Ah! Yes, yes, well now… mmm, picture this, if you will—and thank you, by the way, for allowing me to tell you this tale, it’s a delight—there is a being, not unlike those more widely recognized, yes, the tooth fairy and her sparkly kin, but this one, this one’s a bit more… robust, industrious, yes, earthy. We’re talking minerals, we’re talking dwarvish diligence. So let’s dig in—quite literally, heh.
The Tale of Gribblebit Underroot, the Dental Delver
Ahh, somewhere in the misty crags of forgotten folklore, tucked between the tales of chimney imps and whispering mushrooms, lives the legend—yes, the living, breathing legend—of Gribblebit Underroot, a tiny, oh-so-tiny dwarf with a beard like spun copper and boots that smell faintly of nutmeg and coal dust. Not the frightening kind, mind you, no no—he’s adorable, pocket-sized even, with cheeks like rose-tinged acorns and eyes twinkling like mica flecks in candlelight.
Now, Gribblebit, he isn’t summoned by letters or rituals or even dental calendars. No, see—he works on his own time. Because—mmm—it’s not so much that he knows exactly when a child loses a tooth. Ah! No, no, that’s not quite his domain. He’s not in logistics, you understand, he’s more of a… responsive artisan. He’s got, oh, let’s call them “mineral senses,” tingling when the balance of molar-to-earth energy shifts—plip!—like a tooth falling into a little cup of porcelain ether. Then he knows, yes, yes, that’s when he knows.
Now when the child—oh, perhaps a young one, dreaming dreamless and deep in the middle of a Tuesday night—rests with a gap in their grin, that’s when he arrives. Quiet as a moth’s sigh. And how does he get in? Oh, don’t trouble yourself. He doesn’t need keys. A crack in a window, the whisper of an open drawer, even the gleam off a lost spoon will do.
He climbs—scales, really!—the bedpost, pulls a wee rope from his toolbelt (bit of silk from a lantern spider), and repels up to the pillow, where he leans over and peers into the sleeper’s open mouth, muttering things like, “Ahh yes, third cuspid, splendid calcium composition—oh-ho! Rich vein of dentinite here, lovely indeed!”
And then, with all the reverence of a craftsman—and with his miniature pickaxe forged from comet-iron and deer antler—he taps, taps, chips beneath the now-missing tooth, harvesting the rare, oh-so-rare subdentine crystals, the ones that grow like tiny stalactites beneath well-loved teeth. Not everyone has them, mind you—it depends on the child’s laughter-to-sugar ratio, among other things.
Gribblebit loads the minerals into a teensy velvet sack (yes, monogrammed with a “G.U.”), then vanishes back into the earth—sliding down between the floorboards into the winding tunnels beneath kitchens and root cellars and sock drawers—and off he scurries to the Market of Gilded Gums, an underground bazaar where goblins barter in enamel and moonworms peddle polishing paste.
He trades the crystals—oh! Quite precious, quite prized—for glimmering coins struck from beetle-backed bronze and whisper-gold (very quiet metal, barely makes a clink). Then, and only then, does he return.
Days may pass. Sometimes even a week, depending on the market rates and trade winds through the badger caverns. But come he does, silent once more, and he tucks the earned coin—not payment for the tooth, no, no—payment for the goods harvested, a proper exchange, into the spot under the pillow. A fair transaction! Capitalism at its cutest.
So, when a child wonders why the coin didn’t arrive that very night, tell them: Ah, patience, child. Gribblebit Underroot is negotiating a fair rate. He is, after all, a miner, not a magician.
And remember this, mmm, the next time you lose a tooth, be kind to your mouth. Brush well. For the better you care for your teeth, the rarer the crystals, and the more generous old Gribblebit may be.
Ah! There it is. Deliciously dental. 🦷✨
