The Golden Hair of Sif

A pale moon shone over the little garden beside the house of the goddess Sif. Between the bushes, a figure crept. In his hand he gripped a pair of sharp, gleaming shears. It was Loki, a god as cunning as he was fond of tricks. He held his breath and looked down at the shining golden hair of Sif. She was the wife of Thor, the god of thunder, and her hair flowed all around her as she slept out on the porch. Loki knew how much Thor loved that hair. Sif prized it just as much, because her husband loved it so. That was exactly why cutting it seemed to Loki the finest mischief he could make just then. The shears went snip, snip, snip. Lock after lock of golden hair fell to the ground, soft as feathers, until her head was cropped and bare. And still Sif slept on, with no idea that her treasure was gone.

The next morning Sif woke, raised a hand to her head, and froze. She quickly covered her face with a veil and hid behind a rock. She could not bear for anyone in the city of Asgard to see her now. Thor came home from a long journey and called for his wife, but no answer came. He searched every palace for Sif and found her nowhere. At last he heard a soft voice calling from behind the rock. Only then did he see that the veiled figure was his wife. Trembling, Sif lifted the veil and showed her bare head. Choking back tears, she said she would leave Asgard and go down to live among the dwarfs. She no longer dared to let anyone see her like this. Thor looked at his wife, and the pain in her eyes made his anger flare up like a clap of thunder. He took Sif firmly by the hand and led her straight to the Council of the Gods. He swore he would find whoever had done this.

As soon as they heard the story, the whole Council guessed who was to blame. Everyone in Asgard knew that only Loki could think up such an outlandish prank. Thor roared that he would kill Loki. But Odin, the father of all the gods, held him back. No one in the city of Asgard may kill another, Odin declared. Loki himself must put right his wrong and give Sif back golden hair as beautiful as before. Loki stood before the furious eyes of Thor and the stern face of Odin. He understood that this time no clever words would get him out of it.

The old tales of the Norse lands tell of a dark kingdom deep under the earth, called Svartheim. There the dwarf smiths worked day and night at their fires. Their hands were the most skilled of all, and they made wonders that no god could make. Loki went to the dwarfs who were his friends and praised their craft in honeyed words. Then he asked them for a favor. They were to take a bar of pure gold and forge it into threads as fine as the real hair of Sif. Won over by his praise, the dwarfs threw the gold into the fire. They hammered it again and again on the anvil. At last each golden thread was so thin that a light breeze could blow it away. A whole handful weighed nothing in the palm, and the gold shone like sunlight. Loki was delighted, but greed and the urge to show off rose up in him again. He asked for two more things he had just seen those dwarfs make. One was a spear, light and easy in the hand, that struck wherever it was thrown and never missed. The other was a ship that folded up small enough to fit in the palm of a hand. Yet with its sail raised, it could cross any sea. The dwarfs, still giddy with his praise, gave Loki all three treasures.

Loki carried everything back to Asgard. Before the Council he set the shining golden hair on the bare head of Sif. And wonder of wonders, the hair took root and grew from her scalp as if it had never been cut. The spear was given to Odin. The ship was given to Frey, the god who led the Vanir. All Asgard rejoiced so much at such splendid gifts that Loki quite forgot the wrong he had just done. He puffed out his chest and boasted that no dwarfs in the world were as skilled as his smiths.

Those words reached the ears of another dwarf, who stood silent in the shadows beside the throne of Odin. His name was Brock. Boiling with anger, Brock said through his teeth that his brother, the smith Sindri, was far more skilled. Loki only sneered at him. At once Brock made a wager. He staked his own head against Loki's head that Sindri would forge treasures to silence Loki's boasting before all Asgard. Loki accepted on the spot, sure that victory would be his.

At the forge of Sindri, Brock was given a single task. He had to work the bellows and keep the fire burning evenly the whole time. It must not die down, and it must not blaze up, not even for a moment. One after another, Sindri threw into the fire a pigskin, then a lump of gold, then a bar of iron. But Loki was not about to sit still and watch himself lose. He turned himself into a gadfly, slipped into the forge, and waited for his chance to spoil the work. The first time, the fly stung Brock on the hand. It hurt so much that Brock gritted his teeth, but his hands never left the bellows. The second time, it stung the back of his neck. The pain shot right up into his head, yet Brock bore it and kept the fire breathing steadily. The third time, the fly flew straight at the spot between his eyebrows. It stung so hard that blood seeped out and blurred his eyes, and he could no longer see clearly. At that very moment, the fire under the iron bar dipped a little. It was only a little, but it was enough to leave its mark forever.

From that forge, Sindri brought out three treasures. The first was a wild boar with golden bristles that gave off its own light and could fly through the sky. It was meant for the god Frey. The second was a ring called Draupnir. Every nine nights it made eight more golden rings just like itself. It was meant for the god Odin. And the third was a hammer of iron, meant for the god Thor. Whoever lifted it could see at once that its handle was a little shorter than usual. That was the mark of the moment when the fire dipped, at the third sting of the gadfly.

Before the Council of Asgard, Brock presented the three treasures of Sindri one by one. The golden boar flew around the great hall, leaving a glittering trail of light. Everyone gasped in wonder, but no one yet dared to say it was better than the spear or the ship that Loki had brought. The ring Draupnir also set the hall buzzing, but it was still not enough to decide the wager. Then the hammer was placed in the hands of Thor. He swung it once around, and a cry of joy burst from his throat. The eyes of all the gods lit up at a treasure that could crush mountains and drive the giants back from the walls of their city. Odin rose and declared that no treasure had ever been more precious or more useful to Asgard than this hammer. Victory belonged to Brock and Sindri.

Brock stepped forward, beaming, and demanded that Loki kneel and give up his head, as wagered. Odin spoke up and suggested that Brock accept some other penalty. Brock flatly refused and demanded exactly what he had won. Loki stepped forward and knelt before Brock, still smiling. Then he spoke, in no hurry at all. He had wagered only his head, he said, and he had never wagered his neck. So if Brock wanted to take his head, he must not touch his neck. Odin nodded and agreed. That was the very wager Brock himself had made from the start, and no one could find fault with it. Brock stood frozen, fists clenched, his anger choking in his chest. There was no way to part a head from its neck without touching the neck. Loki rose in the middle of the silent hall. He watched the three treasures of Sindri pass from hand to hand among the admiring gods. The very dwarfs he had once looked down on had beaten his bragging completely. And this time no one cared to laugh along with him.

From then on, whenever Sif walked through that little garden, her golden hair shone in the sun as if no shears had ever touched it. And each time Thor swung his short-handled hammer, he could still feel the mark of that night at the forge. In the little garden, under the same moon that once watched the shears pass through her hair, only a soft golden light remains, shining quietly.