I go to the window and open the drapes. A greyish glow is dispersing the night and refracting on the built-up frost. From here I have more or less the same view as from the porch. With the forest, the clearing, and the snow gauge. All that is missing is the wood barometer. Tirelessly, a few flakes try to appease the appetite of the earth, but they are swept aside by the wind. The landscape tilts, fossilized in ice. Even the great spruce trees are downcast. Further on I can imagine the high-tension lines embracing the ground as a sign of their obedience.
Matthias has not moved. I check his pulse. It seems normal. I don’t know if he is sleeping or unconscious. I examine his legs. A few scrapes, some contusions, but no more. He was lucky: the beam could have crushed his tibias.
When the sun has given the clouds a lighter hue, I make a trip to the porch to gather up a few necessary items before the snow takes possession of everything. As I open the door, I consider what remains of the roof’s unstable structure. A few beams holding up tons of snow. Dislocated sheets of metal. Planks split from one end to the other. Twisted nails. After I have evaluated it all, I take a deep breath and venture into this shipwreck about to sink at any moment.
The first thing I notice as I skirt the heap of ice and debris in the middle of the room is one of my crutches, the one Matthias damaged by smashing it against a post. I waste no time: I empty the drawers and take what was on the counter. I unhook the saw, the pots and pans, and carry my booty to the other side, limping all the way.
I return and start pushing aside the snow, the blocks of ice, and the rest of the wreckage. I need more time, not to mention a shovel. Still I manage to unearth some canned goods, one of my splints, the axe, and Matthias’s snowshoes. Very little, really. Avalanches sweep away everything in their path.
On my knees, on the floor, I have to face the facts. There’s no sense digging deeper. The porch is a collapsed roof with a dangerous heap of snow balanced on it. A fortress conquered by the enemy.
A patch of blue sky glimmers above my head, through the breach in the roof. The ceiling beams begin to groan. It is time to go back to the other side. When I close the door, the walls vibrate, and the remaining section of roof collapses in a final racket. I try to open the door, I push on it, I throw my shoulder against it, but it refuses to budge.
That’s the end, I realize, the rest of our things are buried under ice and snow. Our provisions, the stove wood, my map – everything.
When I return to the living room to tally up what we have left, our supplies, Matthias is staring straight ahead.
What was that noise? What’s going on? Where are we? Where’s my wife? How is she doing?
Shut up! I tell him. Completely discouraged.
TWO HUNDRED SIXTEEN
We’ve been on the other side for a few days now. The Arctic cold has returned. The days are dazzling and the nights are endless. Matthias and I each sleep a few hours at a time to keep the fire going. The fireplace must have been purely decorative. If we let the embers die, it will take a whole day before the room is warm again.
Matthias has recovered incredibly quickly. As if nothing had happened at all. A little scrape on his forehead, a few scratches on his legs, that’s it. He has not brought up what happened on the porch. Maybe he is ashamed. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. He has started telling me about a book he just finished in which a man lost in a dark forest finds the door that leads to hell.
I listen to him and figure I would be better off on my own. Finding a place to live in the village. But I doubt I would be able to. Like convicts on a chain gang, he and I must resign ourselves to our fate.
And so we do: today we fixed up the salon, broke down several pieces of furniture, then sorted our precious supplies. We moved the television out of the room because of the screen’s reflection. In the evening, it multiplied the candlelight and the glow from the fireplace, and that was good. But during the day, it broadcast our image. Our emaciated faces, our greasy hair, our messy beards, and our dirty, torn clothing.
We take a break and share a can of creamed corn. Matthias offers to go to the village this afternoon to see whether he can’t get his hands on some food.
The minute he’s gone, I promise myself, I’m going to search his secret reserves on the cellar stairs. The very minute he leaves.
You say something? he asks, making sure there is nothing left in the can.
No, why?
Just wondering.
Later, when I am dozing off and resting my leg, I think I hear the little rodent again. It is slipping along the walls, sneaking through the doorways, making sure its supplies are where they are supposed to be.
