Of Wreath and Yuletide Omens

A sound wakes you.
Or was it only there in the realm between waking and dream?

Drowsy and with sinew that would rather return to bed, you stumble through the room towards one of the windows.
Glancing outside, you see only softly falling snow and a deep darkness beyond it. The world feels slowed by the cold and the stillness of a winter's night.
You can never really decide if that's a quiet which feels peaceful or foreboding.

And then you hear it again.
That same sound.
—it's coming from downstairs.

You try to illuminate the room, but none of the lights heed your command. You light a candle and let the sputtering flame guide you through the darkened hall.
Descending the staircase, you begin to notice a light ahead.
A light that feels unnaturally bright, and utterly out of place.
Though your instincts tell you to turn back, to go no closer, your feet keep taking small, careful steps towards the source of this strange occurrence.

Closer.
And closer.

Now standing in what should be the downstairs drawing room, you are greeted by a strange and unfamiliar sight.
Though the part nearest to you is exactly as it ought to be, from somewhere around the middle, the room seems to shift into a different existence.
The fabric of reality seems to fray as the environment blends into the dreamscape of a dark, winter forest–snow falling softly around you.

Then you see it.
In the dim light your candle casts into the darkness, there stands a tall figure with antlers made of wreaths and clad in green robes. From within the hollow behind its empty mask, tiny burning embers pierce your very essence as they gaze upon you.

And then it speaks with a voice both ancient and commanding, yet distant, forlorn and brittle. Like a relic from a time long past, cast back into existence.

"Look upon me, and know I do not conceal behind lies, nor carry wards devised to mislead."

The figure opens his arms as if to ease your wary disposition.

"I come to thee to warn against those that would."

As the words reach your mind, a sentiment of familiarity washes over you, like tasting a food you haven't tasted since childhood, notions of memories flooding your thoughts.

"There are those that walk your realm who claim to know us, and condemn our presence as it dwells in the shadows of this world."

The specter lowers its head in solemn, sorrowful contemplation.

"They would have you believe they hold the one true path within them, and would have you follow their every commandment. Heed these words, for they are false prophets, their façade a construct devised to control and deceive.
I too once walked the woods and fields of this earth, only to be demonized and cast out by those who proclaimed to know truth and light."

The being reaches out a bony hand. As you lay your hand in his, he dissipates and the room returns to its normal state.

Though suddenly surrounded by the mundane, you hear his voice echoing in your mind: "Listen to the wind as it speaks through branches of oak and beech, wander grasslands and fields, taste of the cool streams and marvel at the ocean’s rage. Follow the path that flows within, not the one those of constructed truths would have you tread."

-With due reverence to Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol-

This work aims to denounce those who proclaim their opinions as absolute truth, and through them strive to take away the voice and shape of others.

It is a lament for cultural identities and traditions erased by those who claim to bring light as they bless with one hand, and with the other hand obscure and condemn every path but their own.

It is the pale ghost who stands as witness to a tale repeated across the ages: social and religious dogmas and doctrines that erode uniqueness and betray true coexistence.

Dare to question that which is presented to you as being righteous and singular truth, and do not let others suppress that which holds value within your own heart.