The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time by Samuel Ben White Read Free Book Online Page B

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