Pa didn’t say much if it wasn’t needed. He wasn’t one for rambling or fussing. But when he did speak, his words hit like a well-placed strike. Solid, brief, and impossible to ignore.
In the holler, there were all types of goblins. Loud ones, sneaky ones, and ones who hadn’t sharpened their axes since the last full moon. But Pa? Pa was the kind that didn’t need to raise his voice. In his presence, you just knew better. Even in his absence, most knew better.
He carried himself with the kind of calm you find in old trees and quiet storms, and his eyes had seen more battles than most could count. Some swore they caught a flicker of fire in ’em now and then, especially when he saw a sloppy base or a missed attack.
Or someone going against the rules.
But underneath that stern exterior was a teacher. A builder. A protector of the clan.
When the old clan started to crumble, it was Pa who showed up. Quiet at first, just watching. Ma had been trying to hold the place together with her spoon and her good will, but it was Pa who stepped beside her, nodded once, and started laying the foundations of something better. He never demanded control. And Ma, who rarely deferred to anyone if she was running things, found herself saying, “Check with Pa” more and more because of his vast knowledge of holler wars and strategy.
For a time, Ma had helped lead openly. She was the one helping set plans, managing the war scrolls, calling out attacks, organizing the goblins. And Pa stood with her, always steady, offering direction, correcting gently, guiding firmly. It was a partnership that worked, quiet and balanced.
As the clan grew in strength, the dynamics shifted. Uncle Kinxy had grown more active in the war barn. He was quicker to step forward with plans, eager to assign targets and lead strategy discussions. Uncle Kinxy had essentially taken over. Pa still weighed in, of course. His word still carried weight like a war hammer, but Ma had taken a step back. Not in bitterness, just in reality. Her role had changed. There wasn’t much space left to lead directly like she once had.
But Pa still made space.
Sometimes, when he and Uncle Kinxy had laid out an entire attack plan, Pa would turn to Ma and say, “What do you think?”
And even if she replied, “I’ll go with whatever y’all decide. You know more than I do,” he always answered the same way: “Your opinion matters too.”
Because to Pa, effort earned respect. Trying mattered. You didn’t have to be the best, but you had to care. And if you cared, Pa noticed.
Pa Had a reputation for being quite firm at times. But it was the kind of firmness that came from experience, and knowing something could be better. He’d call you out for a rushed attack, sure, but he’d also be the one to review the replay with you later, pointing out what went wrong and how to fix it. No raised voice. Just a quiet, “Let’s walk through it.” You’d often see him out in the fields or woods, running tactical drills with the younger goblins to help them sharpen their attack skills. Uncle Kinxy would often join as well.
He didn’t demand perfection, but he sure didn’t settle for half trying. Or disobedience.
He had dad jokes, too, the kind that made goblins groan, roll their eyes, then laugh in spite of themselves.
“Why did the hog cross the battlefield?” he once asked. “To get to the oinkin’ side.”
Another time, after spotting a war log full of rushed enemy bases, he muttered in the middle of a strategy meeting, “I think this team is from Moscow.”
Uncle Kinxy, fully immersed in the plan they had been discussing, blinked in confusion. “What?”
“Cuz they’re rushin’,” Pa said without missing a beat.
Uncle Kinxy groaned.
“Dad jokes,” Ma said, laughing and rolling her eyes.
“I got more of ‘em,” Pa replied, proudly.
The goblin cousins told a tale of how Pa once crossed paths with Popcorn Sutton back in the hills, near one of the old stills Popcorn kept tucked away. Now, Popcorn wasn’t too fond of strangers, and neither was Pa. Appalachian cryptids don’t take kindly to being spotted by humans, and humans like Popcorn didn’t take kindly to being watched by anyone. Popcorn caught sight of Pa half hidden in the trees and decided right then he must be with the government. Refused to say a word. Pa didn’t bother correcting him. Just gave a slow nod, tucked his shine under his arm, and faded back into the woods like a ghost.
All the goblins in the clan respected Pa. Not just because of the threat of his belt or his bark, though both had made an impression if they had to be brought forth, but because Pa saw them. He paid attention. He didn’t hand out praise easily, but when he gave it, you knew it was earned. And yeah, maybe there was a little fear. They’d seen him lay into a goblin or two with a voice sharp enough to curl bark or take them on a walk to the woodshed. But it wasn’t fear that kept them in line. It was respect wrapped in steady expectation.
