We all, of course, thought the whole thing a bit daft. Still, Mister Fitch was a well respected man in Mount Vernon during his day and, odd though it was, his request was carried out. I must admit, however, that we all treated it as a sort of odd joke, or the result of an old and feeble mind.
So, on Saturday morning, I—in the presence of our other workers here at the church—opened the envelope. It contained a letter which specified that we should send this package to you, at this certain address, on this certain date. It even told us which shipping company to use—something they could not have possibly known of in the eighteenth century, of course. Enclosed with the letter was a silver coin to cover the shipping cost. A colleague of mine, who is somewhat of an antique coin buff, said the coin will not only pay for the shipping, but re roof the church building. Having always prided ourselves on carrying out assigned duties, I will ship this box out today, March 13, 2005.
With my duty now discharged, I ask of you one favor: call me some day and tell me what was is in this box.
Christ's Servant and Yours,
Anthony Dyer
P.S. I must admit I did call information on Saturday to see if you even exist. I was not just a little surprised to find that you did. How did he know that?
Heather, who had read the letter over Garison's shoulder, looked at him and asked, "This has got to be a prank, right?"
Garison shrugged and pointed out, "It won't be the first odd thing that's happened this morning. Still, I can't see a bunch of Anglican vicars sitting around and cooking this up."
"If it's a prank I'm sure someone else did it. Well, open the box," she instructed anxiously.
"Get me a screwdriver. I'm going to have to pry the lid off."
As she handed the instrument to him, she implored, "Don't damage the box. It's wonderfully made!"
"I won't," he returned sharply. The box was actually "pegged" shut, but he was soon able to open it.
The box was lined with oil clothe, then with felt. When they pulled the felt away, they found a manuscript. It was written on fine but yellowed parchment in a flowing, elegant hand. The title page read:
The Legend of Garison Fitch
As told to Sarah and Heather Fitch
Heather and Garison shared a look of confused astonishment, then Heather lifted the cover page off and set it down very carefully beside her. By the time she turned back to the manuscript, Garison was already well down the first page.
She started to read over his shoulder, but he said, "This isn't going to work. We'll come to blows if we try to read this over each other's shoulders. Tell you what: you go fix us some drinks and I'll read the first page. By the time you're back, you can read the first page all on your own. Otherwise, we're going to end up severely irritated with each other."
"Good idea," she said, rising. "Dr Pepper?"
"What else?" he smiled.
"I'll be right back," Heather said, then fairly ran to the kitchen. She could hardly wait to get back and start reading. The result was that, of course, the simple task of pouring soft drinks took longer than it would have if she had been going about it more carefully.
Garison dove intently into the manuscript as soon as she left so as to get far enough ahead before she got back. It had his attention right away. He read:
Garison's Journal
Sometimes late at night, I stare out my window and remember how things used to be. I'm not saying that things used to better, or that they used to be worse; but they certainly were different. I guess what I think about most is wondering if I did the right thing. (But who hasn't worried about such a thing?) At the time, there was no question, but looking at an event after the fact . . .
In a way it is funny when I think about what we used to worry about. We used to worry that, somehow, someway, a madman would destroy our world. Some nefarious villain would create a diabolical plot to overtake the world and would succeed. The keys were right there at our finger tips, but we were confident that they would never be turned. In a way, we were right. Our world wasn't destroyed that way.
It's a strange feeling to know that you destroyed your world. You personally, I mean. By your own hand you destroyed your world. I know what it feels like. I destroyed my world. What's really funny about the whole thing is that I destroyed my world by doing something nice.
Maybe that's why no one was prepared for it. Everyone always expected the world to be destroyed through meanness or malice. But, all the wars in the history of the world weren't able to do through malice what I did in one moment of kindness.
What was it I did that was so kind, friendly, and yet terrible? I kept an eleven year old boy from being run over by a horse.
As I tell this, I wish now I had listened better back during those history lectures at the academy. But what young boy can listen as a dotaring old man rambles on about events from before even he was born? I was a model student—the kind teachers point to and humiliate in front of your peers, saying you are perfect—but even I couldn't pay attention in history. I was concerned with making things happen, not with learning about things that had already taken place. I wrote what I thought they wanted to read on my exams and said what I knew they wanted to hear when I spoke out loud, but the information evaporated from my brain after its use like dew disappears from a petal.
Math was different. I didn't just take math, I excelled at math. In math I saw a potential for making things happen! It was because of my abilities in math that I didn't have to take more history than I did. An academician had spotted my knack for numbers the day I stepped into his class and I shall forever thank him because it was his recommendation that got me into the classes I really desired.
