The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time (14 page)

When I get the chance, I slip off to the shed and sit with my machine, trying to decipher a way to return home. I often do little more than write in this journal, however, for my desire to return to what I now only euphemistically call home has weakened considerably. I miss La Plata Canyon, but I can't really say that I miss anyone else. The few things I miss are really rather inconsequential.

There is something I must admit, however: as I get to know Sarah better, my trips to the shed become more and more infrequent. As winter rolls around, I am only going once a month or so. The future seems far less important than the present.

I am beginning to forget why I would want to return to the twenty-first century at all.

And this brings me to what I started to write about today: life being simpler in the past. As I look at what I just wrote, I feel I must amend my earlier statement and concede that, yes, life is simpler here.

No, we don't have toilet paper, indoor plumbing or automobiles. We also don't have television, radio, or movie theaters. If life is simpler, it's not that it's easier to get by or around; it's easier to be. There is only so much, for instance, that can go wrong with a wagon, as opposed to an automobile. The fact that there are fewer choices of almost everything—besides entertainment—means, well, it's easier to choose.

One of the things I was struck by upon first arriving here was that there is a very clear sense of right and wrong that is missing in the twenty-first century. Certainly, we have our thieves and other criminals. But, when caught, they are punished. Sometimes, the wrongdoers even turn themselves in before their crime is discovered.

There is also no doubt in anyone's mind that there is a God and that the Bible is his word. Of course, we sometimes argue as to how to interpret that Word, and some people live very little of their life by the Word, but virtually no one doubts the veracity of the Word itself.

This simplicity of thought might lead some people of the future to believe that the citizens of the eighteenth century are mindless drones. I can assure anyone with that opinion that nothing could be further from the truth.

I read once that the average vocabulary of an eighteenth century adult was thirty-three hundred words. By comparison, the average vocabulary for a twentieth century adult was eight hundred words. I find this estimate of the eighteenth century person far too conservative.

My fellows here in Mount Vernon (both male and female) are extremely articulate and conversant if not necessarily well-schooled. Discussions of politics, religion, or farming can go on for hours, with everyone proving themselves to be well-versed on the subject at hand even if they can’t read. Most people I knew in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries could only accord themselves well in a conversation if it were on a certain topic, but the people here seem to have a much deeper and broader view of their world.

I keep imagining what incredible things could be accomplished in the twenty-first century if the people there were like the people here. Maybe all our accomplishments merely served to make us lazy, mentally and physically.

The fire in the forge that so often made the smithy an unpopular place made it a daily stop on many people's rounds as winter set in. As snow piled around the doors and logs burned constantly on stoves, it was not unusual for as many men to stop by the smithy for a word as stopped by the tavern for a pint. And they didn't have to explain their visit to the smithy to their wives with nearly so much trepidation. A naturally gregarious person, Finneas Franklyn enjoyed the company and so did Garison. The work load was often lighter in the winter as the inclement weather meant many people did without all but the most necessary travel and, thus, needed fewer horseshoes. Such things as plows and other farm implements were often turned in for repair soon after the fall season, but once that workload was completed the work of a smith slacked off considerably. They could generally find work, but it was never of a pressing nature and, some days, it was hard to be motivated.

Garison and Finneas were standing around, trying to make their light workload last at least until noon when a knock came at the door. While few of the visitors waited for a response, most knocked as a sort of courtesy. Usually, they were well inside and closing the door behind them to block off the wind before Finneas had a chance to say, "Come in."

Both smithies looked up to see Sharif Purdy, wearing his trademark slouched hat and a long woolen coat, shoving the door closed against a cold northern wind. "Getting worse out there," he remarked, not often wasting time on pleasantries as he was in the smithy at least once a day. He justified his stops on the basis that it was part of his duty as sharif to make a show of support and security to local businesses (which it was), but the reality was that he stopped at all places that he knew would afford him a chance to warm up from his cold rounds or something to eat. In the summer, his infrequent visits to the smithy were excused by saying that no one in their right minds would cause grief at a place inhabited by two such big men as Garison and Finneas. Everyone knew the reason he didn't stop in in the summer was that it was just too hot—and never had food.

