The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time (8 page)

He had momentarily squeezed her hand quite hard and she had jerked away, but when she saw the look of anguish on his face and the way his hands went to his head, she asked, "Are you all right?" She hadn't really wanted to ask, but it was in her nature to look after others' needs.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice barely a whisper at first. Not really meaning to be talking outloud, he said, "That was weird!" Then, looking up, he said, "For a second there, I had the worst headache I have ever had in my life. Then it was gone as quickly as it came. I don’t feel it at all now."

She reached a hand out to his forehead and said, "You don't feel feverish. Have you perhaps hit your head recently?" She bit her lip lightly, realizing she had already asked that question. She began to wonder if maybe he had, but didn't remember it. She also continued to ask herself just how wise it was to be talking to such a strange man.

"Not that I know of."

For his part, he was noticing the coolness of her hands, the somewhat rough skin of a woman who worked hard and, by the looks of her outfit, scrubbed floors and maybe dishes. Still, the feel of her hand on his forehead sent chills through his body. He wanted to hold onto the hand indefinitely. The thought made him blush and he quickly moved her hand off his forehead. He thought he saw a blush in her cheeks and wondered if she were having similar thoughts though he refused to let himself believe she might be.

He put his hands briefly on his knees, then stood up. He hadn't realized how short she was—probably no more than five-two—when he was sitting, and now he towered over her. He was used to being taller than most people, but this made him uncomfortable for some reason. He looked around, though he saw nothing beyond Sarah, and finally said, "Well, I seem to be, um, confused. Until I can get things straightened out, I'll probably need to find a place to stay. I'll probably also need some funds. Do you know where I might find work?"

She thought a moment and his size reminded her of something she had heard recently. She said, "I believe I heard Finneas Franklyn—that's the smithy—say he was looking for a strong young man to assist him. You might try there."

"A smithy, huh? Yes, that would be great. Where might I find this...Franklyn, you say?"

She nodded and pointed to her left, "Go down to that next street and turn right. You'll see a large barn a couple dozen paces thataway. Finneas should be in there."

He nodded in thanks and took a step or two in the direction she had pointed. He abruptly turned and said, "Thank you for talking to me."

She initially wasn't sure why, but she smiled and said, "The pleasure was mine."

He nodded again and started again to turn and go, but asked, "Will I—will I see you around?"

"In this town?" she chuckled. "It is nigh impossible not to see someone. You have to try really hard to not see or be seen." She pointed to the building Garison had sat in front of and said, "But I work here, at the tavern. If you want a meal you haven't cooked yourself, you will most likely find it here."

He looked up and, for the first time, noticed a rough piece of wood hanging over the door bearing the legend, "Blue Boar Inn." He smiled to her one more time, could think of nothing else to say, and turned quickly to go. As he walked away he wanted sorely to turn and take one more look at the angel he had just met, but figured she had already forgotten him and gone inside. But Sarah stood on the porch until he had turned the corner, wondering just who this Garison Fitch was. He raised in her a feeling she had never had in the presence of a man and the sensation thrilled, frightened and annoyed her.

Garison turned the directed corner and willed himself not to look back, though he wasn't sure why. He saw the big barn and could smell the smoke of the smithy's place from the corner. He quickened his pace a bit though he was a little worried that the smithy would treat him like everyone else had. Everyone but Sarah, that is.

He then slowed his pace as he wondered why Sarah had talked to him when no one else would. If he truly were in the eighteenth century, that would explain why his clothes—and even his hairstyle—always drew such looks of surprise. He could understand the reticence everyone seemed to have towards him and imagined he might be equally suspicious of meeting someone who showed up in twenty-second century clothing. But why not Sarah? He guessed her to be a young single girl for she hadn't mentioned a husband. From what he knew of the eighteenth century mind—which was precious little—he would have guessed that a young, single girl would have been the very last person to talk to a stranger.

