The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 2): Saving Time

by Samuel Ben White

  It was easier to run away from my feelings than really face them. Now, though, I may be looking at the possibility of not having time to face my feelings and fears. Maybe that should make me happy, but it doesn't.

  So I take up my journal, again. Unfortunately, a mere record of events is no longer sufficient for the current situation.

  My trip through time seems to have torn a hole in the fabric of time. This hole, I believe, will destroy time as we know it if allowed to grow—and grow it will. The second law of thermodynamics tells us that everything is degenerating anyway. I would assume that that also applies to time. I seem to have speeded up the process.

  But how does one sew up a hole in time? I have lain awake nights wondering over just that question; trying to concoct a suitable thread. Generally, when patching something, one uses material similar to that which is being patched. I've used rubber patches to fix tires and I remember my mother sewing denim patches on the seat of my blue jeans. But time?

  My first thought was to reconstruct my time machine and travel back to the time before I made the original trip and stop myself from making the trip. Such a course of action would necessitate two trips, though: one to let George Washington die again, then another into the future of the Soviet Americas to stop myself from inventing the machine. This, of course, is a completely stupid idea and I recognized it as such immediately.

  Another trip through time in the machine could only create another hole—or make the first one that much larger. It would be like trying to patch a hole in your umbrella by cutting a scrap of fabric from somewhere else on the umbrella. I would still have the same problem. (In all probability, a second trip through the already torn fabric would make the problem exponentially worse, not better. Beyond that, even if I were to let George Washington die, there is no guarantee that things would turn our exactly as before. People do have freedom of choice and the choice Phil Smith made in the old time might not be the choice he would make in the new time and who knows how the world might come out?

  Still, the only solution I have yet been able to come up with is the same: travel back and stop myself from making the trip.

  Granted, that sounds as if I am proposing the same thing. But, in the back of my mind, there is a possible solution to my problem. Unfortunately, it is so unbelievable as to be ludicrous. But, if a better solution does not produce itself soon . . .

  Ludicrous times require ludicrous measures.

  Garison Fitch shut off the lap top computer he had been typing his journal into and looked out the front window of the airplane. He couldn't tell where they were just by sight, but he had an idea they were getting close. He turned around to make sure Sarah was all right. She was sound asleep in her car seat. Garison wondered if it were really cars and airplanes that put her to sleep, or just the car seat. They had set her in it a time or two while visiting friends and she often fell asleep then, too.

  Heather saw him looking around out of the corner of her eye and told him, "Almost there." She reached up and took the microphone and radioed the tower at Manassas Municipal Airport. They instructed her as to which flight path to take and began to guide her in. She guided to the same runway she had landed on the last time they had come to Mount Vernon.

  As the smog of Washington D.C., Alexandria, Virginia, and all the other closely quartered towns filled the air, Garison remarked, "When we left here two years ago, I never thought I'd want to come back. I was right."

  "It's hard, isn't it?" Heather asked. "Seeing it all again. Knowing this is where—um, where your children are buried. And your grandchildren." To add a little light to the conversation, she chuckled, "My step children."

  He nodded, but told her, "It's not just that. I mean, Mount Vernon isn't really even a town anymore. It's been swallowed up by all these other places. I'm not even sure if it is officially a town anymore. I think that name only applies to George's old estate. I know a town is kind of an inanimate object, but this is a little like losing one of my kids. Towns aren't supposed to go away."

  She nodded and said, "One of my ancestors founded the town of Dawson, Texas. It started small, but it was quite a going concern—back in East Texas's cotton days. Even had a semi pro baseball team around the turn of the century. There's almost nothing there, now though. A general store that sells almost nothing, a gas station, an antique store that sells junk, and the requisite Southern Baptist Church. They don't even have a school there anymore. They consolidated years ago with all the other schools in Rains County and now all the kids go to school in Emory."

  "You never lived there, did you?"

  "No. I drove through it a couple times on my way to somewhere else—I don't even remember where, now—and it made me kind of sad. It was neat seeing my last name on a town—and knowing it used to be something, but, well—" she drifted off, leaving the sentence unfinished in a sad sort of way. After a bit, she said, "There's something creepy about having your name attached to a dying town. Like an omen that your family's going to die out or something."

  He patted her on the thigh and said, "I think the reason I hoped I would never have to come back here was because I knew it was going to be this maudlin. I just didn't know I was going to drag you into it."

  After they landed and rented a car, they found a phone book and looked up Jonathan Day. Copying down the address, Garison said, "Well, let's go find him."

  "Don't you think we should call first?"

  Garison shook his head and said, "That would just warn him we're coming." At her questioning look, he explained, "What person is going to hang around their house if they know a person who claims to be a time traveler is coming by? He's probably going to call the people from the booby hatch anyway; no sense in letting them be there to greet us. With that story we read, his place had probably been crawling with kooks and weirdos anyway."

  "Like us?"

  "We're serious kooks, though."

  She shrugged in agreement and picked up Sarah. "Let's stop by somewhere and get something to eat, first. Sarah's going to get cranky if we don't get something to eat soon, and so am I. I know you don't want to go through that."