"Has it started snowing ag'in?" Finneas asked.

Purdy beat some moisture off his hat, explaining the article's condition quite graphically, and laughed, "I can't tell. I can't tell whether it's actually snowing, or if the wind is just blowing the snow off of roofs and trees. And to tell you the truth, it's so miserable out there that I don't care one way or another."

"We had a fellow back home once who used to say we didn't get much snow, but we got a lot of use out of the snow we had," Garison chuckled.

Finneas, who was forever trying to find out about Garison's past, asked casually, "Does it snow like this in your La Plata Canyon?"

"Sometimes," Garison replied. "But usually it's a little worse. Comes in big storms, then stays a long time. Can be pretty nice in between, though. Can also be pretty miserable." He shrugged, "Like everywhere else: you get different weathers different years."

Purdy and Finneas shared a shrug for they had given up trying to tell when Garison was telling the truth about his past or just yarning. The closest they had gotten to where he came from was vague hints that it was far to the west, but these thoughts they doubted as Garison was obviously not an Indian and didn't speak with a Spanish accent. In fact, he seemed to not know Spanish at all, from what they could tell. Still, "La Plata" sounded Spanish, they thought.

Purdy walked over to Garison and said, "I understand congratulations are in order. I hear you passed the bar."

Garison shook the proffered hand and said, "Thanks. It was a little harder than I expected, but it went well." As Purdy started to lean back for comfort, Garison quickly said, "I wouldn't lean on that anvil if I were you. Unless you want to catch it from your daughter when she tries to wash the black and soot out of your britches."

"Thank you," Purdy said as he picked a post to lean against instead. "So," with a wink toward Finneas, Purdy asked, "Does this mean we're losing a smith, gaining a barrister, or neither?"

"I don't know, really," Garison told him honestly. "To get steady work as a barrister I'd probably have to move to Alexandria or Richmond and I really don't want to leave Mount Vernon. On the other hand, I've never been sure that I would want to be a full-time lawyer, anyway. Kind of studied it by accident."

Finneas shrugged and said, "Sharif, can ye imagine a man what turns down a life in the courts when so many of us can barely make a living?"

Purdy chuckled, "Maybe he just remembers his Shakespeare. 'The first thing we do is kill all lawyers.'"

Garison nodded, "I have often thought that all lawyers ought to have that inscribed on their doorposts so that it was the last thing they saw each morning before going to work. Maybe it would keep us a little more..."

"Honest?" both men asked in unison, then laughed at the timing.

Blushing, Garison said, "I was trying to think of another word but, yes."

Purdy pulled out a watch he carried, one of the few in town, and wound it. Looking at it, he said, "I suppose I should be back on my rounds. The widow Bradley puts up coffee about this time and frets something terrible if she has to drink it alone."

"I bet she does," Garison laughed.

Purdy touched the tip of his cap and wished quite formally, "A happy December 13th to you."

"And to you," Finneas returned with a mocking bow.

Garison looked up and asked quickly, "What day did you say it was?"

"December thirteenth," Purdy replied. "Is it a special day to you?"

"No, but I just realized that tomorrow is my birthday."

"Ho-ho," Finneas cheered, "Congratulations. And how old will ye be, lad?"

Garison knew instantly that it was a bit of a trick question. He wouldn't be born for another two hundred and thirty-six years. On the other hand, his body had still aged a specific amount of time, so he replied, "Thirty. Tomorrow I turn the big three-oh."

"Get out!" Finneas demanded. His sentiment of disbelief was agreed upon if not articulated by Purdy.

"What?" Garison asked.

"Ye can't be thirty!" Finneas objected. "I am but thirty-six m'self and I have always been certain I was ten to a dozen years ahead of ye."