Or a last name, he reminded himself. She hadn't mentioned either a husband or a last name. Why was that? He guessed it was because he was a stranger and she thought it best not to give out her full name, but something deep inside him felt like there might be another answer. Was it possible she didn't have a last name? Garison had never been a student of history, but he thought last names had been around since before the eighteenth century. He remembered novels and stories from the medieval era that referred to people as "David of Duncaster" or "Robin of Locksley", but he was sure everyone in 1739 would have a last name. So why hadn't Sarah said hers?

At this point in his thoughts, Garison had arrived at the door of the smithy. It stood open for, even on a cold day in March (was it still March? He hadn't asked that), a smithy can get awfully hot. He knocked on the door and stepped in.

A big man in shirtsleeves, holding tongs and a horseshoe in one hand and a large mallet in the other looked up and asked with businesslike friendliness, "Can I help ye?" He was shorter than Garison by four inches, but wider around by ten or fifteen. His arms looked like large Christmas hams and he spoke with a strong Irish accent. He wore the leather apron Garison had seen smiths wear in the history books and tall leather boots that came up past the bottom of his knickers, almost all the way up his instep. Garison guessed the man was allowed to wear shirtsleeves owing to his profession, but it suddenly didn't seem quite fair.

"Are you Finneas Franklyn?"

"Aye."

Garison smiled as affably as he could and said, "Hello. My name's Garison Fitch and, um, I'm new in town. I was told you might be looking for an assistant and I could use the work."

The man looked Garison over and wondered at the odd clothes. Still, the stranger looked big enough to handle the work of a smithy and Franklyn was on the verge of falling behind his spring workload. Franklyn said, "I was thinking more of someone younger—an apprentice I could train."

"I'll do any kind of work," Garison quickly assured him. "And I know a bit of metallurgy—working with metals."

"I know what the word means," Franklyn replied, making Garison blush. Franklyn hammered on the horse-shoe and Garison almost thought he had been forgotten, but then realized the man had to do his work before the metal cooled. When Franklyn had tossed the shoe into a bucket of water, he set down his tools and wiped his hands on his dirty apron. He looked Garison over one more time and said, "I could use someone around here. Town's booming and there's more work here than one man can do alone. But I need someone who learns fast, and learns well. I can't afford to get further behind because I'm spending too much time teaching."

"I'm a fast learner," Garison assured him.

Smiling, Franklyn commented, "Well, ye did know the word 'metallurgy.'" The smithy walked over to a rack by the door and pulled an apron like his own off. Tossing it to Garison, he said, "Take off that strange coat of ye'rn and put ye on this. Let's see what ye know."

Garison quickly shrugged out of his leather jacket and hung it on one of the pegs by the door. As he put on the apron and tied it in the back, Finneas asked, "Where did ye come by those clothes, lad?"

Garison chuckled in as friendly a manner as he could and said, "Boy, that's a long story."

"I don't doubt it." Finneas was starting to wonder about his new employee, but the muscles in Garison's arms made him think the young man was no stranger to hard work and might make do. Plus, it wasn't always easy to find someone willing to do smithing.

At the end of the day, Finneas clapped Garison on the back and said, "Let's go home, lad."

"Uh, OK." After a moment, Garison asked, "Could I maybe sleep here? On the hay or something?"

Finneas, hanging up his apron and putting on a long, woolen coat that hung to his mid thigh and had large buttons up the front, said, "I gathered ye had nowhere to stay and little in the way of gear or clothing. My wife and I have a little shed out back we fixed up to be a room for when her sister comes a-callin'. Ye can stay there until ye get on ye'r feet or until me sister-in-law arrives, whichever comes first." With a wink, he added, "Stay a long time, for I'm hoping she won't visit for some time."

"I'd really appreciate it," Garison told him gratefully.

"And ye'll take ye'r meals with us."

"Oh, I can't put you to all—"

Finneas held up a hand and said, to placate Garison's pride, "It's just until ye get ye'r feet under ye. Besides, based on the work I've seen ye do this day, I don' think I'll be able to pay ye ye'r worth."