  Garison realized how empty his own stomach felt and nodded. They loaded up the rental car—Sarah quickly asleep in her car seat—and set out to find food and Mister Day. The food was easy. Finding Mister Day's street was not easy. Some of the streets in the old part of town were ridiculously wide—built to allow a horse-drawn wagon the ability to make a U-turn—while others were ridiculously narrow—built where only an alley had once run. As a result, Mr. Day's street was barely one and a half cars wide—making it somewhat like slalom driving to weave in and out between the parked cars.

  There was a white picket fence around a pretty, white house and a thick lawn. There were bags of leaves scattered about the lawn that were made to look like giant jack o lanterns. More leaves had obviously fallen since the last raking.

  As they got out of the car, they noticed a very obvious sign on the gate that said, "NO TRESPASSERS."

  "Reckon he's already had a few kooks show up?" Heather asked.

  "Wouldn't doubt it."

  Garison started to reach for the gate latch when a none too friendly voice from the house said, "That'll be far enough." They looked up to see a white haired man standing on the porch and saying, "You aren't family and you're not from the post office or the electric company, so I'd rather you didn't come any further."

  Garison held up his hands, as if the white haired man had a gun on him, and said, "We just want to talk to you for a little bit, Mister Day. Then we'll be on our way."

  "Talk about what?" the man asked, though the tone of his voice sounded like he knew what they would answer. His body language made it very clear that he had nothing to say to anyone he didn't know.

  Garison looked around, afraid to say too loudly, "The time portal in your yard."

  The man barked, "Go away! I've had enough of you nuts to last me a lifetime. I—"

  Garison interrupted, "Look
at me. Don't you recognize me? I'm the guy from the fire. The one that destroyed the shed."

  The man did seem to peer intently, but replied, "You could be anybody. Everybody that read that magazine knows what that man looked like. Dark hair. Mustache. Big fellow. I've had look a likes show up before—and they even had pony tails."

  "But I can tell you why it happened. I can tell you what's going on in your yard."

  The man came down a step from the porch, but no further. Garison took it as a sign that the man was at least listening, so he asked, "If you'll give us just about half an hour, I can tell you what's going on. If you don't believe me, we'll leave and never bother you again."

  At the man's hesitation, Heather added, "Please? Fifteen minutes, even."

  The man seemed to notice Heather and the little blonde girl for the first time. He hesitated a moment, then said, "Half an hour." He turned and went to the door, holding it open for them.

  Garison quickly opened the gate and ushered his family up to the house. The man eyed them skeptically, but let them inside. He eyed Garison with special scrutiny, as if trying to remember whether or not he had seen the young man somewhere before. He led them to the living room and offered them seats.

  Garison began, "My name is Garison Fitch and you must be Jonathan Day." The man nodded, so Garison continued, "I'm about to tell you something that's going to make me sound like a complete lunatic. But I assure you it's true."

  At the end of the story, Day took a long breath, then told them gruffly, "You're right: you do sound like a lunatic." At the sunken faces of his guests, he added, "But, with all I've been through lately, I need a lunatic. Lord knows no one with any sense has been able to explain what's going on."

  "So you believe me?" Garison asked, not just a little surprised.

  "'Believe' may be a strong word," Day replied. "Let's just say I'm still listening and go from there. But I will give you this: you do look like that man from the fire."

  Garison turned to Heather and asked, "Do you have that video tape?"

  Heather nodded and pulled a tape out of Sarah's diaper bag. She asked Day, "Do you have a machine to play this on?"

  Day took it with a look of puzzlement on his face, then stood up and went over to his TV. He opened the doors on the TV stand and popped the tape into a VCR that was eternally blinking "88:88". Flipping on the TV, he started the tape rolling.

  Day watched the tape of Garison's trip through time—including the few, brief shots of his first wife, Sarah—with great interest. While trying not to stare at him, Garison and Heather spent most of their time watching Day for his reactions. Little Sarah spent her time coloring in a book Heather had brought for her. She really wanted to be exploring this new house, but her mother had made it very clear she was supposed to be quiet and be a "good girl." Maybe later Daddy would let her go exploring.

  When the tape reached the end, Day shut it off and said, "You know, all that could be faked." Before they could object, he added, "But I don't think it was. I don't know why, but I get the feeling you two are telling the truth. I'm not much into mind reading or that psychic junk, but, well—" He jerked a thumb toward his front window and said, "Mainly, because of what's gone on out there. If I hadn't seen what I've seen these past few months . . . "

  Garison prompted, "What have you seen, Mister Day?"

  "Call me Jon." He leaned back in his chair as if to ponder the question, then finally responded, "All sorts of things. I've seen red coats marching in time as if they were off to a battle. I saw a guy in a Nehru jacket walking his girl. I've seen people dressed like pioneers—and people dressed like they were from the 1920s. Horse drawn carriages, old Model T's, bicycles with banana seats like the kids used to ride. I've just about seen it all."

  "Ever see any Indians?" Garison asked. He had already explained to Jon why his right arm was immobilized.