Garison, too, was surprised at the revelation, having guessed Finneas to be well into his forties. Perhaps the hard life in the past—or, at least, the manual labor of the past—aged people at a rate different from that of the twenty-first century. Garison also wondered how much the sanitation had to do with it, as well. And the diet. Garison finally assured them both, "I'm really going to be thirty."

Purdy looked Garison over, shook his head, and said, "I can hardly believe it!" before walking out the door into the snow.

Finneas chuckled, "Wherever this La Plata Canyon ye come from is, it must be a ver' healthy place."

After the sharif was gone, Franklyn turned to Garison and said, "I have been meaning to talk with ye, me boy." With a smile, he realized he probably shouldn't refer to Garison as a lad anymore, considering the proximity of their ages. "Serious talk, that is."

"You're the boss," Fitch smiled. "What's on your mind?"

"Two things," Finneas told him. "The first is this: Ye have worked here for near nine months. And a good nine months of work it has been. In fact, there's not quite enough smithing work at this shop to keep both of us busy. Ye know that as well as I. Much of that is owed to improvements ye have made and suggested. Now, I have listened to ye talk, and it has come to me for a long time that ye may not be who you say ye are."

"What do you mean?" Fitch asked, trying not to sound guilty. He was suddenly on edge, though. He had always known that such a conversation would eventually come and had known just as certainly that he wouldn't know how to handle it.

"I mean, ye're not from the west, are ye? This La Plata Canyon ye speak of; I have traveled the west as a younger man and there is no such place. Not in the colonies, anyway. La Plata—'tis a Spanish name, is it not? Are you from the Spanish lands?"

"Well—"

"If ye're running from something, that be all right. Ye have proven ye'rself to me and I'll let ye work here as long as ye're of a mind. Still, I feel ye would be selling ye'rself short to not seek a bit of the horizon. Not by leavin', I mean, but by...stretchin' y'rself. Ye'r mind. But ye'd best watch what ye say, me lad. Someone from where ye're running from might hear that ye're in Mount Vernon."

Garison laughed and told him, "I really doubt that will happen. I'm pretty sure no one from where I'm from is—around anymore." Even as he was thinking that the tense was all wrong, he said, "They're all gone, now. But thank you for the warning. Even if no one ever comes after me, it's still probably a good idea for me to watch my tongue. People being the way they are, and all. What was the other thing you wished to tell me?"

"Well, first, some things ye have said seem odd. They make no difference to me, but ye are right and had best watch what ye say. 'Ye'r tongue', as you put it. There are those—especially among the Puritans, but also among your Baptists—who listen to every word, hopin' to catch people in sin. If they was to hear some of the things ye have been sayin', they might accuse ye of being a witch. And I am sure ye have heard what becomes of witches here abouts."

"I have no desire to become a Texas bar-b-que," Fitch smiled.

"Ye might be careful about phrases like that."

"Sorry."

Franklyn shrugged and said, "The other thing: 'tis about the lass. Ye have been seeing Sarah for nine months, now. Oh, I know it's only been a couple months since you made your intentions public, but everyone in town has known since that first day that ye have had ye'r eye on her and her cap has been set for you as long. Now, I don't know how things are where ye come from; but here, that is plenty long. I don't like to pry into yer affairs, but ye need to take a step, Fitch."

"How do you mean?" Garison asked, though suddenly nervous at what Finneas's reply might be.

"Declare your intentions. Officially, I mean. 'Tis not respectable for a young lady to be seein' a man for as long as Sarah's been seeing ye without ye asking her to marry ye or setting up a state of promise or betrothal. Ye bein' the proper gentleman that ye are, I know ye don't want to see anything else happen to poor Sarah's name. The Good Lord knows she has been unjustly accused a-plenty. But marrying ye would be just the thing to make the people forget what they—we—used to call her. And it is high time we did."

"Time to 'fish or cut bait', eh?"

"If that means marrying her, yes."

"Marry her?" Garison asked in astonishment. It was not that the idea was foreign (or even distasteful) to him, he had just never heard it spoken aloud and it took him off guard. Truth be known, the word had crossed his thoughts a time or two (or million) in the previous months.