Loss

A Barbury and Ada short story

“The season’s changing,” Barbury whispered from the doorway, his young face pinched in anxiety.

He watched the winds sweep mercilessly across the fields, tearing the color out of everything. This was not the wind that stripped leaves from trees and left a barren landscape; that wind would come later when the season changed from Loss to Pain. No, this wind, the wind that brought in Loss, was a sadder wind. Shards of color, the tiny bits of pollen, blew everywhere, leaving the once-blue sky grey; the lush, green leaves brittle and brown; and the garden flowers pale and dry.

“Close the door,” replied Ada, who was reading a magazine on the settee. “You’re letting pollen in.” She cast a pointed glance at the layer of colored dust accumulating at Barbury’s feet.

Barbury released the door gently and came in, watching his sister, hoping she would offer some reassurance about the scene outside; Ada was twelve. But she didn’t reply, and Barbury finally sat down at the other end of the settee.

“I learned them this week,” Barbury informed her after a moment. “In order.”

“Learned what?” Ada didn’t look up from her magazine.

“The seasons.”

“You ought to know them by now,” she scoffed, flipping the page. “You’re six.”

“Well,” Barbury mused gravely, “I guess a man has to start somewhere.”

Ada just rolled her eyes.

“First is Gain, then Loss, then Pain, then Love.”

“Seriously, stop,” Ada said, but with less annoyance. She twisted around to see out of the window. “I hate Loss.”

“Me too!” Barbury agreed, his face unfolding eagerly at this sign of camaraderie.

“I hate it more.”

“Me too,” Barbury insisted.

“Of the four seasons, if I had to pick one to never ever live through again, I would pick Loss. I would pick Loss even before I picked Pain!” Ada declared defiantly, but Barbury wasn’t sure he believed that. Ada had cried through all of Pain last year.

“And which is your favorite?” Mother asked, coming into the room. She was drying a glass bowl with a towel, smiling as if she did not know the season was changing.

“Gain!” Ada answered without hesitation. She breathed the word like it was a balm, and for a moment Barbury felt safer.

Gain was good. This past year, Gain had been particularly wonderful. Barbury had overheard just about everyone say so. But was Gain his favorite?

“My favorite is…” Barbury considered. “Love.” Gain was good, and Barbury did love Gain. But he loved Love more. There was no season quite like Love. In Love the sun shone longer, brighter, and warmer. There were less chores, Father had time to take Barbury fishing, and Mother made fresh lemonade. Even Ada was happier in Love.

“It’s a long time until Love again,” Ada snapped peevishly, returning her attention to her magazine.

“Not as long as ’til Gain,” Barbury shot back, delighted to be right. Mother laughed and went to the kitchen to put the bowl away.

Ada made a face and called after her mother: “If we had a good Gain, does that mean we’ll have a bad Loss?” Her voice caught on the words, and Barbury’s chest tightened as he waited for the answer.

“It’s hard to know,” Mother admitted gently, stepping out of the kitchen to be heard. “Some years the seasons hit harder than others.”

“Last Loss we only had floods,” Ada recalled, relaxing. “That wasn’t terrible.” Barbury sank back, unexpectedly comforted.

There was a long pause, and Ada sat quietly, her forehead furrowed. At last, she gave a small shrug and picked up her magazine. She glanced at Barbury out of the corner of her eye. “What if the Robber Barons come this year?” she mused, flipping the pages nonchalantly.

“Ada!” Mother warned from the kitchen. Barbury’s face pinched up.

“What are Robber Barons?” He asked, uncertainty ushering in a faint fear.

“Oh, they’re bandits; they steal things,” Ada explained casually, loud enough for Mother to hear.

Then she leaned in, hovering over Barbury, and lowered her voice: “They ride in on horses the color of night, horses whose hooves beat an echo in your chest from a thousand miles away. They wear black capes and masks, and all you can see of their faces are their red, red eyes, glowing like the hot embers of hellfire. They ride through towns with the fury of war and an emptiness like death, stealing and destroying whatever they want, and no one can stop them because the dark winds are on their side.”

“Ada Evane! To your room, now!” Mother ordered, reappearing just as Ada finished. Ada rose, half-pouting, half-pleased with herself.

Barbury wasn’t sure he could breathe. “Is it…true?” he asked his mother as Ada sashayed out.

“Barbury, Loss is a hard season no matter what happens. Sometimes floods come, sometimes fire or locusts. And sometimes thieves come. It’s a hard season.”

Barbury nodded and gulped, unable to find reassurance in Mother’s words. He could hear the dark riders trampling through town already; even the afternoon shadows in the house seemed to herald their coming.

Mother cocked her head, and a slow smile crept across her face. “I think we better have some memories with our tea today. Some sweet memories, what do you say?”

