Chapter 04 Star-shaped Crack

We heard a sound.

It started as a faint, dry click. Like two small pebbles tapped together.

Then a skritch-skritch, the sound of something delicate scratching against leather.

We froze, our collective breath catching. This wasn't a sound from above. It was from the corner. From the warm, covered dark.

A high, reedy cheep pierced the silence. It was a sound of pure, blind need. A sound of life insisting on being.

Our huddle exploded. The fear that had glued us together was shattered by a force infinitely stronger. We untangled, scrambling, stumbling over each other in our rush toward the piled planks.

Grill got there first, his hands trembling so badly he fumbled with the wood. 

The smell that wafted out was no longer just of heat and decay. It was sharper now, salty-wet, alive. And there, in the center of the steaming midden, was a miracle.

One of the eggs had a star-shaped crack. As we watched, a tiny, claw-tipped fist, no bigger than a berry, punched through, widening the hole. Another cheep, louder, more innocent.

Another egg, a moss-green one, rocked violently and split open like an overripe fruit. A small, damp, greenish body tumbled out into the warm waste, blinked huge, milky eyes, and let out a confused, adorable squawk.

"Click. Skritch. Cheep!"

It was a symphony. The most beautiful noise in the world.

Trog and Muddy, their faces still streaked with tears of guilt, now wore expressions of stunned, open-mouthed wonder.

 “Hatchlings! Our precious…”

Fort’s haunted eyes, which had seen only endings, were now wide with the shock of a beginning. A tiny, wriggling life was struggling free from a shell.

Grub let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh, a choked guffaw of disbelief. He looked from the hatching eggs to me, his horror from minutes ago transformed into a dazed, overwhelmed joy.

But it was Grill who moved. He reached into the nest, his movements infinitely gentle, and cupped the first hatchling in his broad, scarred hands. It fit perfectly in his palm, damp and shivering. It blinked up at him, gave a tiny, hiccupping cheep, and nestled into his warmth.

“Hey there. Hey there, little gob. Welcome.”

 A dam broke. The terror was not gone—the human threat still lurked outside like a frozen shadow—but it was pushed back, overwhelmed by a tide of fierce, giddy, goblin joy. We crowded around, not touching, just watching. Snag carefully helped the second hatchling free of its shell. A third egg began to pulse.

Tears were streaming down my face again, but they were hot and clean, washing away the grime of the monster cave and the stink of the human trap. 

Grub clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, squeezing so tight it hurt. 

“You see, Hermit? You got back just in time. They waited for you. This must be a sign from the forest spirits, sign that we will be fine.”

In that moment, holding my breath as another tiny life cracked into the world, I believed him. The emptiness inside me didn’t fill, but for the first time, something warm and living began to grow in it. 

One by one, the remaining eggs shuddered and split. The burrow, which moments ago had been a tomb of fear, was now filled with the sounds of wet, wriggling life and the gasps and whispers of seven captivated goblins.

The third hatchling popped free and immediately tried to stand on wobbly, stick-thin legs. It tilted, blinked, and plopped face-first into the soft, warm waste. It came up sputtering, not crying, but making a disgruntled, grumbling noise.

 “Uh-oh,” it peeped, “Down-fall.”

Snag, who was closest, burst into silent, shaking laughter, tears streaming down his face. He gently scooped it up, wiping its face with a bit of clean moss.

 “No uh-oh. Just new legs. You learn.”

The hatchling looked at its own legs, then at Snag’s much larger ones.

 “Learn. Me little, me learn!”

The fourth hatchling, the smallest, was shy. It emerged slowly and just sat in the remains of its shell, watching us with huge, milky eyes. Muddy, drawn by its quietness, crept close. 

“Hello, small-gobby."

The hatchling looked at him, then at the others, and its tiny lower lip trembled. 

“Many… many faces.”

“Good faces,” Muddy promised, “Family faces. We are good gobbies. We will take care of you all.”

It seemed to consider this, then gave a tiny, tentative nod and held out its arms. Muddy let out a squeak of pure joy and carefully gathered it up, cradling it as if it were made of spider-silk.

The next egg took its time. A long crack appeared, but nothing happened. We all held our breath, leaning in.

“Come on, little one,” Grill murmured, “The world is scary, but it’s warm here.”

As if it heard him, a tiny claw hooked into the crack and pried. A piece of shell fell away, revealing one bright, curious eye. It scanned our ring of anxious, hopeful faces.

“Song? The… the turn-song? More?” a tiny, muffled voice came from the egg. 

My breath caught. The turn-song. A simple, crooning chant we’d use when turning the eggs for even warmth. Snag must have been singing it. The hatchling had been listening, and it wanted to hear it again.

Snag, overcome with joy, began to hum it softly, the old, wavering tune. As he hummed, the hatchling pushed, and the egg fell apart around it. It was a lighter green, with big ears that seemed too large for its head. It shook itself off and looked directly at Snag. 

