Caribou comes, his big feet plopping down softly in the snow.
Caribou comes, looks at me with his deep brown eyes, full of compassion.
Caribou comes, shakes his head, the mighty antlers, inviting me to ride.
There is nothing but pain here, so I go with him.
Climbing on Caribou, his back warm & softly padded with his deep fur, brings back memories of years in the saddle & riding bareback; muscle memory kicks in, and thighs tighten, getting a good grip on his ribcage.
Caribou speaks not a word; he is Caribou, after all.
We start slowly, the mountains I am used to falling away into tundra. The stars shine above; the snow below echos their glow and diamond glints.
My Wolf strides beside us. Caribou knows my Wolf is no danger, not in this place.
Soon Caribou’s pace quickens, and we are flying between the stars above and the stars reflected below. Slowly, I remember Caribou from another time, another life. As I do, I notice ragged strands of colored yarn, tiny bells, appear tied in Caribou’s antlers, around his strong neck. As they used to be.
We climb a rise, and are greeted by Moon rising in the East. She is nearly full, beautiful to behold.
In the other place, where Caribou is not, pain flares, throbbing in my ears.
Caribou calls me back. He has brought me here to show me something.
Below us, there sits a Circle; a walled town, or so it appears, from another age. The walls are weathered stone and timber, and trees climb up through them at will. Within the walls, is Light.
Caribou speaks then, if you can call it words, for it is more thoughts than anything.
“Did you think there would be only one? There is one for every People. So they may feel comfortable when they come Home. But they are all One.”
I see then that the Light that emanates from this place goes through time & space, connecting to the sacred place I visit most. Like links in a chain, they are hooked together, held together by the Light that streams from one to the next.
“Look! This is why I brought you!”
And the sky explodes in color, rainbow ribbons streaming from the Center, rippling across the dark sky. I see gold and blues and purples and greens, all swirling, spiraling around the Center.
This is the aurora borealis, the Northern Lights, a rational part of my mind says. It’s caused by discharges from the sun, nothing more.
Caribou comes closer, looks at me with his big, wise, brown eyes.
“You can choose,” He says.
“Either you live in a world where this great beauty is reduced to mere discharges from the sun, or you can live in a world where this is the Creation of the One, the Light of the World, streaming out from the Center.”
“You can choose,” He says.
And so I do.