By the age of nine, I was postulating ideas in quantum mechanics that made my teachers realize they were becoming the learners. Certainly, my theories were occasionally wrong, but no one else was even thinking along the lines I thought. I was—
I have gotten ahead of myself. Which, in a way, is the whole source of this story. Stories have never been my strong point. I can neither tell them orally nor write them down on paper, but I shall attempt, anyway. Fortunately, I have been in the habit of keeping a journal for several years now and I will insert entries from it that may enlighten you as to what I was thinking at the time of the event.
My main regret, however, is that I know so little of history. So, if you find my dates to be in errancy—or my narratives incongruent with what you have learned—please excuse the flaws and attribute them to a young boy who once stood up and asked his professor, "Why deal with the past if you can't do anything about it?"
Despite the fact that this question was asked at a universite, this certain little boy spent the next hour with his nose in a corner.
"That sounds familiar," Garison remarked as he handed the page to Heather. "I had to stand in the corner for that one time, too. I don't know who was more embarrassed, though: me or the prof."
As soon as she had read it, she gestured to the manuscript and asked suspiciously, "What do you make of it?"
"What can I make of it?"
"Do you think it's real?" Her eyes were wide with anticipation of his answer. She took a long sip of her soda waiting for an answer that wasn't forthcoming. "Well?"
"How could it be?" he finally asked.
He shrugged, then leaned over to the phone near the end of the couch and dialed information; specifically, information for the Alexandria, Virginia, area. It took a minute because he had first asked for Mount Vernon, only to find it had been swallowed up by the larger city. Mount Vernon, it seemed, was only George Washington's former plantation anymore. When he had the number for Father Dyer's office, he dialed it and waited, his heart thumping unusually loudly.
"This is Father Dyer," said an old sounding man on the other end of the line, "Can I help you?" He spoke in that perfect diction one would expect from an Anglican minister. Garison wondered if he would have so readily believed the man if he hadn't fit his preconceived notion.
"Yes. This is Garison Fitch, in Durango." He thought he heard an intake of breath from the other end of the line. "I—uh—we just got a package you mailed us. At least, it said it came from you on the manifest."
"It did, indeed," Father Dyer replied after a moment. "I hadn't expected to hear from you so soon, but I had hoped you could call and shed some light on all this for us."
"'Fraid not," Garison shrugged. "Not yet, anyway. We've just begun to explore the contents of the box. We were kind of hoping for some illumination from you. Were you telling the truth in that note you enclosed in the package?"
"Incredible as it may seem, yes," Father Dyer affirmed. "That package was given to Father Stephens in the summer of 1797 with the instructions that it be shipped to you in March of this year. You would almost think it would have been forgotten over the years, but it was such a legend there was no way to forget it. Even hid it in a special place during World War Two—back when we were afraid the Germans would bomb the east coast."
"Anyone know anything about the man who delivered it? Does the legend say anything about him?"
Father Dyer hesitated for a moment, then answered, "Yes. This story has been passed down among the workers at this church for almost two centuries, so I know it well—as do many of the parishioners. In fact, one of our biggest problems with the box has always been keeping each other from opening it and seeing what was inside. I digress. Anyway, a very prominent and elderly man in the town, who also happened to be named Garison Fitch by the way, came to the Anglican church carrying that box I sent you. I have heard it said he was a carpenter of some note, so he may have built it himself. I have also heard he was a lawyer, as well.
"Anyhow, he had never attended this parish before, but he entrusted the delivery of that package to us because he somehow knew that we would be the only organization in town still operating in the year 2005. How he knew that, we have no idea, but it has been a source of some pride over the years. Father Stephens accepted the package and the charge and vowed that we would deliver the package, somehow, though I am sure he had some doubts. Since that time, it has been the cause of endless speculations as to its contents and how the man knew you—or anyone—would be there to receive it. You can't imagine my surprise when, as I mentioned in the letter, I found that you lived where the old letter said you would. Um," the vicar paused nervously, "If it is not too secret, could you tell me what was in the box?"
"I guess so," Garison shrugged. "Looks like a manuscript of some sort. It says it's a journal or something like that. I've only read the first two pages, but I wanted to call and confirm with you that it was authentic."
"It is," Father Dyer assured him. "While I think we all thought it was a bit of nonsense—or the product of some old man's senility—it became a very sacred trust of the Fathers here. During the bomb scares of World War II it was moved into the basement for safe keeping while other—more church related items—were left out due to room constraints. Still, I think we all doubted its validity at times—the world seeming so short of prophets these days. In reality, we probably all thought it an odd game at best. An odd game we played for some reason, though."
Garison told him, "Well, I appreciate you giving me this. If I ever figure out the whole story, I'll let you know. Maybe I can just send you a copy of the manuscript."
"Thank you. I would really appreciate that. That package has been such a part of the story of this parish, I hope you can someday tell me how it ends. My fellow servants are as anxious to know as I am."
They said their partings and hung up.
"Looks like it's for real," Garison told her with one cocked eyebrow. There was something about a raised eyebrow that flitted across his memory, but it soon passed.
