Baby Garth is Orphaned, Part Two

Outside, Elder Garth stopped turning soil. He stooped with an arm propped on his shovel grip, his weight put on his right foot and his focus on the distant treewall. Was there something there? He could have sworn he saw it, a patch of darkness moving, or a tree swaying back against the wind that bent it’s brothers forward.
That he stopped his toil at all was no small occurrence. Since the day the Rainmaker showed up, espousing a coming deluge, he had rushed to plant before the clouds began to gather. There was no time to waste.

There he stood, however, a man run thin and hard by years of harder times, silhouetted against the receding forest as he stopped to listen. He was a thin father, not long for the world. He would pass on nothing to his new and strange son.

Baby Garth shook his fist and uttered a low series of grunts and unintelligible rumblings.

Again he stuck his finger out towards his unseen father. “Mad rackle bab drubble,” he noted, and looked back where his mother hung clothing on a line that was hooked to nothing at either end. This impossibility, this magic, was lost on one so young.

“Bab Drubble,” he repeated, still pointing backwards.