“Thank,” it said, then it promptly sneezed.

The spell of wonder broke into shared, giddy laughter. We were all crying and laughing, a mess of emotions. The hatchlings, now free, were a tumbling, cheeping, murmuring pile of new life. They knew words! They knew us!

Trog, who had been hovering at the edge, reached a tentative finger out to touch the foot of the first hatchling. It curled its tiny toes around his finger. 

“Gege! Tickles!” 

 Trog looked like he’d been given the sun.

Grub was beaming, a proud, wet-eyed mountain. He puffed out his chest. 

“See? Big, meaty ears! Healthy hatchlings! Smart! They know family!” 

He leaned down to sneezing one.

 “Who am I, huh? Who?”

The hatchling looked at his face, its head tilted.

 “Dada? Me Dada?” 

We all howled with joy. Grub looked the happiest, his grin wider than ever.

 “Right! I am Dada! I am your Dada Grub!”

“Grub Loud. Me like Dada.”

 The smallest one in Muddy’s arms squirmed and let out a cry, “Me hungry, belly rumble. need belly full!”

The word echoed from the other tiny mouths, becoming a chorus. 

“Hungry! Eat? Food-now!”

The celebration stumbled. The reality crashed back into our warm little world, now multiplied by six. 

“Food! Yes! Food for smart-gobbies! Dada Grub has food! The good food!”

Before anyone could react, Grub swooped down. With a clumsy gentleness, he gathered up all six hatchlings into his two calloused hands. They were a wriggling, cheeping armful, blinking up at him from a nest of his fingers.

“Hold on, small-ones! Feast time!”

He turned and took two hurried steps toward the shallow niche where they’d stashed the pathetic bounty.

Grub’s toe caught. His eyes went wide. A gargled “Whoa—!” was all he managed.

He pitched forward. Time seemed to slow. Seven adult goblins watched in open-mouthed horror as Grub performed a flailing trip. His hands flew open in a reflexive, catastrophic attempt to regain balance.

The hatchlings went airborne. They made little sounds of surprise: “Oof!” “Wheee?” “Up-high!”

They landed on the stone floor with a series of soft plops. They tumbled, a scatter of green and grey limbs, rolling like odd, chirping pebbles before coming to a stop.

For one absolute, silent second, nothing moved.

Then, the smallest one, the one who had been shy, sat up. It rubbed its head with a tiny fist, its huge eyes even wider. It looked at Grub, who was sprawled on his side. It then looked at the other hatchlings, who were also sitting up, checking themselves for damage.

The small one’s lower lip began to tremble. It pointed a wobbly finger at Grub. 

“Bad… flying. Hurt flying. No more flying, Dada Grub.” 

And then it began to laugh.

It was a high, gurgling, hiccuping sound of pure, unexpected delight. The others just clutched their little bellies, rolling in the dirt, squealing with laughter.

Grub pushed himself up, dusting off his front. 

“No fly. Got it! Tumble! First lesson! How to fall! Very important!”

Snag finally exhaled, slapping a hand over his own mouth to stifle a giggle-snort. Trog and Muddy were already on the floor with the hatchlings, inspecting them for real injury and getting caught up in their infectious giggles.

I felt my own tight chest loosen. In the middle of all the fear and looming doom, life had arrived—and its first official act was to laugh at our clumsiness. 

We placed the sad little feast in the center of the floor. The hatchlings gathered around it, kneeling in a perfect circle. They looked at the food, then up at us.

“This is… food?” 

“Yes! Good food!” Grill said, “Here! Eat!”

The smallest one had chosen a yellow fruit. It decided to innovate. It opened its mouth as wide as it could and tried to put the entire fruit inside. Its cheeks bulged comically, its jaw straining, but the fruit was bigger than its head. It sat there, fruit wedged in its mouth, making muffled, questioning noises around it.

“No, no, small-gobby!” Muddy giggled, gently prying the fruit out.

 “Bite! Like this!” He took a tiny bite of the fruit himself to demonstrate, making exaggerated nom-nom sounds.

The hatchling watched, fascinated. It took the fruit back, now glistening with Muddy’s spit. It opened its mouth, aimed carefully, and chomped down on the exact spot Muddy had bitten. 

Next one had discovered the dried meat. It held a strip in one hand, sniffing it suspiciously. The meat was tough and leathery. The hatchling gave an experimental tug with its teeth. The strip stretched like rubber but didn’t tear. It pulled harder, bracing its other hand on the strip, turning the meat into a taut, salty rope in a tiny tug-of-war with itself. It grunted with effort, its little feet sliding on the dirt.

Trog, trying to help, took another meat strip and began chewing the end vigorously to soften it. The hatchling watching him thought this was part of the eating ritual. It stopped its struggle, sat up straight, and began miming an intense, dramatic chewing motion with its empty mouth, making loud chomp-chomp-grind sounds while staring at its own meat rope.