Balduin Dreams of Honey

The lanterns in the Silbenwald hung a little lower than usual that evening, as though the forest itself had grown pleasantly tired. Soft mist drifted between the old oak trees, and the fireflies traced long, golden ribbons through the evening air. Right in the middle of it all, Balduin the badger lay curled in his round burrow, tucked up on his soft cushion of moss. His eyes were very nearly closed, and his tummy rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. But just before sleep could carry him all the way off, Balduin's little black nose gave a twitch. Once. Twice. He drew a long, deep sniff — and smiled such a wide, happy smile that every one of his whiskers trembled.

Outside Balduin's door, the Silbenwald whispered quietly to itself. The lanterns fixed to the tree trunks cast warm golden rings across the forest floor, and somewhere high in an old spruce, an owl called twice — softly, gently, almost like a goodnight. Balduin heard it from the hazy edge of sleep and thought: yes, yes, I shall be asleep very soon myself. But then it came again, slipping in through the little gaps in his wooden door — a scent. Warm and sweet and somehow golden. Honey. Quite unmistakably honey. And all at once Balduin was not the least bit sleepy; he was right in the middle of a memory, right in the middle of the finest summer he had ever known.

In Balduin's dream it was midsummer in the Silbenwald. Sunlight pressed warmly through the leaves and painted dancing patches of gold across the ground. Balduin stood in a clearing full of bright yellow wildflowers, cradling a great honeycomb in both paws. The scent was so rich and so sweet that you could almost see it — golden and shimmering, just like the fireflies at night. Balduin closed his eyes and breathed in slowly through his round little nose, humming a quiet tune to himself, a small honey-hum he had invented all on his own. Then, from the tall grass at the edge of the clearing, a small, bristly face peered out. It was Piek the hedgehog.

Piek trotted out of the grass on his short little legs, sniffing just as eagerly as Balduin had. His tiny black eyes sparkled. "Balduin," said Piek in his small, squeaky voice, "that smells like the very finest honey from the great linden tree!" Balduin nodded solemnly. "Precisely, dear Piek. From the great linden tree, just along the firefly path." Piek sat down beside Balduin in the warm grass, and the two of them were quiet together for a while, simply enjoying the scent. In the dream, everything moved a little more slowly and felt a little warmer than usual. Even the bees hummed at a gentler pace, and their wings threw tiny rainbows into the air. Balduin sighed with contentment and held the honeycomb just a little tighter.

Then, from somewhere above, came a familiar rustle and crackle of branches. Fippa the squirrel came bounding through the treetops in great leaping arcs, her bushy tail glowing red-brown in the summer sunshine. "Balduin! Piek! I've been looking for you!" she called, and landed in the grass beside them with a nimble little leap. "I've brought something very important from the great linden tree!" From the small pouch she always carried, Fippa drew out a piece of honeycomb, still dripping and deep golden. She laid it on a broad oak leaf as though it were a proper plate. And so Balduin, Piek, and Fippa sat together on the summer meadow, and the scent of honey wrapped around all three of them like a warm, soft blanket.

In the dream, Balduin, Piek, and Fippa ate very slowly and very carefully. Each bite was sweet and warm and tasted of linden blossom and summer and the Silbenwald itself. Balduin licked his paws and started up his little honey-hum again. Fippa swayed her tail gently in time with it. Piek closed his eyes and chewed with great deliberateness, as though he wanted to hold the taste there for ever. Overhead, white clouds drifted lazily through the blue. One cloud looked just like a mushroom; another looked remarkably like a moss cushion. Balduin gazed up and thought: that must be what clouds look like when they are sleeping. And that thought was so lovely that he himself felt just a little bit sleepier.

After a while, a third companion came strolling out of the shade of the trees and onto the meadow — the fox, with his smooth red-brown coat and the white tip of his tail. He carried nothing at all, but he lifted his nose and sniffed at the air with great curiosity. "I thought for a moment I was dreaming," said the fox in his deep, calm voice. "But no — that is real honey." He settled himself in the grass a little apart from the others, the way foxes sometimes do when they very much want to belong but would rather not say so. Balduin broke off a small piece of honeycomb and passed it across. The fox took it carefully and gave a quiet nod. No further words were needed. The Silbenwald held that summer afternoon perfectly still for all of them.

Slowly, very slowly, the dream-sun began to sink. The light shifted from bright gold to a deep, warm orange, and long shadows stretched themselves across the summer meadow. The flowers tilted their heads a little. Fippa yawned — a great, wide, squirrel yawn full of tiny teeth. Piek rolled a few centimetres to the side and became, if anything, even rounder than before. The fox laid his long head down upon his paws. And Balduin — Balduin set the empty honeycomb down gently in the grass, the way you set down something precious. Then he leant back. The scent was still there, very faint now, like a promise. Balduin breathed it in, all the way down.

In the Silbenwald, real night had settled in — the true, quiet night outside Balduin's burrow. The lanterns glowed warm and steady in the trees. The fireflies drew their silent golden paths through the mist. And deep in his burrow, on his soft moss cushion, Balduin lay smiling in his sleep. His small breath came and went, in and out, in and out. The honeycomb from the dream was gone, but the scent had stayed — somewhere deep inside Balduin's heart, where all the loveliest things live. High in the spruce tree, the owl heard Balduin's gentle snoring and nodded with satisfaction. All was well in the Silbenwald.

And perhaps — perhaps your pillow smells just the tiniest bit of summer tonight. Of linden blossom and honey and warm grass. Simply close your eyes and breathe in. The Silbenwald is not far away. Balduin is sleeping. Fippa is sleeping. Piek is sleeping. The fox is sleeping. The owl keeps her quiet watch. And the fireflies are still dancing — very slowly, very softly — painting golden dreams into the air. You can sleep now too. The Silbenwald holds you close. Gently. Warmly. Safely. Sleep well.