"Did you have an ancestor named Garison Fitch?" Heather asked. "Way back then?"
"I don't know," Garison replied. "So far as I know, no one has ever traced our family back very far."
Heather smiled, "Probably afraid that if they shook the Fitch family tree a bunch of nuts would fall out." As she reached for his tickle spot, she jibed, "Or maybe they would find out it was made entirely of sap."
"Oh yeah, like the Dawson family is all on an even keel. What about that uncle of yours with the split personality—sometimes he's a Baptist named Gus and sometimes he's a Jew named Ben Jamin Katul. Squirrels try to carry that guy off every time he goes out in public."
"It's not nice to make fun of him," Heather scolded. "After all, he does send us gifts at Hanukkah and Christmas."
He nodded and laughed, "Yeah. He does send some of the nicest Yom Kippur cards I have ever seen." He added with a wry smile, "The only Yom Kippur cards I've ever seen."
Garison put his hand on her leg and said, "Tell you what. Let's go eat a quick lunch then come back here and read this book. I have a feeling that—once we get started—we'll not want to stop. What was it that nutty friend of yours, Bat Garrett, always says about good books?"
"'I couldn't put it down without actually setting it on a stationary object.' That line?"
"Yeah." As he got up to walk into the kitchen, Garison muttered, "That guy is so weird."
Chapter Thirty-Three
March 17, 2005
2 a.m.
For the second time in my life, my life has been changed by a book. The first time was when I was nine and read the Bible on a whim (or so I thought at the time). What I read there changed my life because it showed me what was really important.
What I have read today (technically, yesterday and today) has changed my life because it shows me that reality is not always what we expect of it. In fact, this may have rewritten my very definition of reality. Rather, it has changed my way of looking at things. The world seems a lot less ordered than it used to.
I have found (if this book is to be believed) that I am not the first Garison Fitch. I found that I may have an ancestor with the same name, but he lived so long ago it is unlikely I was named for him. At first glance, one would assume, then, that I was so named by chance. Now I wonder. And, it doesn't seem to be mere chance that we are named alike.
Though I doubt that my parents knew it when they named me, I share a lot more with my ancestral namesake than just the name.
My ancestor Garison Fitch was born the same day I was: December 14, 1975; but he died on January 21, 1798.
His parents had the same names as mine, he was born in the same place (though they called it Marx and we call it Colorado), and he grew up pretty much as I did. In fact, for all intents and purposes, for the first twenty nine years and ninety two days of our respective lives . . . we were the same person.
But that day . . . that day changed it all.
Heather finished the last page of the manuscript and looked up at Garison, asking for the second time, "What do you make of it?"
It was the first thing either had said about the manuscript since they had resumed reading it after lunch. They had read on in silence, as if afraid that speaking would break the spell the narrative had cast. And it did seem to have the mysterious enchanting powers of some sort of magical fable. Like baseball players refusing to talk about a no hitter while it's being played, they had gone on in silence, only occasionally making an unrelated comment in a futile attempt to clear the tension from the air.
"Heck of a story, huh?" Garison said, although it was more like he exhaled the words. He was glad to be able to feel like he could breath comfortably again. He had held his breath so much it was a wonder he hadn't passed out.
"You think it's true?" she asked skeptically—and nervously. She, too, was breathing heavily, as if to make up for the last few laborious hours.
"It would have to be," he replied, though he hated to admit to it. His scientific mind often had a hard time with the incredulous and this certainly was as far out as anything he had ever heard. Fiction is one thing, he thought, but this story purported to be real.
"It would? Why is that?"
"Think about it. How could somebody—anybody—in this century or an
other—know that I aborted my experiment this" Garison looked at his watch "yesterday morning? Nobody's been around here, I'm pretty sure of that. I mean, this manuscript was shipped three days ago. That alone gives me cause to think it's true.
"Second, he just knows too much about my experiments and my life. So much of this is not open to public domain. Some of my papers have been widely read and I'm fairly well known in scientific circles—"
"And a lot of people still remember your football days at Boulder," Heather pointed out. Even that was an understatement: his jersey number had been retired. Still, no one retired lab beakers.
"Yeah, there's that, but it's not that applicable to this because that aspect of my life wasn't really mentioned in the manuscript. Surely someone pulling a prank would have at least touched on the obvious. But I don't think anyone—except you—could know me as well as this guy does, or did, or whatever. I mean, those journal entries, they actually sounded like something I would have written. He talked and wrote a little more formally than I do, but they just . . . I don't know . . . had my feel about them, I guess. They sounded like something I might have actually written."
"They did that," she agreed.
"And the narrative, it really did seem like your style of writing." He chided, "Reminded me a lot of Dalton Riley."
She scowled, "As I read it all, I kept thinking of you. It was all done the way you would have done it. Except—"
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 2): Saving Time Page 29