Chapter 17 A goblin Built to Last

Then came the sixth.

This egg had been quiet, showing only a single, thin crack. As its siblings bonked, wobbled, licked, and stuck themselves, this one seemed to be gathering strength.

With a sudden, violent shudder, the egg launched itself into the air. It roll from the fertilizer mound as if propelled by a tiny, furious rocket inside. It sailed in a short, high arc and came down directly onto the upturned edge of a broken pottery shard we used for mixing paste.

CRACK-THUD-SPLOOT.

The sound was horrific. The shell imploded, shattering into a dozen pieces. The hatchling inside was ejected from the wreckage like a wet seed from a squeezed fruit. It tumbled through the air and landed with a soft splat on its back in the middle of the basin, momentarily stunned, covered in more shell-shards than its siblings.

It lay there, blinking slowly, its little chest heaving. Then it sneezed, ejecting a small fragment of its own shell from its sniffer.

We stared, our own breaths held. It had essentially thrown itself at a rock to get free. It was the most brutal, inefficient, and spectacularly goblin birth any of us had ever witnessed.

Finally, the one who had been bonking its head managed to shove a foot through the hole its fist had made. It got the foot stuck, panicked, yanked it back, tore the hole wider, and tumbled out in a messy, wet heap. It lay on its back, blinking up at the ceiling of the stump, and let out a pitiful chirp.

One by one, with similar displays of glorious, self-harming stupidity, the others emerged.

Soon, six damp, wobbly hatchlings lay panting in the fertilizer, surrounded by the wreckage of their hatching. They were covered in muck and goo, their eyes wide with the shocking reality of being outside.

As the hatchlings lay in their post-hatch daze, panting and blinking, Snag moved forward. This was his moment. While the rest of us were lost in wonder or stifling giggles at their ridiculousness, Snag had a job to do.

He knelt by the basin. He didn't pick them up yet. First, he looked.

His eyes darted from one tiny, damp head to another, and we all knew what he was measuring: the ears.

In our world, for our kind, the ears tell the story of life to come. They are the sails for the spirit, the funnels for learning, the first sign of a hatchling’s vital fire. Big, broad, cupped ears that stand proud from the head, ears like little leathery sails, mean a strong heart, a robust constitution, a goblin built to last. Small, scrawny, folded ears that cling to the skull, they speak of a weak body, a body that will struggle, a life that might gutter out soon.

Snag pointed a gentle finger at the first one, the head-bonker. Its ears were still plastered wet to its head, but even so, you could see their impressive span.

 “This one. Good sails. Will be healthy gobby.”

The stander-upper had one ear already twitching upright, large and pointed. 

“This one got big ears too! Good, good! Another healthy hatchling!” 

The licker had ears that were a bit thinner, but they had a wide curve to them.

 “This one got big, funny ears but will grow healthy, no mistake.”

He frowned slightly at the two who had been stuck together. Their ears were smaller, folded tightly in their distress. He waited, patient. As they calmed, one of them gave a full-body shake. Two perfectly serviceable, medium-sized ears flapped out, wet and proud. Snag’s frown eased. 

“Nothing to worry about. These two have decent ears. They will be just fine.” 

All eyes then turned to the sixth, the shell-smasher. It was still lying on its back, looking dazed. Its ears were a mess, tangled with goo and a piece of shell fragment. Snag leaned in, his breath held. With infinite tenderness, he used the very tip of his claw to hook away the shard. He smoothed the damp skin.

There, revealed, were the biggest ears of the clutch.

They weren't just big; they were enormous. Broad, deep-curled, with intricate folds, they looked less like ears and more like the majestic, leathery leaves of some sacred swamp plant. They were comically large on its tiny, bruised head.

A slow, wide smile spread across Snag’s face, the first true, unguarded smile we’d seen since the cave. He looked up at us, his eyes shining.

“This one. This one has the sails of a chief. It is the healthiest of all.”

We all leaned in, looking at the dazed, big-eared hatchling with new reverence. It had hurled itself at pottery to be born, and it had been born with ears meant to hear the future. 

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The next week that followed was a symphony of tiny chirps, wet scrambling, and boundless love.

The hatchlings were impossibly small. You could cradle one in the palm of your hand, its tiny claws tickling your skin, its big, sail-like ears seeming to weigh its head down. They were bundles of instinct and need, but the knowledge we'd sung into their shells was there, just beneath the surface. They understood words like "food," "warm," and "danger" from the very first day.