I wake up with a start. Matthias is gone. I look out the window. A pitiless snowstorm has wiped out the landscape. I spot a slow shadow making its way toward the village, pulling a suitcase.
TWO HUNDRED SEVENTEEN
I knew it.
The suitcase is gone from the landing of the basement stairs. I stand in front of the stairway that disappears into the emptiness. For a moment I remember the character in Matthias’s book, and begin my slow descent into the realm of shadows. Maybe I will find something that escaped the rodent’s attention.
With all the effort I’ve made over the last few days, my left leg could give out at any time. Yes, I can walk now, but I am still weak and need a new pair of crutches, or a cane, something to lean on.
With one hand I feel my way the best I can, using the wall, and in the other hand I hold a candle whose light blinds me even as it illuminates the stairs. The way down is steep, and the steps protest each time I move forward. The supports could give way without warning. When I finally reach the bottom, I smell the fetid breath of the damp earth floor.
I explore the cellar, bent double to keep from banging my head on the support beams and the shiny copper of the pipes. No one seems to have been down here since the power went out. But that can’t be true – I bet Matthias knows this spot like the back of his hand. And others have been through here before him.
The furnace sits like a deposed king in the centre of the basement. It is sleeping deeply. Its eyes are closed beneath its mask of soot and iron. I would have to wake it up if I wanted to heat the house. But there is nothing to feed it and bring it back to life. Birchbark is scattered across the floor next to a small pile of kindling. That’s the extent of it.
I turn to look behind me and spot a workbench where tools are resting among screws, nails, and bolts. Attached to the wall are tall shelves with bins, tires, rope, and fishing tackle boxes. A pair of snowshoes and ski poles catch my eye.
That’s it, I tell myself, satisfied at last, I found what I need.
I inspect the cellar systematically now, peering into every corner, opening boxes, taking my time. Under the stairs I come upon a chainsaw, a gas can, nearly empty, and a quart of oil. I discover the power box on the wall. I open it and flip the switches, an absurd act of hope. Nothing happens. My candle is burning down to the end, and I put it out before it scorches my fingers. The underground darkness closes over me. Little by little my eyes grow accustomed to it, and I can make out the blue glow filtering down from the stairway. I lean heavily on my ski poles, but I am afraid my foot will slip and get stuck between two steps. Either that or a monster will grab me by the ankles and drag me into the darkness to be devoured.
When I look up, I see a shadow at the top of the stairs. It’s Matthias.
I am amazed he’s back. I did not hear him return, and to tell the truth, I was hoping he was gone for good.
He takes my snowshoes and poles and helps me climb the last steps.
It’s dark down there, isn’t it?
You said it, I agree, and go into the living room.
The ice storm finished off the village, he reports. Trees and lamp posts are lying everywhere, in the middle of the street. Some of the houses are completely encased in ice. Petrified, turned t
o stone. I didn’t see anyone. I knocked on doors when I saw smoke coming from the chimney. They let me in. The people in the house, their faces were grey and drawn. But they were nice enough. They asked me who I was. I told them my story, and they gave me three partridges they’d caught that day. Food is getting more scarce, they warned me. The little that was left was eaten in less than two weeks, and they had to look everywhere for provisions. And go hunting. They said another group left the village just before the ice storm. They wanted to take advantage of the thaw to reach the coast. They said power had been re-established in that sector. And that people were able to harness wind turbine energy. There were a dozen or more of them, on snowshoes, on skis, with children, food, and equipment on sleds. Jacques went with them, or so they said. I didn’t even know he was still around.
As I listen to his story, I pick up one of the partridges. It is plump with reddish feathers. I put my feet on its wings and pull on its legs. The plumage stays on the floor and the breast, in one piece, ends up in my hand. I throw a cupboard door in the fireplace and cut the flesh into thin slices. When the embers are nice and red, I fry the meat in a pan that I put directly on the flames.
