Baby Garth is Orphaned, Part One

Baby Garth stopped crying and abruptly sat up his crib. His chubby hand went out with fingers splayed, then tightened into a vague, pointing shape. He gestured in the unsteady way of the very young and old, hand shaking as if the motors and levers were not quite in sync.

Barely a moon old, any gesture by one so young was cause for concern. The fact that he was pointing straight at his father, unseen through two wooden walls and three hundred yards, went unnoticed while his mother toiled at the sink.

Noticed or not, this was homing; like a compass to magnetic north the son was aware of the father, was drawn to his location. The urgency behind the motion meant DANGER, meant BAD was on the way.

His eyes, however, revealed none of this. He was a baby, with drool on his chin and heavy pants, and the continuous lack of concern for anything not causing direct pain. His earthly stare was unfocused and happy, darkening only slightly when he saw into the future, and watched his father die.