Garison was at a loss, having rarely met such a generous person. He mumbled a heartfelt thanks as he slipped into his jacket and helped Finneas close the great doors.

After a hearty supper of entirely homegrown vegetables and part of a cow Garison was willing to bet the family had once known personally, Garison was shown to the little shack out back. It was cozy and well-built, letting no draft in from the outside, though big enough only for a bed and a wooden chair. Finneas Franklyn and his eldest boy had built it about a year before and the work had obviously been done by skilled hands.

Garison had been invited in to share the evening with the family (Finneas, his wife Galena, three boys, and two girls), but he had declined in favor of going to bed. Before he left, though, he asked, "Would you have something to read? I like to read before bed."

"We've got the Bible," Galena offered. The whole family perked up, thinking that a person's reaction to the Bible would tell a lot about their character.

"That would be wonderful," Garison said, not even realizing he was under scrutiny and had just passed a monstrous test. He took the large volume with a word of thanks and headed out to the little shack.

While preparing for bed by the light of a coal oil lamp, he found some paper and a stub of a pencil. The journal entry he scribbled out that night—and later transcribed into his computer journal—shows clearly what occupied his thoughts that evening. Not time travel, or particle physics, or even the socials ins and outs of the eighteenth century, but...

March 15, 1739

Girls have never been my area of expertise. In college, the years when most men were choosing their lifelong partner, I had not yet reached puberty. My interests were in my work, not something with a skirt. Oh, I enjoyed fantasizing about girls, but I never really had any other men to talk to to ask questions of, resulting in what was, most likely, a skewed view of the female race. Most of my fellow students considered me a freak, I think, and probably would have met my inquisitiveness with derision. I always guessed that girls thought of me in the same way, but was afraid to get close enough to find out.

I was also somewhat uppity at that age. I did not enjoy socializing with people who I deemed inferior (which was everyone who didn't share my I.Q.). As I got older, I came to see that no one was inferior, they were just talented in other areas. But, in those early days, I felt like everyone ought to understand particle physics and those who did not were dumb. I believe that is a stage many children go through—thinking everyone else ought to share their interests. My stage was just accentuated by the genetic accident of a mind that seemed to retain most everything introduced to it (except, of course, history).

As I entered the teen years, I was unable to socialize with girls adequately because I had not had much contact with them in my formative years. At least, that is the excuse I used. In truth, I was scared of them. For one thing, all the girls in my classes were almost ten years older than me.

It has been said that man only fears the unknown. If so, that is why I feared girls. They were (are?) an unknown quantity to me. From a distance, they seem soft and warm...but mysterious most of all. What do girls talk about when boys are not around? Are they really as soft as they seem? Without even sisters or girl cousins, I had no frame of reference for these questions.

While I may have been "the model Soviet" in all other elements, I certainly suffered from arrested development in the area of women (and most other social contexts, if the truth be known). So, at the age of twenty-nine, I have not yet had twenty dates in my life—and most of the ones I have had have been of the variety where I, as a celebrity, escorted another celebrity. We smiled for the cameras and often held hands, but there has been no opportunity—and in some cases no desire—to actually converse.

Realistically, I have to admit that I didn't get along that well with other guys, either. I missed out on much of "growing up": back-yard football, tree houses, and rough-housing. As I got to be an adult—or maybe even before then—it just became easier to involve myself with experiments than with other people. Even my teammates when I played football on the world circuit were just that: teammates. I was uncomfortable with the off-field fraternization because I was so inexperienced at such things and was usually the first back to the hotel or dorm at night, where I spent the evening alone. I probably came off as a snob, which I truly regret.

So here I sit, thinking about the young woman I met today. That doesn't even adequately cover what's going through my mind. I can't stop thinking about the girl I met. Sarah. But what could I say or do to get to know her better? I know from my past pattern that what I'll most likely do when next I see her is stutter and stammer and never actually say anything—other than to maybe order a meal from the tavern.