And if you disobeyed? You might see Pa touch that wide, thick belt of his while holding a steady gaze on the goblin who knew what was coming.
That belt of his didn’t get much use, but when it did, it was over one of two things: disobeying orders or skipping your war attack. And when that happened, even the trees in the holler stood a little straighter. Most of the time, it just hung there on his hip, more warning than weapon. Every goblin knew: if it came off, it was already too late to argue.
But that wasn’t what defined him. Pa’s belt may have kept discipline, but his legacy was in the time he gave, the steady, focused attention he offered anyone who wanted to improve. He’d watch a replay twice if it meant catching something you missed. He’d watch you live attack and point out your mistakes, then have you try again. He’d pause mid-plan to sketch an alternate approach. He didn’t care if it took ten tries. As long as you were tryin’, Pa was teachin’.
There was a time, during war league, when one goblin didn’t show up for their attack. War league is a huge deal in the holler. The war was close, real close, and in the end, the clan lost by a single star. Pa didn’t chastise or give a stare down. He just stood in front of the war board and said, plain as creek water, “Winning takes all of us. Team work. Every star matters. And if you’d showed up, we might’ve had it.”
Then, before the next war started, he found that goblin and said, low and steady: “Don’t be the only one to FAIL today.” And he didn’t mean failing at an attack. Bad attacks happened sometimes, he always said. He meant failure to show up for your clan. That was inexcusable.
Morning and evening, like clockwork, he’d silently check the scrolls, scan the war board, toss a word of praise or advice, then fade back into the hills for more work. When he was present, though, he was present, offering sharp insight, dry humor, and quiet words that meant more than a whole speech.
Folks in the holler still joked about the belt, how it once ruled the old clan with a snap and a glare. And sure, that thing still swung on his hip like a shadowy legend, but Pa hadn’t needed to take it off in a long time. He didn’t want to. The goblins that followed him to the holler already knew what he expected, and that was enough.
Like the time Cletus got into the moonshine and started mouthing off to Ma, just loud and ridiculous enough to make the spoons rattle in their drawer. Ma warned him with a switch and the threat of soap in the mouth to stop the sass, but Pa just leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, clearly amused. He didn’t intervene. Ma had it handled. But with a grin, he called out to Ma, “You wanna use my belt?”
Ma didn’t, as it turned out. But the suggestion was enough to make Cletus sober up real fast and for Uncle Kinxy to rush Cletus out of there before something real was carried out.
He demoted one goblin once for missing war. “You can’t be an elder and not show up,” Pa said. But he also added, “Earn it back,” and when that goblin did, Pa gave the title back just as quietly.
Another one, Looty, missed a League attack once, life education goals getting the better of his war timer. He came to Ma right after the war ended, apologizing, explaining the whole mess, and the clan had a field day.
“I’m sorry Ma and Pa. It wasn’t intentional. Please don’t smoke me,” Looty had said.
“Belt’s gonna come off,” Mo replied, laughing.
“Guess I’m gettin’ a whoopin’,” Looty said nervously, resigned to his fate.
But Pa? He never even brought it up. He already knew Looty and the others had asked to sit out, and they’d only been pulled in because the clan was short. He saw the effort. That’s what mattered more than an accidental missed attack.
When the day’s work was done, you might find him on the porch, feet up, sipping peach Crown Royal tea or his infamous salted caramel and cream soda combo. It had become a thing in the holler after he convinced Ma to try it, and she did, grudgingly, giving a full, review of her taste test to the entire clan. Ma got a little tipsy from the whole thing and pointed a spoon at Pa, accusing him of getting her drunk. He laughed and said, “You drank three of ’em. Four shots of whisky. That’s on you.”
Sometimes, on clear nights, it was said he rigged up a crystal and tin contraption with help from Cletus or Krypto to catch glimpses of human football or basketball games. No one knew how he did it. Just that every now and then you’d hear a shout from the porch that made the owls scatter.
Pa could be elusive, but he never disappeared. He let Ma and Uncle Kinxy hold down the fort often, trusting them, knowing if he was truly needed, they’d call him in from the fields where he was working. And when he was called, he came.
He didn’t need to loom physically to lead. He built it in a way that you could feel his presence, even when you couldn’t see him. With steadiness. With that rare kind of leadership that teaches by showing up and guiding without making a show of it.
And in the holler, that makes all the difference.
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