The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time

by Samuel Ben White

  And that is what I disliked the most about my "old life". Not only was I not good at making friends, I was never really allowed to have friends. Many of my so-called friends were merely people who wanted something from me. Others showed deference to me simply because I was a celebrity. There were a few old friends I recall fondly, such as Charlie and Tex, but even they occasionally treated me as if I were a step above or beyond them, and, of course, Tex was a spy. I hope that attitude—of distance—was not of my doing.

  Well, with Tex it's hard to say how he felt. I think he genuinely liked me. On the other hand, there is no question he was a spy. And his job was to get close to me so it could have well been an act. Still, I think there was a genuine friendship there. At least, I definitely felt genuine friendship toward him. If so, that brings the grand total of friends in my past to two. Three. Almost forgot Johnny Begay.

  Friends are not a problem in 1744, though. I have many good ones, including Franklyn and Sharif Purdy and most everyone else in town. (Except Viola Slatt, but I can't imagine her liking anyone or vice-versa.) I have a slight bit of fame for my success as a barrister, but my friends treat that more as a point for sport than anything. They still refer to my successful cases as luck and I like to think they are right for otherwise I might develop an overbearing ego like some of the other prominent barristers I know. I might also be inclined to pursue the vocation more vociferously, and I certainly don't want to do that. I like my life just the way it is.

  Despite my longings for such things as toilet paper and shorter coiffures on men, life in the eighteenth century is much better than life in the twenty-first. Not only do I have friends, I have a wonderful wife and three lovely kids.

  All three children are growing at unbelievable rates, but Henry most of all. He is already the size of his older brother and has finally taught Justin not to kick him anymore. They still fight and scrap like brothers do, but now they are pretty evenly matched so I don't pull them apart unless the fighting gets serious or profane. Actually, they seem to be the best of friends and are quite inseparable, even immediately after fights. I never see one without the other, and they like it that way.

  Helen is another story when it comes to sibling relations. Her older brothers like her well enough, but they do tire of her constantly following them. I try to help out at times by distracting her until they get out of sight, a trick Helen will probably soon figure out.

  Distracting her is, of course, no big chore for me. Most of the times that I look at Helen I want to take her in my arms and never let go, anyway. She is still the very image of her mother, but she has a mind all her own. The boys are rambunctious—and I dearly love them both, don't get me wrong—but I look forward to Helen getting older. On the one hand, of course, I dread that more than all other things because I know boys will look at her the way boys look at pretty girls. But I look forward to her maturing because I think it will be with Helen that I will be able to discuss physics and interdimensional travel and, yes, osmosis. But at eighteen months old, who can tell?

  I see a big future for all three of my children (and any others that may yet come along), but something tells me Helen will really be something.

  I have kept this journal to help me remember what things used to be like, though; partly so I can tell my children about all that has happened to me when they are older. I have tried to make an entry in it every day I stop by the shed and recall things from my former life. I have no intention of ever returning to the twentieth century, but that century is a part of me and I want them to know about it. Despite my disdain for history while a lad, I have since come to see the importance of a man keeping in touch with his heritage. It would seem especially important for me to keep in touch with my heritage, since it is quite unique—and hasn't happened, yet.

  As I write this, though, it comes to my attention that I will not be able to transcribe this entry to paper as I have all the previous ones. So, I guess what I write now will only be read by some future audience and can only serve me as a catharsis today. Oh well.

  It makes me laugh at the irony of it all when I think that my heritage has not yet happened. My grandfather, the place where most people begin in their search for heritage, will not be born for another hundred and fifty years. My father will not be born for almost two hundred years. I will not be born for two hundred and thirty-three years. When I really sit and contemplate the permutations (one of Sarah's favorite new words) of all this, it rather gives me a headache, like the inexplicable one I have fought on and off all day since meeting the Washington boy. Wish I knew what's causing that.

  If there is one thing I now wish I had studied in my former life, it is my genealogy. It occurred to me one day that I might have an ancestor walking around near here. Of course, they might not have yet immigrated to the Americas as I have no idea where my family line started. But, what if my great, great, great, great grandfather were alive in Boston or Charleston at this very moment? I have met no other person named Fitch, but I must have ancestors around somewhere. My mother's maiden name was Morton and I have met a couple of those, but I have no idea whether we are related and it would sound too strange to ask. Morton's a more common name than Fitch (which I discovered means "skunk pelt"), so there are probably many of those around.

  What would I say if I were to meet Jedediah Fitch (or whatever his name might be)? "Hello, I am your grandson, many times removed." I would certainly be locked up with the other unfortunate people who are deemed unsafe for society.

  Of course, there is always the chance that my ancestors came over to the Americas with some difficult name and were forced to change it to Fitch to adapt to their new world. I have heard of other people having to do such a thing. If that were the case with the first Fitch, I have no knowledge of what the original family name might be, so I will probably never meet them. And, of course, maybe they haven't immigrated yet.

