The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time (13 page)

"You have such blue eyes, Mister Fitch."

"It's Garison. Now who's dodging questions like a lawyer? Where?" She pursed her lips, wanting to be mad at him for pressing but not being able to make herself do so. "Where?" he asked again, softly.

She looked at the ground and said, "To a place where I wouldn't be 'Sarah the bastard'. Pardon me for saying that, but I sometimes think those are the last and middle names I don't have. No one actually calls me that, but I know it's in their minds." She stood up and took a step or two as if about to leave, saying, "That's where I'd like to go."

He caught up with her and took her arm when it became evident she wasn't going to take his. Walking along in silence, he just enjoyed the smell of the lilacs, the fresh-mown hay of a nearby field, and even Sarah. She smelled like the tavern—fried cakes, coffee, and whatnot—but it was a scent he had somehow come to associate with Sarah during all his visits. Maybe not the most romantic thing, he acknowledged, but it made him feel good to know she was there. And mixed in with that smell, was the smell of muscadine pies, fried apples, sweet and hard cider, and a dozen other less easily identified scents provided by the carnival.

After a bit, she asked, "What about you, Garison Fitch?"

"What about me?"

"Who are you? Where do you come from? What do you dream of?"

"I'm not sure I can put it into words."

"That's not fair," she chided, giving him a little poke in the arm. "Well, why don't you start by telling me about this La Plata Canyon you come from. Do you dream of it often?"

"La Plata Canyon," he sighed. He looked around, making sure no one was listening in, then told her, "I haven't thought about it as much in the last few days, but many of my dreams are there. My real dreams. The dreams I have at night." He looked her in the eye and mumbled, "The dreams I dream during the day are about—other things."

Guessing at what he was hinting at, Sarah quickly asked, "And what is it you dream about La Plata Canyon?"

"I dream I'm back walking on the trails of the Old Ones—Indians from long ago, some say. I dream I'm up along the ridges, way up high where the air is so rare and the warm season so short trees don't grow. And sometimes, I dream I'm an eagle, flying over the land and seeing it from way up on high. Maybe I am an eagle—I'm flying over it anyway. You ever dream you can fly?"

Not taking the bait to change the direction of the conversation, she asked, "What does it look like?"

"In my dreams or in reality?"

"Whichever."

Garison then began to describe La Plata Canyon to Sarah. He told her of the two-tiered waterfall near his house, the trails high up on the ridges made by mountain goats, and the tracks he had found of mountain lions. He told her of his log home, built from trees he had chopped down and notched himself. He told her how it all looked on a dewy morning, or when the lightning danced across the peaks. He told her of exploring old gold mines, of sitting around a campfire built into a snow-bank, and of skiing at Oro City.

"What is skiing?" she asked quizzically.

"It's uh, well, you strap these two long boards to your boots and go sliding down a snow-covered mountain. It's, um, kind of a sport. They do it in Switzerland, I think. I'm pretty sure that's where it came from."

"So your home is near Switzerland?"

"No. It's...it's about as far from Switzerland as you can get."

"I think I would like to see this La Plata Canyon some day."

"I'd like to take you there," he said, then became sheepish again as he realized how forward that might have sounded.

"I hope you can," she replied softly.

As days turned to weeks, the walks around the village green became more frequent and the talks longer. The couple became a familiar sight in the public places as the fall colors began to fade and the winter chills began to set in. They walked to church together—though they still sat on different sides of the aisle once there. She even sat for moments at his table at the tavern, but they were very careful to observe all propriety then, too, and never hold hands. The few moments when they did hold hands thrilled them both. Through it all, Garison found out that this young girl was far more than just Sarah, the tavern girl.

She was a woman of thinking, who liked to ponder questions whether there were an actual answer or not. She liked to debate philosophical issues with Garison, even though he often quoted from people she had never heard of (which wasn't really fair of him because they hadn't been born yet), and she knew her Bible as well as anyone he had ever met. She was quick to laugh and enjoyed making or hearing a witty comment. He sometimes had an advantage there because he could coin phrases that wouldn't come into common usage for two or more centuries. It was often a handicap as well as he sometimes made witty references to things unknown in the eighteenth century—especially in the area of puns. Though she was growing to like Garison a great deal, even Sarah had to admit that they were right who said he was a bit of an odd duck at times.

Sarah, Garison found out, was also a young woman of great compassion. As she looked at her life, and the harshness of it, she wanted to reach out to others rather than pull away as might be expected. She wanted to be just like Mrs. Clives, though even she didn't realize the specificity of her ambition. She attended the Christian church with Garison every Sunday and wanted to do, as Jesus had said, "unto the least".

In that respect, making friends with Garison had allowed her opportunities she had never had previously, for it added a sort of respectability she had never been afforded before. When someone was sick or ailing, she was finally able to go over and offer care without being turned away on sight. And when it became evident that she had a naturally warm "bedside manner" she actually became the helper of choice for many of the women and children in town. Even the doctor began to realize the medicinal value her sweet nature had for the sick and infirmed. With "training", she began to become quite a competent mid-wife, as well.

One evening in early winter, after they had been, literally, "stepping out" for some time, Garison found himself on Sarah's doorstep. He was holding both her hands and looking into her eyes. There wasn't much of a moon that night, but a coal-oil lamp nearby gave him a hint of their greenness.

He wanted to ask her permission for something, but he wasn't sure how. He also wasn't sure but what asking permission would ruin it entirely. He had come to know Sarah better than anyone else ever in his life, but he was still unclear on the ways of men and women together—let alone in the eighteenth century.

