The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time (23 page)

Garison suddenly doubled over, clutching at his stomach and feeling as if he might retch. Finneas came quickly over and asked, almost frantically for the big man, "Are ye all right?"

Garison gritted his teeth for a moment, then the pain suddenly went away and he stood upright again. "Yeah, I'm all right."

"Ye don't seem all right."

"Oh, I pulled little George Washington out of the way of a wagon over there on Elm and I think I must have hit my head even though I don't remember doing so. I've heard that a concussion can give you nausea sometimes. Am I bleeding anywhere?"

Garison bent over slightly and Finneas made a gentle examination of Garison's scalp before pronouncing, "I don't see a thing wrong with ye. Are you sure ye hit your head?"

"Actually," Garison replied, straightening up, "I would swear I didn't. But with the nausea and everything, I'm showing the signs of a concussion."

"When did this start?"

"Right after I pulled George from in front of that wagon. It's really strange. It was like—it was like I somehow felt like I had done something really big."

"Ye maybe saved a young lad's life."

"I don't know about that—and I don't know why even that would make me feel like this." Garison shook his head and said, "But the feeling's gone now, anyway. Maybe the strangest thing of all is the way it comes on me of a sudden, then disappears just as quickly." Rubbing his head, he said absently, "Like it was never there. What was it we were talking about?"

"About the things we leave behind."

"What about you, Finneas? You leave anything behind?"

Finneas shrugged and replied, "Maybe, though it applied more to my family than to me personally, me being quite young. Might depend on ye'r point of view. The name of Franklyn was a name that folks thought well of where I came from and I could have stayed behind with a little claim to it. But me pa was the seventh of eight brothers and had nephews who were ahead of him when it came to inheritance. It seemed to him we was better off coming to this new land with me brothers and me sisters and making something of ourselves—on our own. Me oldest brother and his wife stayed in Ireland and had a brace of kids, so I'd be even further down the inheritance line now if I ever went back."

They talked on for another hour, of one thing and then another and whereas Garison had a couple more spells of feeling out of sorts, the tremendous pain in his stomach didn't return. Whatever was bothering him, he thought, it was beginning to feel less like a concussion and more like he had just taken a large dose of cold medicine. Neither hypothesis made much sense but he thought it would be best if he went back to bed after dealing with the machine. Maybe, he thought, Sarah had used curdled milk in those biscuits or the egg hadn't cooked all the way.

Finneas spoke of the great things he had been hearing of Garison Fitch, and Fitch spoke of what he had heard about Finneas Franklyn. They both complained about the taxes and solved the problems of the world. Then, like all previous discussions, they would leave and the world would be much the same as it had been. As so often happened in the colonies, though, the taxes were a little bit higher by the time they parted and, though neither knew it, the world wasn't quite the same as it had been before.

When Garison knew he had stalled enough and needed to get about the business of destroying the machine, the moment became hard. He, like Sarah, wanted the machine gone and out of his life forever. On the other hand, he couldn't bear to part with it. Not only had he worked on it almost all his life before coming to the eighteenth century, it was one of the last parts of his past. All these thoughts flitted in and out through his mind on the way to the shed from Franklyn's smithy and, more than once, he was half a step from turning away and leaving the machine in tact. Only once on the trip from Franklyn's to the shed did he have one of the dizzy spells, and a quick rest beside a tree dispersed it. Still, he wasn't so much alarmed by the infirmity as annoyed.

“Glad I don’t have to drive a car anymore,” he mumbled, holding his head even though it didn’t hurt in the least.

He finally arrived at the shed, though, and pulled out the key which he had kept hidden in a fold of his belt. He had split the seams just enough to slip the key inside and never went anywhere except to bed or to the bathtub without it. He looked around to make sure no one was watching as he unlocked the shed and quickly slipped inside. He slipped a bolt on the inside of the door which was designed to only keep the door from blowing open and would not have stopped a determined person.

Knowing the shed like he knew his own bedroom, he didn't even light a lamp as he pulled the tarp off the machine and reached over to turn the power on to the computer system. As he settled into the pilot's chair for the last time, the computer came to life and gave him the journal prompt. He thought about ignoring it, but then his fingers seemed to move as if by their own volition.

March 15, 1744

When I remember the world I left, it is as one remembers a dream. I see fuzzy images of places I have been to, but I rarely ever remember faces. Maybe that's due not only to my time travel, but to the life I lead. To a person in the spotlight, there really are no faces. There are just nameless crowds.

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."