Dreams of Times Never Past
	
	Red Jack, story and characters 1999 & 2000 Joseph M Harrison

	Zack drifts into a deep sleep, surprisingly comfortable on his shelf.
	Flying, no, hopping, no,...running? The breeze, on my skin? I'm riding
something, a kind of cart. Blinking, he realizes he's no longer there, rather
he laying on his back(but, my tail'd get in the way if I did that), in a cage
of some sort. Oh yeah, a crib, that's what its called. He hears a noise, and
looks up. Mom, he thinks as he looks up, but where's your fur, looks at one of
his paws?(hands?) and where's mine.
	Zack wakes, roles over, and goes back to sleep, thinking, boy, its been a
while since I dreamed of the before time, that started it all. My family, my
friends, they all told me it was just my imagination, but I knew it had to be
more. I packed up, and left, traveling, listening to old men and their stories.
Wars that never happened, with weapons never invented. Stories of fires and the
the smell of burning flesh. Fleeting memories of younger days, days without
fur. Battles fought, wars lost. Of kings and queens and presidents. Things
we've never had nor would ever need, of places never been.
	As he sleeps, he awakes, at a well worn place on a path. Many have turned
around here, the road ahead is rocky, few have tried it, and fewer still have
made it. As he looks at the woods, deep and dark, he sees something, and
wanders in to take a look, to see if it really was a fire. Yes, a fire, the
dark around it darker for it, the road swallowed by the blackness, the fire
reflecting on 8 hooded figures in a circle. They seemed to speak to one
another, somehow never noticing me as I approached them.
	"It is time." said the first.
	"Yes," a second says, "he needs guidance."
	"But is it our place?" asked the third.
	"Perhaps we should tell him?" suggests a fourth.
	The fifth says, "No, he must choose for himself, it is not our place to
interfere."
	"Need he travel it alone?" a sixth asks.
	"No, though it is for him to choose his companion." interjects the first.
	"But he needs to be told." demands the seventh.
	The fifth considers this, before saying, "True, but not all, he must
discover much for himself."
	"Yes," comments the eighth, "but only that the path he's on is the right
one."
	At this point I was becoming confused, they all sounded alike, they could
be eight, or they could be one. They even looked alike, I could swear there was
only one.
	"Yes, it is time to tell him."
	"Guided, but not led."
	"Allowed to stumble if he is not the one."
	"But allowed to know in what direction his journey lies."
	"Yes, tell him."
	"Guide the one, show him in what direction his destiny lays."
	And at that, the eight turned to me, and one lowered his hood, and he was
a coyote. He spoke, they spoke, they were one, they were many.
	"Your road is the one of many stones. The one of struggles and hardships.
The one of distrust and deceit by others. The one of doubts and questions. The
one of trust and faith. The one few travel on, the fewer still follow to the
end. The one of truth, answers and wisdom."
	And with that, the fire, the figures all receded, becoming one, become
small, disapearing, as I found myself on the road once again. I looked to my
left, the way back, the way to saftey. I looked to the right, the way to
uncertainty, to danger, to the future. There was no choice, as I turned right,
trying to pick my path carefully, looking towards the future.
	I awoke, the sun shining, and I could swear I hear a bird singing, not
that it matters. No matter what, today will be a good day, and tomorrow, well,
we'll see what it brings when it arrives.