The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time (6 page)

He thought his best bet would be to flip a coin but, as he had none with him, he finally just decided to stand up. He would walk right down the path and into the town and, if it proved to be hostile, try his best to get word to the Soviet consulate before being executed or thrown in a pit. He told himself he would keep his eyes open and, at the first sign of trouble, make a break for the nearest forest—which was off to his right. While not a fool-proof plan by any means, Garison was confident of his forest abilities and knew he could at least buy time. With time, he knew, there was always an opportunity to plan.

With his hands casually at his side, he began to walk towards the town, making a conscious effort to try and look relaxed, which of course made him look nervous. It was tempting to put his hands in his coat pocket, which would look casual, but he wanted them free in case he were to suddenly need them, for fighting or vaulting over a fence. As he walked, he tried with each step to focus on more details in the town, hoping that—if it were a hostile situation he was walking into—he would spot something that would alert him. He was also marking in his mind every possible escape route.

What he saw was a town that grew more and more strange the closer he got. The buildings seemed to all be made of wood, and many of rough-hewn logs. Even the shingles on the highly pitched roofs were made of wood, something Garison hadn't seen much of in a long time. A few were even thatched with straw, such as one saw in old picture books. And, while there were windows in the walls of the buildings, not all of them seemed to have the look of glass. In fact, as he looked closer, none of them seemed to have glass, though a few had something that resembled wax paper.

Garison was also noting the people. While they appeared to be Anglos one and all, they were dressed most oddly. The women were wearing long dresses, made of material that looked somehow tough and comfortable at the same time. They had collars that came almost up to their chins and not a woman wore anything but long sleeves, which didn't look a bit comfortable in the warm sunshine. The few that weren't wearing bonnets had their hair tied in buns so tight it seemed like it would pull their eyes closed. Most of the men wore knee length britches with buckles at the cuffs just above white stockings, as if to prevent the britches legs from riding up. The men, too, wore long sleeve shirts—and usually jackets of some kind—even while doing hard manual labor on a day that had already prompted Garison to take off his leather jacket and carry it. Almost every man wore a hat—many of a strange, triangular variety—and all had long hair, tied in a pony tail.

As he got closer, Garison could see fresh-killed game hanging from the front porches of many of the houses, and horses and mules and oxen were tied up in the street or nearby. Goats, sheep and milk cows could be found in most of the yards and the whole area smelled, to Garison, like a barnyard. On the sides of the houses hung trace chains and bags of chop and there were axes stuck in stumps waiting to split the stacks of wood which lay nearby. Garison even heard the ring of more than one axe and, as he got closer, the sound of at least one cross-cut saw.

Suddenly, Garison smiled. He was sure he had somehow come upon one of those "living museums" where modern people acted out what life had been like at some point in the historic past. Having come to the realization, he marveled at the authenticity of this museum and the obvious attention to detail. Not a single automobile was visible, nor a telephone pole or electrical line. There was absolutely no detail that would give away to the casual observer that this wasn't just what it appeared to be: a village from, he guessed, the colonial period. With all the work going on, Garison guessed that they must be preparing for a big group of tourists or maybe school children. With such activity taking place, he thought, maybe it bode well for the fortunes of the would-be war. Surely such pursuits would be curbed if there were an imminent threat of danger.

Garison walked up to the first person he came to and said, "Excuse me. Could you tell me where I might fight a wire?"

The person, a man who had been happily whistling while sharpening his knives, looked up at Garison casually, then a look of fright came into his eyes. He looked Garison over from head to foot, then made a great show of ignoring the newcomer and going back to his knives as if he hadn't been interrupted.

Surprised, Garison took a moment to look over his own clothes to make sure he hadn't gotten some sort of revealing tear in them in the forest. What he saw was that his cotton pullover shirt and his dungarees were dusty but in fine shape. Certainly, there was nothing about his attire that should have elicited the response he had received.

Shrugging, and thinking maybe the man he had talked to was not in complete control of his mental faculties, Garison walked up to another person. "Excuse me—" was all he got out before the woman, with a look of great fright, dropped her bundle and darted into a nearby building with a sound something like the yelp of a frightened puppy.

Puzzled, Garison picked up the packages and took them to the door the woman had gone through. Just as he was about to set the packages on a stoop of warped boards, a man stepped out, holding what looked like an axe handle in his grasp. He was a good four inches shorter than Garison but twice as broad in the chest and with a stern countenance. He commanded, "You be gone, Mister."

Garison quickly stepped away from the packages and said, apologetically, "I didn't mean to scare the woman, sir. I'm just trying to find a wire."

"What kind of wire?" the man demanded gruffly.

"A wire. You know, a telephone."

The man eyed Garison as if deciding whether he ought to hit the stranger on general principles or ignore him. Deciding mostly on the latter, the man said, "Stay away from me wife," and slammed the door.

Garison shrugged and turned back to the street to find it almost deserted. Only a few men stood at doorways, in postures obviously designed to protect whoever was in the building behind them. It was obvious that Garison was the object of their contempt and fright, but there had been no clue so far as to why. Garison smiled his most endearing smile and said, loud enough for all to hear, "I don't mean to cause any trouble. I just want to make a telephone call and get out of here."

When no one said anything in reply, he walked over to the next person down the street. Before he could ask for assistance, or anything, the man had retreated inside his house and a bolt of some kind had obviously been thrown. Only a slight rustling of the curtain in the front window indicated that anyone was inside.

Garison was met with the same response at the next few houses but finally, at the end of the street, were three men who didn't seem inclined to run. The downside, Garison quickly saw, was that they all held something in their hands that could be used for protection—or offense. One held an axe, the other a hoe, and the third an implement Garison didn't recognized but guessed could be quite effective if used as a weapon.

