Badger Medicine By
Fredric Lehrman The first time I met a badger was a several years ago in a small suburban neighborhood north of London. I was walking from the bus stop in the town, rolling my luggage behind me, and it was getting dark enough that I could just make out the street name on the small sign at the critical turning point to find the driveway leading to where I would be staying. It was Autumn, and thus seems an appropriate starting place for my first commentary in this magazine. As I walked down the long lane–– a few homes on the left, thick underbrush and random trees on the right–– the darkness took on a magical quality, as if entering a faerie forest. I knew that the house I was trying to find was at the end of the road, but I saw no lights ahead, and now there were no more houses, only bushes on the left side of the road as well. No traffic to be heard behind me, and mysterious twilight ahead of me. An abrupt rustling in the forest to my right, quite close. Thinking it might be something as big as a deer, I stopped, not from fear, knowing that bears and boars had long ago disappeared from the south of England, but from curiosity, and in order not to scare whatever was shadowing me on this lonely walk. A moment later, a strange and unfamiliar creature emerged a few feet ahead of me, and without looking back, proceeded up the path. I followed the low-to-the-ground, broad-backed, too massive for a dachshund, thickly furred shape as it continued resolutely ahead of me. It was clear that it was not afraid of me, as its pace was unhurried. Even though the wheels of my suitcase made a sound that did not belong in a forest, there was a sense of companionship coming from my unidentified guide. And for an instant, from a long unvisited shelf in my subconscious library, a thought came of the phrase “Wind in the Willows.”