The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time (46 page)

"Tell them at your own risk," Garison said. "It's you they would send to the asylum."

The vicar laughed and said, "Nonetheless, I will tell them. Like you said, it will be up to their choice as to whether to believe it or not. I believe it is true partially because you seem a truthful fellow."

"Partially?" Heather couldn't help but ask.

The vicar laughed again, "And partially because I cannot imagine a woman who seems as sensible as you traveling about with such a—a nut." He left them to the letter with a large, warm smile on his face. As he reached the door, he turned and asked Garison, "You were really walking around, in this very town, two hundred and fifty years ago?"

"Just last week," Garison nodded.

"Some other time, after you have sorted out what must be a tremendously moving experience, you must come and tell me all about it. Tell me about the town, and the people, and this church. It is the dream of every student of history to talk with someone who was actually 'there', wherever 'there' may be. You are that chance for me, and I would love to take it."

"I'll come back. I've got a grandson I need to check in on every now and then," Garison promised. The vicar left and Garison and Heather turned their attention to the box.

The box was roughly made and Garison wondered if it had been part of the original package or if someone at the vicarage had added it at some time later. There were gaps in the wood that indicated it had been built long enough ago for the wood to have pulled away from the nails. Garison opened the box and found inside an old, yellowed envelope of the kind he remembered from "the old days" of a week before. He gasped when he opened the box, however, because of what sat atop the envelope (and explained the weight of the box).

“A knife?” Heather asked in confusion.

“My knife. My Bowie knife. It and that jacket were all I had to remember the twenty-first century by.” He held the knife up and pointed to some markings on the hilt and said, “Look at this: manufactured in Texas, 2001. Yet it’s sat here in a box for over two hundred years.”

Heather touched the blade gently with awe, then commanded, “The letter, Garison.”

The envelope was covered with a layer of dust that he blew off before picking it up. He picked it up gently and turned it over to find a wax seal holding it closed. Above the seal was written "Garison Fitch" in Sarah's handwriting. The handwriting was old and squiggly, as if by a person whose hands weren't as steady as they had once been, but it made his heart skip a beat to see that little sign of her presence.

The handwriting, he noticed, was not quite so bad as the signature on the will had been, but not so good as the last handwriting he had seen of hers before leaving. It must have been written well after she was old, but before arthritis or whatever had fully set in, Garison guessed. Heather wondered if the slight appearance of shaking might have been from the beginning stages of Parkinsons, but she didn't know if the disease had been around in the eighteenth century. She assumed it had, but had no knowledge of such things. She made a note to go research the idea at the library when she got home.

He gently pulled open the seal and found the parchment inside. Careful not to tear anything, he pulled the paper out of the envelope. It was old, but being inside the envelope had kept it from yellowing as much as one would think. It still felt awfully brittle and he held it gingerly. "I'll have to get some sort of PVC-free sheets to keep these in."

"I'll ask Bat. He knows all about saving paper products."

"Why?" Garison couldn't help but ask.

"He used to own a baseball card store. Sold stamps, too. He knows about preserving paper products." Heather shrugged at Garison's odd look in return and asked, "Can I read over your shoulder, or would you rather read it by yourself?"

He thought a moment, then smiled and said truthfully, "You're my wife. I want you beside me for all things."

She blushed slightly, for reasons unknown even to herself, but looked over his shoulder with a smile as he unfolded the ancient letter.

The letter, written in the flowing handwriting of the eighteenth century by a woman with shaky or arthritic hands, read:

My Dear Garison,

Please pardon my handwriting, but I have a slight touch of arthritis, or so the doctor calls it, which gives my hands a little trouble. I thought it best to write this now, before my hands grow worse—which he says they will most likely do. Plus, as I grow older, who knows how my mind will hold up—or my eyes?

You were always such a one for doing things in a logical and efficient manner, so I will begin by explaining why this letter was left with the Anglican church.

I tried to think to myself which organization was most likely to be in this town in two hundred years, and the Anglican church seemed the best bet. I knew the government buildings would be taken over when this Revolution you told me would happen failed, so a church seemed the likely organization to withstand change. I also remembered you telling me of the executing of all the Baptists and Methodists, so I guessed that the Anglicans would be the only ones who might survive until your day.

If this finds you, my beloved Garison, I pray that it finds you well. When they found no body in the burned ashes of your shed, I knew you must have somehow taken the machine to the future. It has been some consolation all these years to know you were still alive, though I selfishly wanted you here with me.

I was angry with you for a long time after you left. I despised you for running away from me like that. I talked to Finneas, though, and he assured me that you loved me more than you loved even yourself. I told him about the time machine and I think he believed me. He said that, if you did indeed take the machine into the future, it must have been by accident. I have come to believe him and I forgive you for leaving me. Were it not for the children, I often wished I could have been there with you to travel to the future, also. But, I belong to this time and perhaps you belonged to that one. So I was thankful for the years when our times crossed.

The children turned out wonderfully. Justin met an early end fighting for this new country—despite your saying it would never last—but he left six wonderful children. His oldest, Darius, was a handsome lad who went west to explore seven years ago, and we didn't hear from him for a long time. But a letter he had written to George some time ago was recently delivered so I have chosen to believe the rumors which say he still lives in the mountains to the west. I have often wondered if they were the mountains you told me of so many times. And I wonder if it was my telling of these stories to Darius that sent him in search of them. Before he left I gave him the map you had drawn of how to get to La Plata Canyon, so maybe he is even now living there. I hope he at least got to see it, for that would be a little like seeing it myself.