After much hesitation, he finally leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. He was afraid she would pull away, or even slap him, but there was no such hesitation on her part. She returned the kiss readily.

His heart jumped up into his throat as he felt her warm lips against his own. At the same moment, she felt as if her own heart would strangle her.

Sarah almost hated to admit it to herself, as she told herself respectable women didn't think of such things, but the kiss was all she had ever dreamed of and more. She liked the feel of his lips against her own, and the slight tickle of his mustache.

The kiss lasted only a second or two, but to the two participants, it seemed like it lasted forever. When they parted, even forever seemed too short a time.

Sarah, afraid to let the moment pass for fear it might never come again, drew even closer to Garison and put her arms around him. After checking to make sure they were in a well-lit spot where no hint of impropriety could be brought against them, she laid her head on his chest as, gingerly, he put his arms around her. After a moment, she said with a slight, heartfelt chuckle, "I won't break, Garison."

"What?" he said at first. But then she held him tighter and he drew his arms tightly around her.

Silently, Sarah said a prayer of thanks. Finally, she was sure she had someone who cared about her who wouldn't leave.

Excerpt from
A Fitch Family History by Maureen Fitch Carnes

Darius Fitch and his bride, White Fawn, left for the west when the spring thaws came. In a move that seemed to have both surprised and delighted Darius, his brother-in-law Bear decided to come on the trip. Even Darius seems unclear at first as to whether Bear planned on going along for the entire journey, or just the first leg.

In any event, Darius, White Fawn and Bear arrived at the Mississippi River in the middle of May. Darius writes in his journey of the wonder expressed by both White Fawn and Bear at the sight of such a great amount of flowing water.

Chapter Ten

December 13, 1739

If there is a common misconception about the past, it is that life is simpler back here. I find life in the eighteenth century to be much more difficult than it was in the late twentieth century.

It is possible, however, that my opinion is the result of a person who had taken advantage of all available accouterments in the late twentieth and early twenty-first century. Like most people in the twenty-first century, I lived in a mechanically enhanced world; with airplanes, autos, electric ovens, telephones and all.

Life in what had once been the past is difficult for me to adjust to because of the things I have to do without—things I was so used to that I normally gave them no thought.

I miss neither the telephone nor the television—or even cars and trains. What I do miss is toilet paper and indoor plumbing. I also miss being around people who take an occasional shower or bath. My practice of taking a bath every day that I can has led to some speculation that I suffer from a skin disease. The fact that I take some care with my hair (even though I have with great reluctance let it grow into the requisite pony tail) has led to a few speculations about my masculinity. And as to brushing my teeth, well, let us say that I—and my recent convert Sarah—seem to be the only people in all of New England with good teeth (and breath that doesn't smell like a feed lot). I have had the opportunity to meet a few of the aborigines and one thing that even the friendly natives hold against the Europeans is their basic uncleanness.

Another thing I miss is something I never took advantage of when it was at hand: a place to take a woman. Each day, Sarah and I grow closer. But, all I can do is sit on a porch and talk to her—or take a walk on the path we've worn around the village green. To go even for a walk in the woods is to elicit all sorts of vulgar thoughts in the minds of my fellow townspeople. And believe me, they—like most people I have met anywhere—are always prepared to believe the worst of someone—especially Sarah and a newcomer. After a while, though, we have grown tired of front porches and are about to decide that walks along the nearby lane are worth the trouble that might later ensue.

So, day after day, we sit and talk at every chance we get. I do not mind too much—sitting with a lovely girl like Sarah—but I do wish for a motion picture theater, or a place where we are not on display for the town. What I would give for even a sandwich stand! I wished at one point for even a sporting event, but realized my own true nature would probably override my romantic front and I would be playing in the game rather than spectating. Sarah has come out to watch as the young boys from our church play football—along with other boys in town, now—but I am both coach and referee for such games and unfortunately have little time to pay her attention while they are going on.

I told Sarah all about what life had been like in the twenty-first century. I am never sure how much she believes, but she sits and listens with interest as I have told her of automobiles, world wars, flying machines and ice cream from a store. Maybe she just enjoys a good story after what she considers a colorless life in Virginia, but I think she really believes that I am from the future. I realize the enormity of such belief for I doubt that I would have ever believed anyone who told me they were from the twenty-fourth century, no matter what wonders they told me about.

I even let Sarah into the shed to see my machine last week. She marveled at it, but more because of its uniqueness than because of understanding what it did (of course, there was the obvious fact that I don't completely understand what it did or I wouldn't be here). I even shot some footage of her with the video tape and played it back for her through the view-finder. She found that far more amazing than anything I had yet told her about, but that may have been because it was the first of the modern inventions that I could actually show her what it did. Would that I could develop the pictures I have taken of her with my still camera. I suppose I could build photo developing equipment with materials from this century, but I haven't the faintest idea how. Photography is one thing I know absolutely nothing about beyond pointing the camera and pushing the button.

To my twenty-first century thinking, the eighteenth century was a non-mechanical time—until I got here. "Machines" in the 1700s are generally large, laborious, creaking monsters which barely do their functions better than a man could do them alone. Therefore, Sarah was intrigued that anything could be accomplished with something so small and seemingly ineffectual as a button or a toggle switch. I showed her how the screen on my computer could light up and show various things and she was impressed but couldn't really see the point behind the device. I wish I could show her an automobile or even a lawn mower so that she could see a practical application of technology.

I gave the second key to the shed to Sarah for safe keeping and I think she realized it was a token of something larger but I didn't have the nerve to go into it at the time.