  It is interesting, though. What characteristics might I share with that person? Did I inherit my dark black hair from an ancestor walking around today or was that added into the line by the Comanche or another native tribe? My father and grandfather had jet black hair, also; so maybe it has been passed down for over two hundred years.

  I was puzzled about the little boy named George Washington. When he told me his name, a strange sensation coursed through my veins. It was almost like a chill wind had blown on me—like they say happens when someone steps on your grave—but this day has been as still as any we have had since being in Mount Vernon. It is also unseasonably warm. And I really wish I knew what was causing these dizzy spells. Perhaps I should just get this over with and go back to bed.

  To whoever finds this, enjoy the journal. And no, I didn't just make all this up.

  Garison saved the journal entry then leaned forward and turned on the Teslavision camera. After clearing his throat, he said, "To anyone who sees this, hello. My name is Garison Fitch. Today is March 15, 1744. You're probably wondering how someone in the eighteenth century came by a time machine and a video camera.

  "I was born December 14, 1975, in Durango, Marx. This machine you are probably now looking at was designed to travel interdimensionally. It traveled through time, instead. That was five years ago.

  "If anybody sees this, I have probably been dead for a long time. Look me up in the record books if you don't believe me. Providing the records weren't destroyed by the communists, my death certificate should be on file in the Mount Vernon township of what is at this time the colony of Virginia, eastern seaboard of the Americas."

  As he typed information into the computer, he said, "I am setting the nuclear reactor to automatically begin an irreversible shut-down immediately upon the machine's arrival in...wherever I am sending it. Just before shutting down, however, it will disperse all of its power through the conduits of the machine, effectively melting it to slag and preventing this technology from falling into anyone else's hands." He smiled up at the camera and added, "Here's a tip: don't open the housing behind this
pilot's seat for a couple thousand years. After that, it should be safe. The Box is leak-proof and will last the necessary amount of time, so don't worry about that—but you might want to bury it someplace safe so no one can open it by accident. A salt mine would be a good place."

  Garison finished typing and looked up at the camera once more, "Well, that's it. You have my journal entries here to tell you a lot more than you will probably want to know, so enjoy reading them. I've copied all my old ones off the screen by hand, but the one I just put in...Oh, well, consider it my gift to you. When the countdown is over, this machine will blast itself into the future and I'll be stuck here—which is where I want to be. To whoever finds this, say hello to the future for me and God bless."

  He tapped the final key in the instructions and calmly stepped away from the machine. He had told Sarah he would be far away from the machine when it left, but when the moment came he had to stay and watch it go. In the dim light from the computer screen, he could see the countdown registering in a small box in the upper left-hand corner of the screen.

  At three seconds to go he shuffled his feet a little nervously and heard an odd sound beneath his shoes. At two seconds, the sound registered on him and he looked down in the dim light to realize he was standing on the tarpaulin. At one second, he realized one corner of the tarpaulin was still tied to the machine. At zero seconds, he tried to step off the tarp but realized it was too late.

  The machine was going to the future and it was taking him and the tarpaulin with it.

  Excerpt from A Fitch Family History by Maureen Fitch Carnes

  Darius writes of his love for La Plata Canyon, but the love was apparently never shared by Fawn. Perhaps it was the winter, or the proximity to the Utes and Navajos, but Fawn persuaded Darius to pack up when spring came and head east.

  Whether Fawn had intended for the family to go all the way back to Tennessee is not known, but when they had crossed the mountains, Darius led the family northward. They found a spot on a small creek that came out of the mountains and flowed into the South Platte. Darius met some trappers who called the stream Cherry Creek and, according to his writings, the name suddenly sounded like home. It became his home for the rest of his life.

  Darius made friends with the nearby Arapahos and Cheyennes and, with Fawn's blessing, set up a trading post of sorts. It started by accident, as Darius traded one type of fur for another type of fur, but the business began to grow. By the early 1790s, Darius had also made a deal to trade with some of the white mountain men who came through the area. They traded him blankets for furs—which they could then take back east and sell for a large profit—while he traded the blankets to the Cheyenne and the Arapahos for prime furs and other items he could use or sell. The furs he then traded on to the whites, making a slow but steady profit for himself and endearing his family to both the white and the Indians. He was also busy with Fawn and they produced two more sons and another daughter. Darius writes of loving all his children, but there may have been a special affinity for Julius, who was the only one of the seven children to inherit his father's blonde hair.

  Chapter Fifteen

  With a flash of light and a complete absence of noise, Garison found himself swept out of the eighteenth century. He had just begun to have the beginnings of a thought that would have turned into wondering where he was going when the trip ended. In all, he had traveled for a length of time that would have registered on his body as less than a nano-second. To the world, however, the trip took longer. Still, it was not as long as Garison would have guessed it to be.

  Garison and the interdimensional machine-come time machine reappeared in his laboratory in Colorado approximately one point three seconds after it had left. With a pop that signified the nuclear core had just melted all the circuits then collapsed in on itself into a ball of radiation with a half-life of a few millennia, Garison found himself dressed for the seventeen-forties and standing in the early twenty-first century.