Henry is a fine boy and he also fought in the war. He was an officer on the ship of a man named John Paul Jones and then later commanded a ship of his own after Jones defected to the Russian navy. Henry has blessed me with wonderful grandchildren and already some wonderful great-grandchildren. I live with him now and help out where I can, though I sometimes fear I am too much of a burden. They say I am not, and I hope it is so.

Helen married Otto Hemler, a prominent businessman from Richmond. They have been real good about coming to see me, but their ties seem stronger to his family than ours. I reckon that when I die they will cease to associate with the Fitch family. Helen thinks herself thoroughly German now, and her children speak both German and English fluently. Her oldest son is talking of studying at Tübingen for the ministry, but I have never agreed with their theology and hope he will choose another place.

For all these years, I have thought of you. I never remarried, but that was mostly because of our children. I was a widow, that I knew for true, even if you were somehow alive in the distant future. But, my children seemed more important to me than getting involved with another man's family. And, maybe, there was just that little part of me that hoped you'd find a way to come back—even if I knew you couldn't risk it.

"How did she know that?" Garison asked. "She seems to have figured out the same thing you did: that there would be too much danger of destroying her if I went back.

Heather shrugged and laughed, wiping a tear from her eye at the letter, "Women are just naturally smarter than men, Garison."

The continued to read:

Do not feel sad for me having to spend my years alone. I thank the Lord for five wonderful years with you, and I thank him even more for all my children. Yes, I have often wished you were here with me, but I have never been discontent with my lot in life and I know the life I go to soon will be much better.

What can I say to you, my Garison Fitch? I love you. I always have, and I will continue to do so until the day our Lord calls me home. But I do not wish for you to live your life alone. I have most likely been in the grave for two hundred years or more when you read this, so I believe you can safely be considered a widower. Please, my love, if you find a woman with whom you would be content to stay, marry her with my blessing.

There is so much more I could write, but it would be mindless drabble, and quite embarrassing to my "eighteenth century mind", as you used to say. So, I will take my leave of you, but I will never cease my love for you.

Always in love,

Sarah Fitch

Post Script: I am most curious about this Revolution the colonies fought. That young man you saved from the wagon on your last day here, George Washington (he tells me of it often, to this day), proved to be an excellent leader and drove the British from the soil. That was a few years ago, but I do not believe George's duties or accomplishments are at an end. This does not seem to coincide with the history you told me you had learned, but maybe you were not the great student you always told me you were.

I am only joking, my love. Farewell.

Post-Post Script: I told your story to George last year. He said he believed me and promised to keep it a secret.

“She told George?” Heather asked in awe.

Garison read the letter again, then—with a smile on his lips and tears in his eyes, turned to Heather and said, "Let's go home."

Twenty-Eight

Garison's Journal

March 31, 2005

I love Heather Fitch.

I've heard lovers in the movies tell one another that "I feel like I've loved you all my life." I always thought it sounded sappy, but now it rings rather true. A part of me loved Heather Fitch even before I knew her. It's not just poetry, it's the truth.

But now, the rest of me loves Heather, too. It's kind of hard to explain because I know that some of the basis for my love for Heather is the result of the "other" Garison's love bleeding over. I really do love her, though. Me. Garison Fitch. The one born in Marx, in the Soviet Americas.

It didn't come instantly, though maybe it did come quickly. Some couples are together for years before love actually comes. My case has extenuating circumstances, though. I loved her before I knew her. I know I've said that already, but love does strange things to a man, including making him very repetitive.

I still love Sarah and I know I always will. She pops up in my dreams once in a while, and I'll occasionally go take a look at those few minutes of video tape I have of her, but I know she's gone. I'll always miss her. There will always be that hole in my heart.

It's odd, and maybe even a little bit weird, but I wish Heather could have met Sarah. I think they would have liked each other. They are nothing alike, but very similar. That makes no sense when I read it, but it made sense when I thought it.

Could I ever marry Heather, though? I mean, I already am married to her, both legally and morally. Still, there's a side of me that isn't married to her. And I feel like I should be, if I am to stay with her, which I plan on doing. I don't know what the future holds, whether I will marry her soon or not. But I wouldn't be surprised if someday I take that step.

I love Sarah Fitch.

I love Heather Dawson Fitch.

It was just a bit over a month after their return from Mount Vernon and the Fitch family was sitting out on their front porch and watching lightning play across the peaks of the La Platas. There was a feint smell of ozone in the air after some of the nearer blasts, but mainly the air smelled crisp and felt cool. Rain would probably come any minute, but it hadn't yet hit. They could see it up the valley, having already rained on the San Juans and working its way to the La Platas. And, the fact that it had rained some every day for the past two weeks made them think it would probably rain again that day.

"Thanks for help with putting this all together," Garison said, gesturing with the disk that now held all his journal entries and the narrative Heather had helped him construct. "I can't imagine ever letting anyone read it, though. Maybe the baby, when he—or she—is older."

"That wasn't really the point, though, was it? You wrote it mainly for yourself, didn't you?"

"You do know me well, don't you?"

After a bit, Heather told him, "You know, you might could market it as fiction some day."