A story about Beavers
Story inspired by the “Urban beavers – was it worth it?” talk about the Ealing Group’s reintroduction of Beavers into urban landscapes, and much of the beaver knowledge came from looking through “The Beaver: Natural History of a Wetlands Engineer” by Müller-Schwarze (2011).
By Chloe Lim
I am a builder. I weave sticks, vegetation, and stones, packing mud in the crevices of my dams, working together with my family in an intricate procedure we pride ourselves on coordinating with the Earth around us. We begin building around late Summer, our construction often spilling over into Autumn.
My friends stay over often, enjoying the ponds we craft with our dams. Newts, salamanders, frogs, and toads, enjoy the waters we provide for a short period of time, leaving behind their babies as a farewell gift. Turtles and coldwater fish come to swim in our ponds, while other mammal friends come to feed on others in the pond or to graze on vegetation by our ponds. My muskrat friends even begin their own construction within our ponds often, setting up their homes near ours, while our old otter friends attempt to take over our lodges – we chase them away, of course. Despite our differences, we coexist together in our ponds.
We live peacefully like this for a long time, but the air seems to shift one day, the day that those strange, bipedal creatures, eyes full of apathy and greed, come to our houses. Our dams and deep pools are no barrier to these humans; they wade in almost cheerfully, stalking towards us slowly. We rush to hide, diving underwater to seek shelter in our carefully constructed lodges that have given us the promise of safety throughout our lives, but these creatures are not so easily discouraged. Without much effort, they dismantle our homes, their long arms swinging wildly, throwing large sticks and digging out vegetation and mud, reaching into our homes with their sharp spears. They grab us, hoisting us onto the ground by our necks. We thrash, of course we do – we fight so hard, our bodies twisting in a desperate attempt to get away, ignoring the searing pain of our wounds and watching their serene faces, the only hint of their cruelty reflected in their fervent, almost crazed eyes. I manage to escape this time but my friends are not so lucky; I can only watch as the spear slashes down on them, a final, fatal blow that leaves them limp on the ground.
Seasons change, as do our predators. They don’t appear as much as they used to, no longer destroying our homes and tinting our ponds red as often, but the waters are never still, the threat of the humans still looming over us, the shadows of our friends we can’t scrub from our minds. They come to our pond again, one chilling day, and we rush instinctively to our lodges, although they had never protected us against them. We hear their footsteps becoming distant but stake it out for what feels like an eternity, too cautious to dare enter the waters again. Eventually the sound of running water lures us out. They’re gone. Relief washes over us and we head towards our dam, the sound of rushing water a familiar warning that it needs to be repaired. How could we have known that the familiar warning was one constructed by the very enemies we thought had graciously left us alive for the time being? It happened so quickly – some vegetation here, a sprinkling of wet mud there, then a loud clang! Numerous tails slap at the waters in alarm, and as we turn to find the cause of disturbance we see it, a cold glinting hidden within the damaged dam – a large, metal trap. Littered throughout our dam, it catches several our friends, their limbs crushed under the unforgiving teeth of the traps, some heads devoured in a more gruesome sight. Pain-filled hisses fill the air, mixed with the softer whining cries of the young, as they struggle to find solace in our lodges, only to twist themselves into a more devastating level of pain. Some manage to wiggle free and I watch as they rush to hide – but where could they go? There seemed to be no escape and nowhere left for us. And all of this for what? Not for survival, not solely for consumption, but for our fur, our oil. They crafted piles of exquisite coats and hats with our skin, making perfumes and medicines with the oils from our scent glands.
Through relentless poaching, for fur, oil, and meat, Eurasian beavers had been eradicated from the UK by the 18th century. However, beaver reintroduction has blossomed into an intentional movement for quite some time now, with many groups utilizing our long-lost friend and their carpenter abilities to create habitats suitable for other friends pushed into local extinction in some areas of the UK, such as water voles.
Reintroduction. I am a beaver, currently being shuttled somewhere, I’m not so sure where. The box stops shaking and eventually is opened up, letting the warm sunlight envelop me. I don’t recognise the area, but the waters are familiar enough. I dart into the safety of the stream and begin rearing up to get started. Log by log, stones and mud, my new dam gets constructed steadily, my small pond already feeling so familiar. Others come over to watch, their curious eyes making me wary at first, a feeling I can’t quite understand, as if a beaver friend stands behind me, whispering cautionary warnings, but soon enough, I am back to building. Soon, my new home stands before me as well – a picturesque, sturdy construction. I don’t think I’ve ever done better work. My lodge houses me well and soon enough, friends come and join me. I watch my friends, the newts, muskrats, fish. They speak of their friend that they miss, one that I don’t know too well, the water vole. I wonder if I’ll ever see their families swimming through my waters. Perhaps one day. The allure of my pond will be hard for them to resist – after all, I am a builder.