Barbury brightened a little at this prospect — there was nothing as delicious as memories — and took the hand Mother held out. They walked outdoors together to the cellar, and Barbury followed Mother down the tall ladder.

He was not often allowed into the cellar. It was too dangerous to venture down alone, Mother and Father were generally too busy to take him, and Ada said she couldn’t be bothered to go there anymore. Barbury scuttled down the ladder, his delight mounting with every step.

Everything was just as he remembered. Shelves lined the dark room, some stacked with crates and boxes, a few with racks of wine, but mostly they were filled with jars and jars of memories. Barbury stood at the foot of the ladder, wide-eyed with enchantment. A ray of light fell down through the open cellar hatch, casting a brilliant glow on the glass jars; translucent memories — reds, purples, oranges and blues — shone out around Barbury, and their faint, sweet smell filled the air.

Mother emerged from a back shelf carrying two jars: one with bright red memories and the other, orange. At her prompting, Barbury clamored back up the ladder and held out his hands to take the jars as she ascended.

Teatime was delicious. Mother tucked Barbury into the cushioned breakfast nook, brought tea, and scooped a heaping portion of memories into a bowl for him. With his back to the window and such a scrumptious world in front of him, Barbury completely forgot about the changing season outside.

Barbury loved memories. The red ones were his favorite, too; Mother always knew just the right thing. And she had given him a bowl and spoon — everyone else liked to spread memories on bread or biscuits, sometimes with butter or peanut butter or cheese. But not Barbury. Barbury liked to eat memories by themselves, spoonful after spoonful. And, of course, Mother knew.

He savored the red memories in his mouth — cool and juicy and soft. He hoped they were staining his tongue red so he could stick it out at Ada later and make her laugh. He let the memories slosh around his mouth for a moment and felt them slip coolly down his throat. He was happier already.

Barbury woke up the next morning when the back door slammed shut. After a few groggy moments, he made his way downstairs. Ada was in the kitchen, making herself breakfast, and Barbury didn’t see Mother or Father anywhere.

“They went to town for supplies,” Ada explained, reading his mind with typical accuracy.

“Don’t we have school?” Barbury craned his neck to see if Ada had made enough breakfast for him, too.

“Schools close when the season changes; they give us three days off in Loss. So people can do things like go to town and get supplies. Or make provisions for their crops or ships or whatever business they are in.”

“Will Father have to do that with his ships?”

“I guess so. But first he went to town to get supplies with Mother. Are you hungry?”

“Yes!” Barbury nodded emphatically, hoping this wasn’t one of Ada’s jokes.

“Here, I made you an egg.” She started to hand him a bowl with a soft-boiled egg and a glass of milk but then thought better of it. “Go sit down, and I’ll bring it to you. I don’t want to clean it up if you drop it.”

Barbury did as he was told, and Ada brought the egg, milk, and some toast to the table.

“So you’re staying here with me until they get back?” Barbury asked between bites.

“If you mean I’m stuck here babysitting you, then, yes,” Ada replied.

“At least you don’t have to go to school,” Barbury pointed out.

“I’d rather be at school than here all day with you.”

But Barbury knew that wasn’t true. Ada hated school. And, no matter how mean she was, Ada didn’t hate Barbury. After all, she always let him have the last piece of melon, every single time. And when he had nightmares, she would come into his room and sit by him for a while. She thought he was asleep and didn’t know she was there, but he knew.

Ada went back to reading magazines on the settee after breakfast, and Barbury decided to set up his train tracks. Perhaps Father would remember to get the extra wheels for the caboose while he was in town. One of the wheels had broken off, and Barbury didn’t want to run a train without its caboose.

The morning and much of the afternoon passed peaceably, with only occasional bickering, and then suddenly their activities were interrupted by the sound of hoof beats and a horn outside. Barbury and Ada looked up, startled, and clamored to the window. A young rider on a horse was thundering by, yelling, “Robber Barons! Robber Barons!” He did not stop; he rode on furiously, aiming to warn as many people as he could.

Barbury’s face drained its color, and he gripped Ada’s arm. “Are they coming? Is that what he means?”

“Yes, I think so.” Ada looked around, trying to focus, trying to figure out what Mother and Father would tell her do.

“What do we do?”

“We… we go… to… to the cellar!” Ada announced, sorting through her thoughts as the words tumbled out of her mouth. “Go get your coat and mine; it gets cold down there. I’ll get some biscuits in case we get stuck there for a while. We’ll hide until the Robber Barons have passed by.”

“What about Mother and Father? How will they know where we are?”

“They’ll know to look for us there,” Ada said, hoping she was right, hoping she sounded reassuring. “They’ll be safe in town. They know what to do. They’re adults. Now go get the coats. You want the Robber Barons to find us just because you wouldn’t stop talking?”