Garison repeated, "I really don't want to cause any trouble. I just want to find a telephone and then I'll be on my way."

The middle man, who appeared to be the spokesman for the trio—and, thus, the whole town—said sternly, "We've nought by that name here, so you can just go about your business elsewhere."

"Do you know where I might find a phone?" Garison asked. He was trying to sound as friendly and harmless as he possibly could, but he couldn't believe that no one had even heard of a telephone. Had he somehow landed in some pocket of the world that had been by-passed by civilization for the past two centuries? If so, he knew some anthropologists who would love to have him show them this valley. He had heard of people who—due to religious belief—shunned technology, but he thought they had all been outlawed by the state. If this were such a village, he reasoned, it might explain their hostility to him. Such a village probably wouldn't allow him to exit, however, for fear he would tell someone their whereabouts.

The spokesman said, "We've never heard of such a thing and, if it's a tool used by the likes of someone like you, that's probably for the better."

Garison started to take a step towards the edge of town, but his curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "What do you mean 'the likes of me'? Do I look like someone you've seen before or something? Why are you all looking at me like—like you are? Do I resemble someone you know?"

The man with the unknown implement interjected, a tangible note of fright in his voice, "What decent man would be seen dressed such as you? Be off with you! Go back to whatever strange place it is you come from!"

Garison looked at his clothes once more but could not imagine what they were talking about. Was it because he was apparently the only man in town wearing short sleeves? With a shrug he started to turn around, then asked, "Can you at least point me towards another town? Maybe they'll have what I'm looking for."

The leader pointed to where the road Garison had come in on went out the other end of town and said succinctly, "Mount Vernon is that way."

"Thank you," Garison nodded. Following the man's directions took him right through the three men, but he kept his head up and tried again to be casual. Nodding to them as he passed, he went through their ranks silently. For their part, they merely glared at him and made it clear he was by no means to deviate from his present course or turn back.

When he was out of earshot, Garison let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding and mumbled, "I've got to tell someone about this place!"

Excerpt from
A Fitch Family History by Maureen Fitch Carnes

Darius's reasons for staying with the Cherokee were not based solely on the inconvenience of traveling in the winter. He is conspicuously reticent to mention in his diary—which was, after all, the official journal he was keeping for General Washington—the thing which he seems to most want to talk about.

Darius mentions very early on that, upon entering the village with Bear, he is introduced to Bear's sister, a beautiful young maiden whose Indian name meant White Fawn. While Darius does not mention any overt desire or love for the young woman early in his writings, the mere fact that she appears so often in intentionally casual references makes it obvious that she was often in his thoughts. Years later, Darius finally wrote what he had apparently wanted to write from the beginning:

One of the first people I met in Bear's village was his younger sister, White Fawn. When I bore him into the village on the cumbersome travois, White Fawn was the first to rush up to him and offer aid. I knew immediately she must be either his sister or his sweetheart for it was with great affection that she threw her arms around him and wept for joy at his return.

Not knowing which she was, and fearing the latter, I found myself immediately jealous of Bear. White Fawn was little older than a girl (I later learned she had just passed fourteen summers) but she immediately captured my heart. Slight of figure and with only a handsome face—not one to be thought of as a beauty—she had an infectious cheerfulness that enchanted me. Behind her innocent smile there was always something that made one think mischief was going through her mind.

Darius was pleased to learn that White Fawn had not yet been pledged in marriage to any man—though she was easily of age for a betrothal. He soon learned it was not for lack of suitors, but due to the fact that her father was dead and she was under the "protection" of her uncle. White Fawn's uncle, Running Bear (Darius refers to him in his writings as "Lazy Bear"), was a greedy man and had rejected all suitors until they could provide sufficient goods for his own lodge. Running Bear saw it as a no-lose situation for he would either become rich, or retain a slave.

Chapter Six

Just as he was beginning to think the people he had just met had intentionally sent him off into the wilderness to get rid of him, their directions were proven true. Garison followed the well-worn cart path—which gave evidence of far more traffic than it had on the other side of the previous town—for what he guessed was about five miles before sighting another town.

The town looked much like the last one, at least as to the level of industrialization. Rather than being a true town, however, it seemed to have been a mere settlement which had sprung up on the edge of an estate. A cherry orchard was visible, as was a "country lane" leading up to a residence bigger than any he had yet seen, though not as large as Garison's house in the canyon.

Still, Garison was beginning to worry. If this were some sort of pocket of early industrialization which had never advanced, or even one of the State's weird experiments in social engineering, it was on a grand scale. Not only did it obviously cover several miles, he had not in all that distance seen any telephone wires, macadam roads, or even an airplane's vapor trail in the sky. Neither was the other tell-tale sign of modern habitation present: garbage. He had not seen an aluminum can or an old tire, or even a discarded candy wrapper. In short, he thought, things were far too pristine for even a communist science project. No, not pristine, he corrected himself. For their were old bones, and bits of discarded hide that were apparently unfit to be made into anything. There was garbage, but not industrial garbage.

As Garison came near the town, he was greeted with the same sort of fear he had encountered at the last village. People who had been working, walking or playing happily moments before took one look at him and panicked. Mothers hustled their children inside, husbands postured for protection of their wives, and those few who didn't back cautiously through their doors and shut them stood quite warily. Again, axes, hoes and even mops were held in defense.

Garison walked up to the first person he came to that didn't run away—a short, overweight man with a lop-sided cap on top of a lop-sided head—and, feeling like a broken record, said, "Is there anywhere about where I might find a wire?"