Matthias watches me and salivates.
After we eat, he stretches out on the sofa and stares vaguely at the ceiling fixture.
Where’s the black suitcase that was on the landing, on the basement stairs?
Slowly, Matthias pivots his head in my direction.
Your backup supplies, I continue, where are they?
I don’t know what you’re talking about, he stammers. Our supplies are buried in the cellar beneath the porch under a tonne of debris.
I saw the suitcase on the basement landing, it was black, I saw it and it’s not there anymore.
Maybe, but we just ate partridge and it was delicious. You should lie down and sleep a little, it’ll do you good.
I curse and throw a few pieces of chair rungs onto the fire. The room appears and disappears in the dance of flame and shadow.
We still have some food left. And two partridges. We’re good for another few days, Matthias tells me. We lost a lot of things in the porch, but soon we’ll find a way out. Don’t worry. Sleep, he advises, I’ll look after the fire.
I curl up in a ball, as far as possible from him and as near to the fire as I can be. Like a stray dog that has stopped trusting anyone. I think of my aunts and uncles again. I picture them laughing at the monstrosity of winter, and I figure a stubborn mind can conquer anything. I lost the map Joseph gave me, but I remember the “x” of their hunting camp by the river. And I remember the legend too, at the bottom of the map, that showed I am only a miniscule dot compared to the crushing power of the forest.
TWO HUNDRED FORTY-TWO
It has been snowing for five days straight. The ice storm is a distant memory, buried like a layer of sedimentary rock in a cliff face.
To keep warm we have burned most of the furniture in the house along with the shelves, the stair railings, and the doors to the rooms.
Our food supply is at its end. All our meals are the same, but Matthias eats whatever I put in front of him without any comments. He has refused to go back to cooking. Several times I question him about his secret provisions. Every time he denies, refutes my allegations, and ridicules me.
Yesterday, finally, my stubborn questioning angered him. He threw his book on the floor, picked up one of my ski poles, and threatened me, shouting. His eyes were hard and glittering like a vein of quartz. Fear turned my bones to liquid, but I stared at him and would not react. He took a deep breath, calmed down, and went back to his chair. A few moments later he was smiling; once again, he had succeeded in avoiding the question.
Day’s end settles over the landscape. The mountains turn purple with evening light. These are the first rays of sunshine we have seen in a long while. But night extinguishes them in no time.
Matthias is reading by candlelight. From time to time he glances down and plays with the hot wax, then goes back to his book. The flame lights his face from below, and the shadow of his nose joins the one cast by his eyebrows to draw a wide black stroke across his forehead. He looks like he is wearing a mask.
Later, as I am peeling potatoes, he sits next to me and begins playing pensively with the plastic moose that decorates his key ring.
I have a story for you, he announces, I just read it, so listen. A long time ago there lived a humble peasant. He was hard-working, but his fields were as poor as he was. One autumn, to his great surprise, his land bore fruit the way he could never have imagined. From that year on, his harvests were more abundant than the year before. But since he could not explain the miracle, he said nothing to anyone. He built an enormous barn and stored as much as he could. When it was full to the brim, he built another, bigger than the first. Destiny had smiled upon him, and he thanked his lucky stars. No misfortune could strike him. His future was assured: he would simply eat, drink, and rest. One day a neighbour came to visit to borrow a sickle, for his was broken and the fate of his family depended on his harvest. But he could not find the peasant anywhere, neither in the fields nor in the house. Worried, he searched the farm. When he saw the enormous, overflowing barns, he was astonished. And stupefied when he came across the peasant’s body on the ground. As if his soul had suddenly been taken from him, without warning, as he was strolling peacefully on his property.
I take the potatoes out of the water. We let them cool down, watching the steam lift into the air.
You see, Matthias says, that’s why I’m not hiding anything. If I had reserves, I’d share them with you.
I lift my eyebrows.
We need food, as well as candles and an oil lamp, he states. We need a lot more things, but we have to start with the essentials.
