A Medal for One Mushroom

In Medal Hall, where the floors are polished so brightly that you can see your own socks in them, the Commissioner of Courage sat at her desk reading the morning's case files. She was a tall woman with a voice like a tuba and a hat with a feather that nodded when she did. Beside her stood Clerk Pennywhistle, who kept a pencil behind each ear in case one ran out.

"Case number 4471," read the Commissioner. "Hettie, a small badger, aged five. Tried one mushroom at her grandmother's house on Sunday." She put the file down. "Pennywhistle, prepare the Grand Ceremony."

Clerk Pennywhistle's pencils wobbled. "With respect, Commissioner, it was only one mushroom." "Exactly," boomed the Commissioner. "One mushroom is the hardest number of mushrooms. After the first one, the rest are just mushrooms."

The clerk opened his mouth, closed it again, and went to get things ready. The Grand Ceremony had not been used for some time. The red carpet was rolled up in a cupboard with a family of dormice, who were asked politely to move to the airing cupboard, which was warmer anyway. The Medal Hall Band was found asleep in the garden. The band was one goose with one trumpet, and he knew only one tune, but he played it very loudly.

Then there was the medal. Clerk Pennywhistle brought out the Very Large Medal, which was the size of a dinner plate and shone like a frying pan. "Commissioner," he said carefully, "Hettie is a small badger. If we hang this round her neck, she will fall over forwards."

The Commissioner looked at the medal, and then at the drawing of Hettie in the file. "Bring the Medium Medal," she said. The Medium Medal was the size of a saucer. It was still too big. "She will fall over sideways," said the clerk.

"Then we shall make a new one," said the Commissioner, rolling up her sleeves. She went down to the workshop in the basement, where it was warm and smelled of hot metal, and she worked all afternoon while the clerk held the lamp. Tap, tap, went her little hammer. When she came back up, she was holding something in the very middle of her palm. It was a gold medal no bigger than a button, with a tiny mushroom stamped on the front.

On Saturday morning, Hettie arrived at Medal Hall holding her grandmother's paw. Her claws clicked on the shiny floor, and she could see her own stripy face in it. The red carpet was unrolled. The goose stood up straight and played his one tune, very loudly, and then once more because he was enjoying himself. Hettie's grandmother whispered, "Go on, love," and Hettie walked all the way down the carpet by herself.

The Commissioner of Courage bent down, which took a while, because she was so tall. "Hettie," she said, in her softest tuba voice, "on Sunday you looked at a mushroom on your plate. It was grey and a bit slippery, and you did not know what it would taste like. And you tried it anyway."

Hettie nodded. "It was squishy," she said. "And then it was all right." "Squishy, and then all right," said the Commissioner. "Write that down, Pennywhistle, because that is exactly how brave things go."

The clerk wrote it down with both pencils at once. Then the Commissioner pinned the little gold medal onto Hettie's jumper, where it fitted perfectly, just below the second button. Everyone clapped. The goose played his tune a third time, and nobody minded. Afterwards there were biscuits in the side room, and Hettie's grandmother had two, because she said watching was brave too.

That evening, in the sett under the oak tree, Hettie hung her medal on the bedpost where she could see it. It caught the last of the lamplight and glowed like a small, warm coin. Her grandmother tucked the blankets round her and said goodnight.

Far away in Medal Hall, the lights were going out one by one. The goose was asleep in the garden again. Clerk Pennywhistle took the pencils from behind his ears and laid them side by side on his desk. And the Commissioner of Courage put the little mushroom stamp away in a drawer labelled Small Brave Things, closed it gently, and went home to bed.