Elves and the Jólasveinar—Iceland’s Hidden Magic
There’s something quietly powerful about Iceland in December. The air turns sharp, snow begins to gather in soft drifts along lava fields, and darkness stretches endlessly—but it’s never empty. It’s filled with stories. The kind of stories that blur the line between the seen and the unseen, between folklore and faith, between what we know and what we feel.
I grew up hearing about the huldufólk—the hidden people, the elves of Iceland. They live in mossy hillsides, behind waterfalls, and deep within rocks that most of us walk past without a second thought. But if you pause—really pause—you might sense something. A quiet energy, a presence that’s as much part of this land as the wind or the sea.
In Iceland, belief in elves isn’t superstition; it’s respect. Respect for the land, for balance, for what can’t be measured but must still be honored.
Even road builders sometimes change their plans rather than disturb a rock said to be home to elves. It’s not fear. It’s harmony—an understanding that nature is alive and intertwined with our stories.
And then, as the year draws to a close, these stories take on a festive glow. The Jólasveinar our thirteen Yule Lads—begin their mischievous descent from the mountains, one by one, in the days leading up to Christmas. Each has his own quirks: Spoon-Licker, Door-Slammer, Candle-Stealer… an unforgettable cast of characters who were once far from jolly.
When I was growing up, the last days before Christmas were filled with both excitement and a kind of anxious wonder. Every night, I’d place a shoe by the window with hope that if I had behaved well that day, a small treat—maybe an apple or a clementine—would be inside in the morning. It was our way of measuring time, counting down to Christmas one Yule Lad at a time.
The first to arrive was Stekkjastaur, whose name translates to Sheep-Cote Clod—a stiff-legged fellow who tried to harass the sheep but never quite managed it. He came to town on the eve of December 12th, marking the beginning of their descent. Then, night after night, more of them would come down from the mountains until the very last, Kertasníkir, or Candle-Stealer, arrived on the eve of December 24th. By then, my anxiety had turned into pure excitement, knowing that Christmas was finally here.
Looking back, it wasn’t just about the treats. It was about rhythm—the slow, magical build-up that taught us patience and brought us wonder. Each night carried a sense of mystery, of good behavior rewarded and mischief just around the corner. It made the season feel alive.
Perhaps that’s why this time of year still holds such meaning for me. It’s not just about gifts or glitter. It’s about remembering that the world is full of mystery. That beneath the snow and stone, there are stories whispering, reminding us to stay humble, kind, and curious.
So, when the wind howls across the lava fields and a candle flickers in the window, I like to imagine that somewhere nearby, an elf is watching. Maybe smiling. Maybe shaking their head at us humans rushing through the holidays. And perhaps, just perhaps, one of the Yule Lads is already on his way, bringing a touch of chaos, a little laughter, and a reminder of how deeply connected we are to this enchanted land we call home.
—happy holidays everyone,
Björn Skúlason