Our lives became an endless lesson. We didn't just feed them mashed grub and root paste; we showed them.

 "See?" Muddy would whisper, holding a wriggling larva. 

"This is good. From the soft log. Not from the shiny, hard log. That is bad, no food there."

 The hatchlings would watch, their huge eyes unblinking, before lunging for the food with clumsy greed.

Fort's scouting lessons were conducted from the safety of the stump floor. He'd use pebbles and mud to map the swamp.

 "This mud suck. Do not walk there. This water deep, has scary things swimming in it. This path, hidden, safe. You remember."

 The hatchlings would pat the mud maps with their tiny hands, smearing Fort's careful work, chirping "Suck!" and "Safe!" back at him.

Snag taught them about materials and uses.

 "This moss, soft for nest. This bark, good for scraping. This vine, strong for tie." 

Grub, still moving tenderly, was their nest. The hatchlings instinctively knew he was the source of ultimate safety. They would pile onto his warm stomach to sleep, a living blanket of squeaky green skin. He would tell them stories. Not of the past horrors, but of the swamp's present: the singing frogs, the taste of rain, the way the sun dappled through the clay roof. All the good stories.

And they ate. The food we had stockpiled for weeks began to vanish at a terrifying rate. They consumed mashed tubers, slurped snail innards, gnawed on dried fish. You could almost see them growing. By the end of that single week, they were no longer palm sized. They had doubled. Their limbs were sturdier, their movements more coordinated, their chirps deepening into proper, clumsy goblin words. The one with the giant ears was now the largest of the bunch, its ears serving as comical stabilizers as it learned to walk without constantly tipping over.

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The food stores, which had seemed so vast a week ago, were pitifully empty. Six growing hatchlings were furnaces, and the swamp’s immediate bounty had been picked clean around our safe paths. The sky was a nervous grey, flickering between patches of hot, steamy sun and sudden, dark-bellied clouds that promised a beating rain.

“We must go deep today,” Snag said, “The far cattail stand, the one past the deep channel. The roots will be thick there. We all go. More hands to carry. But someone needs to stay and keep little ones safe.”

“I will stay,” Trog said, “I am a bit tired from nights look out but if danger comes, I grab all six and be gone into the deep roots.” 

We gathered our baskets. I gave Trog a last, serious look.

 “Keep the moss over the entrance. Stay hidden. Do not let them walk outside. Tell them stories. Make them sleepy. Keep them safe.”

 “I will, Hermit. They are safe with me. I will not let anything happen to them. You can trust me."

We filed out, scattering in all directions, leaving Trog and the six futures in the dark, warm safety of the stump.

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Inside, Trog settled against the wall. The hatchlings, full of a morning meal, were a ball of wiggling energy in the center of the floor.

“Dada Trog!” chirped the largest, “Story! Story of the outside!”

“Yes! Yes! We want story! About outside! Tell us! Tell us!” Shouted another.

  The head-bonker, nodded so vigorously he tipped over.

Trog smiled, a nervous twitch.

 “Outside is… wet. And full of waiting dangers. But in here, we are safe. Let me tell you of the Great Grub, who was a mountain that carried life…”

He began his story. But the hatchlings had heard these stories. Their minds, sharp and hungry, were filled with the words we had poured into their eggs: cattail, frog, shiny water, soft mud. They were words of a world, not a prison.

 Trog’s voice droned on, weaving a tale of Grub’s heroism as he didn't even feel his head nod. His words slurred. 

“…and the mountain… slept…” 

His chin dropped to his chest. A soft snore escaped him. He lulled himself with his own storytelling and the exhaustion of constant worry.

 One hatchling crept to the wall. He found the tiny finger-hole we used to watch the weather. He put his big eye to it.

Outside World.

Green and grey and moving. A drop of water fell, sparkling. A bright-winged bug zipped past.

“Look! Look! I can see outside! Outside so pretty!” 

The others scrambled over. They took turns at the hole. They saw the world beyond the wall.

To the hatchlings, Trog's snore was a door unlocking.

Biggest hatchling, Bog, looked at his siblings, his enormous ears twitching with daring.

 “We go, see? We go outside? We explore pretty outside?” 

“But… Dada said it dangerous outside. Bad is waiting outside.”

“We find hole and hide,” said Squirmy, “If bad comes, we hide. Wait for Dada. Dada big and strong! Will protect us!”

They were six tiny bodies pulled toward the light. They scuttled along the stump’s inner wall, patting, scratching. Looking for exit.