Barbury ran upstairs, willing his tiny legs to move as fast as they could. He thought of his train, wished he had steam power to help him. Ada raced into the kitchen, found a bag of biscuits and filled one of Father’s canteens with water.

“Barbury, hurry up!” she hollered.

Barbury came running down a moment later, carrying Ada’s coat carefully , dragging his own. They ducked out the back kitchen door and raced to the cellar, laden with their supplies. Ada peered at the narrow ladder, hesitated.

“Throw the coats down first,” she instructed. Barbury let them flutter down the hatch. He was breaking into a sweat anyway and did not want his coat. The season-stripping wind had brought hot air: stifling, heavy, constricting.

“Ok,” Ada went on. “Climb down. I’ll throw you the biscuits and canteen.”

“But you’ll be alone!” Barbury’s face melted into despair.

“You want me to go first and leave you up here?” Ada made no attempt to hide her annoyance. Barbury’s throat tightened, but he shook his head.

“Exactly. Now go.”

But his feet were frozen. He shook his head feverishly.

“Barbury! One of us has to go first. It’s a ladder. That’s how it works. It’s only for a second. You go first. Go. Right now. Go.” Urgency mixed with her annoyance now. Barbury gave a weak whimper. Ada snapped, “I’ll climb down right behind you. Go!”

Barbury nodded, and climbed down, shivering. Ada set the bag and canteen on the ground and followed him down.

“Put on your coat,” she ordered when he reached the bottom. She had stopped on the middle rungs. Barbury obeyed; it was colder in the cellar than he had expected.

“Listen to me, Barbury. I’m going to climb up to grab the biscuits. I’ll throw them down. Catch them, ok?”

Barbury nodded. Ada scrambled up, grabbed the biscuits; Barbury held out his arms, squinting in the glare of the late waning sun.

“Open your eyes!” Ada snapped, dropping the bag. Barbury obeyed, moved a little to where the bag was falling, and caught it. Ada grabbed the canteen and hustled down. The ground trembled slightly, a hallmark of the approaching Robber Barons. Barbury looked anxiously at his sister. She grabbed her coat and his shoulder and scanned the shelves for the best place to hide.

“Go go to that far corner over there. Behind the shelf,” She gave him a push in that direction. The corner was blocked with a tall shelf, angled so that there was a tiny crawl space behind it, and they hurried over, threw the supplies in, and began climbing in themselves.

And then, at the same instant, they both realized that the cellar hatch was still wide open. Barbury noticed when he saw the ray of dying sunlight that fell in, the magical amber glow on the jars of memories. Ada noticed because she could now hear the horses and the angry shout of riders clearly, only a few moments away.

“Ada.” Barbury’s voice was hoarse with fear. “The hatch.”

“I know,” she nodded. “It’s too late to close it now. Maybe they won’t see it. Go, crawl back there. Go.” She gave him a little push, and Barbury scooted all the way in. Ada followed. “Just keep still and keep quiet. No matter what happens.”

A few minutes later, the sound of hooves stopped, but the shouts grew louder and Ada assumed that the Robber Barons had come to the house; then came the sound of footsteps on the ground above their head, and Ada knew for sure. They heard smashing, glass breaking, furniture falling, ripping, thumping, tearing, beating. Barbury clenched his eyes together and pulled his knees in closer.

And then the light — the dying light that had fallen across the jars of memories — disappeared altogether as a dark shadow filled the cellar entrance. A Robber Baron. He did not climb down the ladder; he just jumped, landing with a mighty thud, his boots scattering dust everywhere, causing the jars to chatter and shake. Ada tightened her jaw.

The Robber Baron grabbed the nearest jar of memories and tore it open. He dipped his finger in, sniffed it, and made a disgusted sound. He threw the jar up and out the cellar door. Ada heard it shatter. She closed her eyes, and buried her head in her knees.

There was the sound of more footsteps, more thuds as men jumped down, jars shattering on the ground overhead, shelves toppling down and being torn apart. It seemed to last forever, and Ada could feel Barbury trembling beside her. She clutched his hand.

And then at last — perhaps hours later — things quieted down. Ada could hear the Robber Barons climbing up the ladder, the cellar door being ripped off, and the horses disappearing into the distance. Still clutching Barbury’s hand, Ada made herself count to five hundred before moving. And somewhere in the counting, she fell asleep.

Her parents were calling her name. Father sounded frantic, worried; Mother as calm as ever. “Ada, Ada! Barbury!” The calls rippled down the cellar ladder, weaving through Ada’s dream and at last drew her into reality.

“We’re here! We’re down here!” Ada cried out, waking, still holding Barbury’s hand. “We’re here! Barbury, wake up!”