I don’t answer. I wonder what he has done with his revolver. Perhaps it is buried under the porch roof. Or concealed in a suitcase full of supplies. Unless it is still in his belt.
Tomorrow I’m going to the village, he continues, to ask if someone can help us out. If that doesn’t work, I’ll search the abandoned houses. There have to be some provisions somewhere.
I look up at him.
I’m going with you.
There’s no chance of that, he replies sharply. Tomorrow I’m going to the village and I’m going alone. You’d only slow me down. And if people see that you’re on your feet, they’ll say that we can get along on our own, and they won’t give us anything.
I’ll help you search the empty houses.
Look at your legs, he insists, you’re getting stronger, but you still don’t have the endurance. You limp like an old man. And what about me? I’d never have the strength to drag you the rest of the way if you give out halfway back. In a few weeks, maybe you’ll be up to it, but for now, forget about it.
We’ll see, I tell him.
That’s it, we’ll see, he repeats, exasperated.
TWO HUNDRED FORTY-SEVEN
This morning, when I awake, Matthias is gone, the fire has died, and the room is cold. Just my breathing and the heavy beating of my heart. I dress quickly and rush up the stairs, as if my legs had never known pain.
By moving from one window to the next, I get a good view of the surroundings. The snow gauge is still visible in the clearing, buried up to its neck. Further on the forest carries its burden of ice. At the bottom of the hill, three tenuous plumes of smoke reach toward the clouds. Matthias’s footprints go down to the village like a dotted line.
I take a moment to think. The village is both very close and very far. I know I’m doing better, I can feel it. But what if Matthias is right? Maybe I would never make it to the village. Maybe I’m still too weak. And too impatient.
I lift the window and stick my head outside. The air feels good, and the cold envelopes my body languorously before slipping into the house. I take a deep breath and lay my hand on my left leg.
> Now’s the time, I tell myself, to go see what Matthias is up to. I’m going down to the village.
I hurry down the stairs awkwardly, dress warmly, take my ski poles and snowshoes, and open the door.
Immediately, the snow blinds me. The snow’s sombre light. If I fall I will never get up again. If I fall I will disappear beneath the surface. Thousands of years from now, people will find the remains of an anonymous ancestor mysteriously preserved in ice.
I get a hold of myself, tighten my hands around my poles, and take a few steps. Just like that, I recover the feeling of freedom I thought I had lost forever, under my car, among the twisted metal and shards of glass.
TWO HUNDRED FORTY-SEVEN
The way down to the village is longer than I thought, but everything goes according to plan. I follow the path Matthias made. Each step is calculated, and I hold firmly onto my poles.
All is quiet. Normally with the cold you would hear the metallic chirping of the power lines, as if hundreds of birds were flying back and forth down a narrow conduit. But today, I hear only my snowshoes tamping down the snow and the lamentation of the wind in the cables hanging here and there. Some of them are so low I could grab one just by lifting my arm – with no fear of being electrocuted by the current.
I reach the edge of the village. The first houses stand to my right, buried in snow, mute. I stop and look. I have never seen so much snow, I can scarcely believe it. I walk past rooflines, dormer windows, chimneys. Normally there would be enormous piles of snow on either side of the street, and I would move between the white walls as if I were in a trench.
The main street stretches straight ahead, but I have to move around the tree branches and fallen lamp posts that block the way. Some houses are difficult to spot because of the snow heaped high around them. Further on I recognize my father’s garage. The sign advertising the price of gas emerges from the snow like the hand of drowning man from the waves. I think of the world buried beneath my feet. I wonder what drove me to come back here. And why I could not leave the past to fade away by itself, in the arcana of my memory. I wanted to see my father again, I wanted to change the way things had been, and I failed on both accounts. My father died before I could reach him, and whatever I do, whatever happens, I will always be a mechanic, as he was. The important choices in my life were made a long time ago, and I have to live with them.
The Weight of Snow Page 12
