Phil Nielsen
“Then tell us and no matter the gods ask, we will do it.” “Thor pays us no attention, but an offering to his beloved wife may change his mind.”
SIF/SOWILO The next rune in our journey is the goddess Sif, The Golden-Haired, better known now in the Elder Futhark as Sowilo. According to legend, the Gibichungs had dwelt peacefully along the western banks of the Oder River for untold generations. Although they preferred farming to war, they were q uite capable of defending their lands and had done so many times. But this time it was a host of Mongolian horsemen amassing for an invasion and they outnumbered the defenders ten to one. The odds of winning seemed bleak at best. The Gibichung military commanders decided to consult the tribal voelva, a respected seeress with a reputation for accuracy. As she spread out a rune cast for divine guidance in their difficult crisis, she held up a stone with the sign of a single lightning bolt. “What does it mean?” they asked. “Will Thor help us?” “No,” she said, disappointing them. “This generation of Gibichungs is too selfish and greedy. Thor does not believe we deserve to survive.”. “Then is there nothing we can do to save ourselves?”
“What might that offering be?” “You must burn your harvests and pray when you do so, that the ripe wheat is an offering to Sif, the goldenhaired. Maybe then she will intercede for you with her husband.” The commanders were stunned, “Even if we defeated the enemy, we would soon die of starvation if we destroyed our crops.” “Do it.” The voelva snapped impatiently, “or face the inevitable!” They consulted in earnest among themselves and agreed that their people had become somewhat degenerate. But burn all their food? That seemed suicidal. They gathered all of the tribe together and told them of the rune cast. All were in agreement that they should follow the voelva’s demands and burn every bit of harvest, for what is wealth without life. “We will trust the gods that have been good to us for so long.” After sunset that very night, in a special ceremony conducted by the voelva, every stack of wheat was gathered together on the fields and set ablaze. The flames roared to the stars and turned night into day but the Gibichungs were not saddened, moreover they shouted out battle cries and blew their lurs—war horns, as the sacrifice to Sif blazed like a comet come to earth. Now, all this was being secretly watched by a Mongol scout on the other side of the river. He reported all to the khan, who then decided to attack the Gibichungs at once. They would take them unawares as they seemed to be in the midst of some kind of agricultural festival. They decided to attack at dawn.
“Well, perhaps.”
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