“I’m awake,” he answered simply.

“We’re here,” she yelled again.

They rose then, stooping to climb out. Ada’s body ached from being cramped for so long; Barbury thought only of the ray of light falling through the cellar door. It was brighter now, a morning sunbeam, not the deeper light of sunset they had last seen.

Coming out of their hiding place, they saw the disaster that the Robber Barons had wrought. The floor was covered in a mixture of broken glass, pieces of shelves, and melting memories. A faint, putrid smell filled the air, as unfamiliar as it was unpleasant.

“What is that smell?” Barbury gasped.

“The stench of Robber Barons,” Ada fabricated absently, more interested in finding a safe path to the door. “There’s glass everywhere; be careful,” she warned Barbury.

They made their way towards the ladder, using a broken shelf to scrape away the bigger pieces of glass and wood and steady their step, calling “We’re here! We’re here!” as loudly as they could.

Light and shadows shifted across the cellar as Mother and Father heard the cries and came near. They leaned over the door, and the shadow of their faces seemed brighter than the sun to Barbury.

“Mother!” he called, exuberantly.

“My babies!” she breathed in relief.

“Come up,” Father urged. “It’s safe now.”

Ada helped Barbury up the ladder, and at the top, Father scooped him in his arms, held him tightly. Ada climbed up, too, let Mother pull her over the last rung, and they all sat there for a moment, cradling each other.

It wasn’t long before Ada noticed the stench of the air around them and then realized that they were sitting on what once had been the cellar doors — not on the ground itself. A faint fear began to take place in her mind, and she stood up, anxious to survey the scene.

“It’s all gone!” Ada cried, seeing the world around them. Her calm gave way to a tide of suppressed panic. “They destroyed everything!” She began sobbing — not the wracking wailing that she often employed theatrically, but heavier tears that could not be stopped.

Barbury peered out around him, still safe in Father’s arms. Ada was right: the doors and shutters had been ripped of the house, the windows were broken and furniture had been strewn all over the yard — and the yard itself… The ground was covered in debris — bits of houses and furniture, linens, books… Barbury caught sight of pieces of his train set shattered. And the smell — the same smell from the cellar, but stronger — was becoming almost unbearable.

“What’s that smell?” Barbury asked, his voice caught somewhere deep in his chest.

“It’s the smell of memories, fermenting,” Ada sobbed. “They’re all gone. All the memories are gone.”

And so it was. In addition to all the debris, the ground was covered in shards of broken glass and wet, slithering clumps of melting memories. Globs of the once-juicy treats lay in milky puddles all around, oozing at the edges, mixed with dirt and glass under the morning sun.

The knot that had been tightening in Barbury’s chest seemed to constrict and snap at the same time; he began to cry. The memories were gone — Ada was right; and the smell was overpowering, a pungent reminder of their helplessness. There would be no more tea times with Mother, no contests with Ada about who could make their memories last the longest, no sneaking into the jars with Father when Mother wasn’t looking. Barbury stared forlornly at the dirty, oozing blobs. He noticed the bright colors fading quickly, and thought the world was now grayer than before, that the Robber Barons had taken what little color the winds had left.

As if in reply, the winds picked up, scattering bits of glass and debris ferociously. Mother and Father scooped up the children and carried them inside, shielding them from the flying shrapnel.

“We will never have memories again,” Ada murmured, sinking onto what was left of the settee.

“Nonsense!” Father smiled tenderly and turned her toward the window. He lifted Barbury up so he could also see. “Do you see all the debris?”

“How can we miss it?” was Ada’s despairing response.

“Tomorrow we will go out with rakes and shovels and clean up the debris and glass. And do you see the melting memories?”

Ada nodded wordlessly, sniffling.

“They’ll be gone soon; some will evaporate, but some will seep into the ground. And we’ll water that ground,” he pointed, “over on the east side, by the cellar door. We’ll water it again and again, all through Loss and all through Pain. And you’ll see, by the time Love comes around, the memories that seeped into the ground will have grown into memoryberry bushes; the east side will be covered with them! And we’ll have as many jars of memories as we want, as often as we want, for as long as we want.”

They were all quiet for a few minutes, and Barbury savored this new image, transposed it over the scene outside. It was good to be reminded: the world would be in full color again one day, lush with life, and one day new shelves would be lined with more memories. He thought of watering the garden, harvesting the berries, pressing them into memories and then into jars, and of the cool, sweet taste they would leave in his mouth.

Ada closed her eyes, as if to banish the desolation, struggling to envision the world reborn. She opened them at the exact moment that the clouds, perhaps also distracted by visions of the future, found themselves tangled with the sunshine. A bright glow burst across the garden, and for a brief moment the world was swathed in yellows, oranges, and gold.