  "No," John shook his head.

  Heather looked at Garison strangely and asked, "What? Like all time portals contain Indians?"

  "No, it's just that I'm thinking this could be a very big factor if he hasn't seen any."

  "How?" Jon and Heather asked simultaneously. There were a lot of things they hadn't seen in the windows.

  Garison was silent for a few moments, with that look on his face that told Heather he was organizing his thoughts. After a bit, he said, "I'm wondering if this puts a sort of limit on the hole in time?"

  "What do you mean?" Heather asked.

  "Well, think about it. Of the instances of time travel we've seen, two of them have indicated the presence of Indians. Mister Day, who has seen all kinds of things, hasn't seen any Indians. Don't you get it?" When they both shook their heads, Garison explained, "He didn't see any Indians because there haven't been any in Mount Vernon for the last two hundred and sixty four years."

  "I get you," Day suddenly nodded. "You're saying that, if the hole in time were—um, indefinite—then I should have seen Indians, right? Because there were Indians on these lands three hundred years ago, or even further back. But not in recent history."

  "Oh," Heather nodded. "If the hole in time were indefinite, we should have seen Indians and mastadons and sabre tooth tigers and Vikings and who knows what else. But everything we've seen so far—"

  "Has been from the last two and a half centuries," Garison completed. "Exactly! The hole in time—or the knot, depending on which analogy you prefer—has a specific beginning and ending."

  "So," Day asked, "What does that prove, other than what we already knew? To wit: this is all your fault."

  "Well, that is the main thing it tells us, all right. But there's one other thing it may tell us that is far more . . . sinister." At their shrugs, Garison told them, "None of us have seen anything from the future."

  "So?" Heather asked.

  "Those Indians that attacked me. They saw me. I was from the future, but they could see me. The same is true of the funeral people and that lady who was looking for Melissa Combs. While we were running into people from the past, they were seeing people from the future. How come we haven't seen any anomalies from the future?"

  Day suddenly sucked in his breath and said, "You mean, why haven't I seen a hovercar, or just a Plymouth from three years from now? Or why hasn't some teenage boy shown up at your place for a date with your daughter there?"

  "Well, that's a little more unnerving than what I was thinking of," Garison quipped, "But you're right." He swallowed hard and asked gravely, "Could it be that we haven't seen anything from the future because there isn't a future to be seen?"

  Heather suddenly understood what he meant and a gasp escaped her lips. She surmised, "You're saying that what we were talking about may be true: that these holes in time are getting worse and that time itself might be destroyed?"

  "Why else would there not be a future?" Garison asked. Then he raised an eyebrow and mumbled, "Unless . . . "

  "Unless what?" Jon and Heather asked anxiously.

  "Unless we haven't seen anything from the future because the hole in time is repaired. I mean, not seeing the future may be a good thing. It may mean that there's some way to fix all this." He stood up and began to pace, "Either way, I don't think we have much time. We either have to find the way to repair time, or time will cease. The absence of the future is either a good sign—"

  "Or a bad one," Heather mumbled.

  Jon Day put his hands to his knees with a meaningful slap and said, "All right. We got a job to do, so let's do it." Turning to Garison, he asked, "Now, how do we do it?"

  The three adults in the room looked at each other, shared shrugs, then looked at Sarah. As she looked up happily, then colored away, Garison asked, "Mind if we bring in our stuff? We may be here a while."

  Chapter Seventeen

  November 9, 2007

  There is a certain irony in knowing that you have destroyed your world and somehow survived. Destroyed so that it never even existed. Believe me, I have pondered it over and over in the past two years and it still mak
es little sense. I find it hard to even write it in a sentence that begins to make sense—even if grammatically correct.

  I have wondered why I alone survived the complete destruction of everything I knew—especially when it was my fault. "Right" would seem to have justified my destruction along with my world, but that isn't what happened. Of course, that frequently happens: the guilty go unpunished. I have continued, carrying the burden not only of having destroyed my world, but of being the only one to remember it.

  Not only that, but I am not the only Garison Fitch. Well, yes I am. What I am is a man with two complete sets of memories—and neither is incorrect. Even though one of them never happened. But it did. Oh well.

  I remember growing up in the Soviet Americas, playing soccer, traveling to the Republic of Texas. I remember traveling Europe without a passport because it was all part of one country—a country where I was famous. I remember when I got the news that my parents were killed in a plane crash when I was a teen ager and off at college.

  But I also remember Growing up in Colorado, in the United States of America. I remember playing Little League baseball, attending the University of Colorado, and holding two little sisters and a little brother when they were newborns. I remember Nolan Ryan's seventh no-hitter, Doug Flutie's touchdown pass over Miami, and my first date. Both sets of memories are as complete and strong as they can be.

  I thought, perhaps, that it was my penance to live life knowing I had destroyed it for thousands—maybe millions—of others. Some people I didn't kill (through wars or whatever), they just ceased to exist. Actually, they never existed at all. Despite my disbelief in the concept of penance as a necessary tenet to Christian living, the thought still lingers in my mind. If not penance, why me?