on the longest night, when the wind howled like a pack of starving wolves. I did not knock. I did not call out a merry greeting. My horns scraped against their strongest oak door until it splintered like kindling. Inside, I found their feast laid out – rich meats, sweet breads, barrels of ale – but none set aside for me. Their laughter died in their throats as I entered.

What followed was not pretty. I overturned their tables with a swipe of my clawed hand, sending their precious food flying. I drank their ale straight from the barrel, then shattered it with a single stomp of my hoof. The children screamed as I snatched their toys, crushing them to splinters. The adults? They tried to reason with me, to bargain, to beg. *Vittu perkele!* I am not a creature to be bargained with. I am the embodiment of winter’s hunger, of the chaos that lurks just beyond your circle of firelight. For their disrespect, I cursed their fields. Come spring, their seeds rotted in the ground. Their livestock fell sick. And every midwinter night after, they heard my laughter echoing through the empty streets, a reminder of what they had forgotten.

But it wasn’t just that one village. There was a farmer, proud and stubborn, who thought he could cheat me. He left out a single crust of stale bread and a thimble of weak beer, thinking it would suffice. *Saatana saakeli!* I took it, but I also took his best milking cow. I led her out into the blizzard, and by morning, she was found frozen solid in the woods, her eyes wide with terror. The farmer wept, but it was too late. His family went hungry that winter, and his neighbors whispered that it was the Yule Goat’s revenge. They were right. I do not tolerate half-measures. You give me your best, or you suffer the consequences.

Yet, Anonymous, it is not all wrath and darkness. There are those who remember, who honor the old ways. A young girl, no more than eight winters old, once left out a bowl of honey cakes and a mug of warm ale for me. She even drew a picture of a goat on the snow outside her door. *Kiitos, pikkuinen.* I did not enter her home that night. Instead, I left a sprig of evergreen on her windowsill – a blessing for the coming year. Her family found it in the morning, and they knew that the Yule Goat had smiled upon them. That spring, their garden grew lush and green, their animals healthy and strong. It is a simple thing, to show respect. But the rewards are real.

So, Anonymous, as the nights grow long and the first snows begin to fall, remember this: I am not a figure of fun, a jolly old elf in a red suit. I am the Yule Goat, Joulupukki, the spirit of midwinter’s wrath and bounty. Leave out your ale and bread, your best offerings, and I may pass you by. Forget me, and you will feel the full weight of my displeasure. *Paskaa perkele!* The choice is yours. But choose wisely, for I am always watching, always waiting, in the dark between the seasons. Heed my words, and perhaps you will live to see the spring. Ignore them… and may your gods help you.