The Bizlibub’s

As children, we are fully aware of the magic of the world. The Tooth Fairy cheekily sneaking a coin beneath our pillow, the Easter Bunny strategically deploying his chocolatey treats, the big red man himself silently manoeuvring his way into our homes with the all temperament of a dormouse.

We don’t question this as children, as we shouldn’t - they are facts of life.

‘Why of course a disproportionately large man in dire need of a box of tissues - or, at the very least, some unlawfully powerful decongestants - breaks into my house every year. Why wouldn’t he?’

As we grow older this magic begins to fade. We begin to feel at odds with those surreptitious intruders of our childhood. We stop believing. Of course, their existence relies on us believing - so, as you might expect, they stop appearing. Some may describe this as something of a paradox.

Then - some of us, anyway - become parents.

Bizlibubs - all Bizlibubs - live under the floor. Not in any complex caves or meticulously mined tunnels, mind you. They live simply and quietly, under the floor. And Bizlibubs - all Bizlibubs - can see through the floor which they reside under.

When we become parents, the magic seems to start again. It’s small, at first. After you come home from the hospital there’s almost a twinkle in the air. Most play it off as sleep deprivation.

Slowly, softly, quiet as a treacle trickle - our belief begins to return. There’s something about a screaming, snivelling, snotting, sleep-stealing stress-machine that tends to wear away at one’s sanity. Perhaps it’s this temporary loss of sanity which makes believing more palatable. Whatever the reason - eventually, the Bizlibub’s appear.

Not all houses have a Bizlibub, for not all need one. Some houses may even need more than one, though they must make do with what they’re given. One house per Bizlibub and one Bizlibub per house - that’s the rule.

Most households never realise that they even have a Bizlibub, for why would they? They’re quiet as creatures go, and most humans don’t even have the eyes to spot them.

At this point, you may be wondering what a Bizlibub is. A Bizlibub is like an adult version of the tooth fairy - or any other small, agreeable helper-outer that you’d like to imagine. They help with the little things. You could describe them as toy-fixers, ball-finders, sock-stitchers - though they may take great offence to any one of those terms. They are all that and more. Tenacious, good-natured little boggles with hearts of gold, metaphorically speaking.

Humans - particularly those of the more antiquated variety - are masters at cognitive dissonance. It’s amazing what the mind can do when one hasn’t had a good night’s rest for three years straight.

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be mended by tomorrow.’ they console when the prized teddy sustains a tragic leg injury at the hands of an overzealous dog or particularly feral hamster. This, of course, is enough for the child - and evidently the adult, too. They fall asleep, seemingly contented with the knowledge that all will be mended by tomorrow.

The Bizlibub gets to work. Out it pops - silent as can be, furry feet shuffling over the hardwood floor. Muffled incantations filling the air as it works it’s magic. In just a few moments, little teddy has his leg back. As for the aforementioned masters of cognitive dissonance, well, they conclude that they must have fixed it themselves last night.

‘Maybe I learned to sleepwalk,’ they gush. Now wouldn’t that be something?

This Bizlibub is called Rumple. He’s small as they go, and a far sight hairier, too. He’s currently under the floor, where all Bizlibub’s reside, sniffling and giggling, diligently watching over his family.

The Shore household - if such a grandiose claim could be made about the place - was more akin to a shoe than a shoebox, and an old one at that. Musty, tattered, but not without a certain comfort that a well-worn pair of shoes seems to bring. The phrase, ‘not enough room to swing a cat’ may well spring to mind - though that would have to remain to be seen, given that there were strictly no pets allowed.

The children, Mandy and Andrew, shared a room. Their mother, Amanda, had the melancholy luxury of a room to herself - though that luxury was usually intruded upon by nightmare-scarred children hopping into the warm embrace of her bed every night.

Rumple, in his numerous years with the Shore’s, had observed all manner of strange human rituals. He felt that humans were quite queer creatures. Most Bizlibub’s would agree. It’s strange to think of the way that other creatures observe us. Our dogs, most of all, are likely often left flabbergasted by our habits. Still, they stick around - if out of morbid curiosity if nothing else.

Every night, he observed the children’s bedroom transform into a battleground. The two sides fought for control over the singular television - a small, rotund box with a mouth at the bottom. It looked awfully like a face. The children would push their small, rectangular video tapes into this poor being’s chops and without fail, it would produce a show of sorts - flashing lights, blaring sounds, that kind of thing. Rumple felt that this was an awfully cruel fate for any being - let alone a friendly-looking cuboid. Still, the television seemed happy enough.

