And so things went…
Around mid-afternoon on the fourth day, however—when the convoy had halted to make urgent repairs to a trundle’s failing suspension, and when once again Garth, only poorly rested, came shouting awake—Layla saw how he was actually starting to look enervated and even somewhat gaunt. At which she determined that later, when he was fully awake and responsive, she would definitely speak to him about it. But for the moment…
…While he washed sparingly from a mugful of water, shaved using the dregs and got dressed, she went off to a hastily arranged teaching appointment with some of the clan’s smaller children—which was where Zach Slattery happened upon her, only to find her looking more than usually tired, worn, and worried.
During a break, when the kids were allowed to play a simple game without supervision, Zach took her aside and spoke to her.
“Layla, while I know it’s none of my business—” he began, but she stopped him at once, saying:
“You are Garth’s father and you love him, so of course it’s some of your business!”
“Ah!” he said. “So you’re more concerned about him than because of him? Well good! It’s just that you’ve been looking so down, so tired and stressed out yourself, this last day or two. But as long as there’s no trouble—er, you know—between the pair of you…?”
“No,” She shook her head. “No trouble of that sort. For all the dreadful circumstances—I mean this horrible journey, and Garth’s nightly duties—I’ve never been so happy, and I don’t think Garth has either. But while everything else is going well, still there’s something…oh, I don’t know what, but it’s got me worried! Garth has nightmares—or maybe I should call them daymares?—about terrible things: the fly-by-nights, I suppose, but also about Ned Singer. He doesn’t talk to me about them but keeps them to himself all bottled up, which isn’t doing him any good. I’ve been putting off speaking seriously to him about it, but I soon may have to. I mean, he’s starting to look withdrawn and haggard—even ill! Or if not ill, then sick at heart.”
On hearing Singer’s name mentioned, Zach’s eyes had immediately narrowed. “Garth’s told you he dreams about Ned Singer?”
Again Layla shook her head. “No, he hasn’t told me much of anything, but I’ve heard him calling Singer’s name—or whispering it—just before he springs awake!”
Zach chewed on his top lip for just a moment, then stopped frowning and seemed to relax. Finally, lightening up, he nodded and said: “You know, I think you’re probably right about what’s bothering Garth? What with this hellish trek…and his duties…then after being out there in the dark all night, trying to get a few hours sleep on the boards of a cramped, jolting trundle! Why, it would surely be enough to unsettle just about anybody! And Garth’s doing a hell of a job for a man his age. He’s my son, yes, and sometimes I still think of him as a boy…but what the hell, Garth’s a man! Maybe more of a man than most men I know. Still, if you think I should, I can always speak to Big Jon Lamon about it. Because I know I couldn’t bear to see Garth falling apart—not like Peder Halbstein! But if the pressure’s getting too much for him…well, perhaps I should speak to Big Jon anyway, if only because Garth’s my son!”
“Don’t you dare!” Layla replied, almost before he’d stopped speaking. “Garth’s very proud, and if he found out you did something like that on my behalf—or even for yourself—he would never forgive us! And anyway I know you’re right: he is more of a man than most. A lot more than the rest of the clan’s younger men, and certainly more than those who have tried to spend time with me!”
“Calm down, calm down!” Zach told her. “Okay, it was just a thought, that’s all. But if I can’t speak to Big Jon, perhaps I should tackle Garth himself about this…this whatever it is? Since Garth never had a ma he could talk to, he’s grown up that much closer to me. He’s never found it too difficult to confide in me—until now, anyway. So then, what do you reckon? Should I talk to him?”
Layla thought it over, slowly nodded, and like Zach himself gradually relaxed. “Very well,” she said, “but without mentioning me. And please don’t put any more pressure on him. If Garth talks, fine. But if he won’t, then let it be.”
“It’s a deal,” Zach agreed. “I’ll just tell Garth he looks like…like something I wouldn’t want to step in, and ask him what’s wrong. And if there’s something seriously wrong, perhaps talking will help get some of it out of his system…”
As good as his word, Zach went directly to Garth’s and Layla’s makeshift canvas lean-to where they had built it at the side of a trundle. He found Garth seated on a large rock with his broad back to one of the trundle’s wheels, oiling his rifle. But despite having freshened up a little, still he looked more or less as Zach had described him to Layla: like something he would not care to step in. And having repeated that description to Garth, he inquired: “So then, what’s up?”
If only for a few heartbeats, Garth grinned at his father’s comment. But for all its transience his grin looked entirely incongruous on his pale, jaded face; and doing nothing to improve his careworn appearance, it had already disappeared by the time he said: “I don’t know…I guess I’m just tired. Haven’t been sleeping too well, that’s all.”
Moving closer to Garth and leaning his bad leg against the trundle for support, Zach nodded and said: “Tired? Yes, so I’ve noticed. But only tired? I think not. Worn out with worrying is more like it—you and Layla both—but worrying about what?”
“What?” Now Garth frowned. “You’ve been speaking to Layla?”
“Oh?” the other shot back sharply, as if affronted. “Isn’t that allowed, then?” Then he lied, saying: “I saw her, yes, but I didn’t stop to speak; didn’t much need to. She was teaching a handful of kids, but I thought she looked out of sorts, down in the mouth—though not nearly as far down as you!”
Then, suddenly scowling—hobbling closer still and shaking his crutch in Garth’s face—he snapped: “Hey, you! This is me, your Old Man, remember? And Garth, I know you! I know you almost as well as I know myself! So I’m asking you one more time: what the hell is up!? Because I’m pretty damn sure that something is way up!”
Garth opened his mouth, looked about to deny it again, then sighed and said, “It’s probably just me… except no!” he shook his head frustratedly. “It really isn’t! I mean, I’ve asked the other squad bosses about it, talked to Don Myers and Bert Jordan, and they’re both uneasy about it, too. They don’t much like it, but on the other hand it has to be better than the alternative!”
“What?” Zach frowned. “Garth, you’re rambling! What is this ‘it’ you’re on about, eh? And what’s this alternative that ‘it’ has to be better than? For goodness sake make sense!”
At which Garth laid his rifle aside, stood up, and finally blurted it out. “Did you ever get the feeling someone was following you, watching you? Did you ever glimpse something out the corner of your eye, except when you blinked and looked again it was gone? Have you ever felt…felt you’re being hunted?”