  He was suddenly assaulted by a woman who threw her arms around him before he could get a good look at her and exclaimed, "It worked Garison! It worked! You were gone and now you're back!"

  There were so many thoughts and so much confusion going through his head that all he could do was stand there limply while she hugged him tighter and tighter, kissed him on the cheek, and went on and on about how proud she was of him and how she just had to congratulate him and how she wanted to hear all about it.

  When she had worked her way across his cheek and was on the verge of kissing his mouth, he finally got his wits about him enough to push her away and stand back a pace himself. He backed into a bench and turned to look, momentarily surprised to find a work bench where there wasn't supposed to be one. He also spotted the tarpaulin under his feet, and kicked it away in anger.

  The woman looked at him strangely and asked, "Garison? Is something wrong?"

  He looked around the room without answering. It was his lab all right, but it was different. The windows were in the wrong places, but only by a foot or so. The workbenches had been moved and the place was, well, decorated differently. His lab had been strictly utilitarian while this one had curtains on the windows and some sort of wall-paper border half-way up the walls.

  But, he told himself, the cameras are in the right place. There were four video cameras, one mounted in each corner of the room, but their lights were showing red instead of green. While the workbenches were in different spots, the tools on them were laid out just as he would have laid them out and there was the right number of workbenches.

  Then he looked at the woman. She was beautiful. She stood almost as tall as Garison, probably five-eleven or six foot he estimated. She had shoulder-length black hair, done in loose curls such as the women had worn in the twenty-first century he remembered. She had green eyes like Sarah's, but was dark complected like someone who spent time out in the sun. Her figure was astounding, and quite shocking in a sweater and form-fitting pants made of, it looked like, the sort of material he had once seen warm-ups made of. On her feet, she wore white leather tennis shoes much like the shoes he had once worn himself.

  He looked up at her and noticed that his confused scan of the room somehow troubled her. He looked her over from head to foot once more and asked, "Who are you?"

  The look of confusion turned to fright as she stepped forward and started to put a hand to his head, "Are you OK, Garison? Did you hit your head?"

  He brushed her hand away angrily and stepped to the side. "No, I didn't hit my head. I'm fine. Who are you?" In fact, he thought to himself, the concussion symptoms of moments before and the dizziness were completely gone.

  She looked as if she still wanted to touch him, but kept her distance. Then, it was as if she were seeing him in a whole new light as she said, "Wait a minute, you've changed. How did your hair get so long in two seconds? How did you grow a mustache that quick? And those clothes? Except for that jacket, you look like you're...from the revolutionary war or something. And you look older." She looked extremely concerned as she implored, "Garison, what happened?"

  He demanded more forcefully, pronouncing each word carefully and distinctly, as if she might not have heard him before, "Who are you?"

  "Heather," she replied, as if it were something he should know. She took a step closer, but he took a step further away, backing down the workbench, keeping one hand on the cabinet as if it would steady him.

  "Heather? Heather who? I don't know a Heather. What kind of name is that, anyway? A plant name?"

  "You don't remember me?" she asked, seeming totally at a loss—and looking genuinely worried.

  "Why should I?"

  "Heather Fitch," she told him. "Heather Dawson Fitch."

  "Fitch? You're not related to me. Just what are you trying to pretend here?"

  She reached out to touch him again and again he slapped her hand away, this time with more force. As she brought the hand back, seemingly shocked that the slap had stung, she said, "I'm not just related to yo
u, Garison. I'm your wife."

  "My wife?" he replied with a forced laugh. He stood there and stared at her, wondering what this woman's game could be. A spy? he wondered. The KGB had been known to use some pretty elaborate schemes to learn information, but he had never heard of one like this. Did they think just sticking a stranger in his lab who claimed to be his wife would make him tell some secret? There had to be more to it.

  "All right," he smiled, "What's going on? Who put you up to this?"

  She reached out again and asked, "What happened to you, Garison?"

  He stood there rigidly as her fingers reached out and touched the side of his face very lightly. Did she really think that the touch of a woman would make him break down? He almost smiled as he thought of the futility of her actions. Still, he wondered what the point to her actions were. She seemed to have a point, but he couldn't imagine what it might be.

  She came a little closer and looked intently at him. After a moment, she touched the corner of his right eye and asked with something that sounded like genuine puzzlement, "What are these?"

  In spite of himself, he mumbled, "Huh?"

  "These lines around your eyes. You never had these before." She pivoted slightly to look at both sides of his head and said, "And you've got gray hair that wasn't there before you left. How do you turn gray in a couple seconds?"

  "I've been turning gray for—who are you? Tell me the truth!"

  "I'm Heather Fitch. I'm your wife."

  Garison had to give the girl credit for acting. She certainly seemed convinced of her part even if her part were ridiculous. In fact, it actually seemed like she believed what she was saying. Could it have been possible that she had been brain-washed or something into believing what she said? If so, he wondered, what was the point? She had to just be a very good actress, he thought. The whole charade was too stupid to accomplish anything.