The Night Gweebin Fed the Moon

~ As recalled by Old Bunkle the Dock-Sitter, who says he once caught a starfish that spoke only in riddles and soup recipes. ~
 
Once, in the time between tides, when the moon had gone missing from the sky and the sea refused to rise, the folk of Driftwharf began to starve.
 
The fish hid deep. The tides stood still. Nets came up empty and even the seaweed turned bitter. The salt in the air soured, and not even the gulls dared to caw.
 
Now, no one had summoned him, and no one expected it—but one night, wobbling in from the fog on a raft made of sausage links and scorched soup bones, came a little goblin with a pot strapped to his back.
 
He didn’t speak, not really. Just grunted and chirped and pointed at the sky with a spatula.
 
They say the town elder tried to shoo him off with a broom.
 
They say the broom caught fire.
 
And they say Gweebin just nodded, smiled with all his teeth, and began to cook.
 
All night long, the smells rolled through Driftwharf: lemon-seared squidlings, buttered ghost-fish, kelp stuffed with storm-honey and scallops that sang lullabies when you bit into them.
 
And when the people gathered, hypnotized and hollow-bellied, Gweebin pointed to the sky. To the space where the moon should be.
 
And then Grumblepot belched.
 
It was a terrible, wonderful sound—like a harp string snapping inside a volcano. A column of scent and steam rose up from the pot, twisting with light and sizzling aroma, and the sky shimmered.
 
They say the moon returned that night because it smelled something it could not resist.
 
They say it hovered just a little closer, just for a taste.
 
And when morning came, the tides returned, the fish returned, and the goblin? Gone. Leaving only a basil leaf in every boot and a faint, savory warmth on the breeze.