There were other strange practises, too. Occasionally - and this happened at least once per fortnight - there would be a knock at the door. Now, in the Shore household, any knock at the door was a game of sorts. Everyone would become perfectly silent, and stand perfectly still. This was nothing out of the ordinary for Rumple - the children seemed to love it, even if it did leave Amanda seeming somewhat shaken afterwards. Sometimes, however, they couldn’t stay still nor silent.

‘I know you’re in there!’ a voice would call. It was not a particularly friendly one at that. ‘Ms. Shore, please open the door!’ The knocks would grow unbearably loud. Suddenly, it seemed that the children weren’t having all that much fun anymore.

Bizlibub’s have awful hearing, and Rumple was no exception. They’re masterful at lip-reading, though - they say that a Bizlibub could transcribe the locutions of an operatic singer from over two thousand miles away. That is why it’s such a great shame that a Bizlibub’s vision is limited only to the house that they are assigned to.

And this is why Rumple had such trouble figuring out what was going on when Amanda opened the door and began frantically whispering to whomever was on the other side. Occasionally, the unknown figure would talk slightly too loudly, only to be angrily shushed by Ms. Shore. Something about money, Rumple once made out.

Sometimes, too, when Ms. Shore attempted to close the door, the figure would shove their shoe in the way, wedging it open. This would upset everybody a great deal. Eventually, Ms. Shore would get the door closed, comfort the children and, after a few hours, normality would be restored.

Rumple grew to fear knocks at the door almost as much as Ms. Shore did.

Still, not all rituals were quite so bad. Oftentimes, when breakfast would roll around, the children would pour themselves their milk only to find great foul-smelling chunks oozed out instead. This was usually met with gratuitous applause, followed by a morbid observation of the alien fluid that had formed in their cereal bowls. This was then followed by a marked disappointment that their breakfast had been ruined. Rumple was often puzzled by the human affinity for drinking bovine secretions anyway, so this certainly didn’t help his confusion.

Rumple’s least favourite ritual, however, happened almost nightly. When the moon was in the sky - not that he could see it - and the night was in full swing, Amanda would sit down at the kitchen counter and pull out her little black book. It would always end in tears.

Rumple, being the curious little Bizlibub that he is, had on multiple occasions taken a peek at the book, wondering what could cause so very much dismay in a person. He gently pulled it open - it was rather heavy to him, after all - and scanned the pages of neatly arranged lines, sums, notes, interest rates, amongst some more advanced calculations. He didn’t really understand what he was looking at, though it certainly seemed daunting. There was also a stack - well, more like a heap - of red and white printed tickets lodged in the back of the book. They had an eclectic assortment of numbers printed on them. Rumple had seen these before, on the larger television in the living room. That one didn’t look quite so friendly, and seemed to be lacking a mouth. Ms. Shore would sit, her tickets in hand, a twinge of hope around her as she watched the numbers appear on screen. The hope would quickly fade to indifference. Rumple had managed to deduce that if the numbers on the ticket matched the numbers on the screen, something good would happen. He wasn’t sure what, but he knew it would be good. He’s clever like that.

Rumple isn’t like most Bizlibub’s. You see, most Bizlibub’s - despite the offence that they make take to the term - are simple. They’re toy-fixers and sock-stitchers, as we’ve established. Rumple is different. He seems to think too much. He cares too much, too. Beyond the belligerent sense of duty that resides inside of most Bizlibub’s, he actually seems to care. Perhaps it is this uncharacteristic cleverness that compelled him to decide that he wanted to make a difference to the Shore’s.

You see, that night, Rumple did something that he’s never done before nor since. He stole. Amanda had come home with some of her blotched, numerically cryptic tickets and had placed them in their usual place inside of her book. Rumple swiped one. He had a plan.

As the time approached, he shook with excitement. As the television turned on he giggled and hissed, rubbing his tiny little hands together with enough zeal to light a spark. As the numbers appeared he held his ticket in front of him and waved his hands around. Magical incantations spewed from his mouth - his body shimmied and shook, he whirled and spun and leaped and pranced. It would have looked quite like madness if anyone had seen him. He saw the grand prize announced on the big box - $20,000. Not that he understood what it meant. When the house was silent again he snuck into the kitchen - shaking more now - and placed the ticket with the winning numbers on the counter.

There was something magical about seeing the reaction of the Shore’s. He had never seen anything quite like it. Amanda cried, but the tears weren’t sad. They jumped and sang, laughed and screamed - there even came a knock at the door, though they ignored it. They let whomever it was that came to bother them know their joy, and they let the whole neighbourhood know it too. Bilizbub’s don’t know much emotion, it’s certainly not in their nature. That day, though - under the floor, as he sat quietly, simply, diligently watching - Rumple shed a tear, too. He had done it.