The Weight of Snow

by Christian Guay-Poliquin

  Slowly, the skin of my face is healing. I went to look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and I just look like I have a bad sunburn.

  Yesterday we did an inventory of our reserves. We have been rationing for a while, and skipping a meal now and again. Matthias went to the village this morning. I used the time to do the exercises he taught me earlier in the winter. I concentrated on my leg. So it won’t give out on me again in the middle of nowhere.

  Early in the afternoon, I stick my nose outside for the first time since Matthias found me in the blizzard. I lean on the door frame and watch the light nestle in the black arms of the trees. With the growing warmth, the snow seems to be sinking deeper into the landscape. I stand there for a time, between the day’s warm caresses and the wind’s icy hands. I think of my uncles, who must have put out chairs on the front steps of the hunting camp to soak up the sun and listen to the promises spring makes. I think of my map in the wreckage of the porch. And my slingshot and spyglass.

  The sight of Matthias climbing the hill tears me from my daydreams. He joins me in the doorway.

  I searched a few houses but didn’t find much, except for these dried dates. We’re not the only ones going over the places with a fine-toothed comb. And this time no one left us any bags of food. I’m going back tomorrow. There are still some houses to check.

  We eat a few dates. They are stiff and dry.

  With a few of these, he points out, the men of the desert could survive for weeks.

  I give him a penetrating look.

  How long in the frozen desert?

  Eat and we’ll see.

  We suck the remaining nourishment from the pits and watch the sun flood over the surroundings. I gaze at the distant mountains, a series of superimposed planes.

  Suddenly an idea comes to me.

  There’s a lake in the back country, a few kilometres from here.

  What about it?

  We can go fishing.

  It’s winter, he says stubbornly.

  I know. And we have everything we need in the basement. A shovel, a chainsaw, fishing line.

  Matthias squints at me.

  Is it far?

  A few kilometres, the other way from the village.

  You’ll never make it, he tells me categorically.

  I’m better and you know it. I’m still limping, but I’m better. We’ll leave early to be back before dark.

  TWO HUNDRED THIRTY-NINE

  We move across the crusty snow hardened by the cold of the night. We make slow progress, slowly but surely. Matthias is pulling the sled with the equipment. He is huffing and puffing like an old horse, but he isn’t letting go. I’m saving my strength by putting most of my weight on my poles.

  When we finally reach the lake, the sun is just peeking over the treetops. We get right to work, moving onto the middle of the frozen surface, then shovelling aside the snow for a few metres in all directions. Beneath our feet the ice is smooth and dark. I start up the chainsaw and cut a wide rectangle. The ice is very thick. It takes a while before the water begins to bubble up and we can push the block under the surface.

  I attach gold-coloured lures to the end of our fishing lines. It’s not ideal, but it’s all I could find. Once we catch something, we will be able to use it for bait. Fish don’t have any taboos.

  We sit down on the sled. The sun caresses our shoulders and the backs of our heads. Our lines are deep in the cold, black water. From time to time the ice grumbles, and cracks run between our legs and dart across the frozen lake.

  The light changes quickly, the sun turns and lengthens our shadows. A snowy owl flies high above without a sound. In its claws it grasps the body of a rabbit that it is about to devour.

  Matthias leans over the hole we have cut.

  They aren’t biting, he sighs. Maybe we should have set snares for rabbits. Do you know how to do that?

  My uncles trapped when I was young, but I never tried.

  Just then I spot a house hidden among the trees at the edge of the lake. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it sooner. From here I can’t tell if anyone is living there, but there are no signs of life around it. Once again I could use my spyglass. One thing is clear: there is no smoke coming from the chimney.

  Did you see that? I ask Matthias, pointing at the house.

  He pays me no mind. He is concentrating on opening a bottle of wine with a corkscrew.

  That’s the wine Joseph gave us?

  Yes, monsieur.

  Warmed by the heat of the sun, we drink and stare at our fishing lines. Warmed by the wine too. As we pass the bottle, the air grows milder. There is not a breath of wind. The mountains thrust out their chests, and the snow is splendid.

  Tell me, he asks abruptly, do you think that eight canisters of gas is enough?

  I glance at the house by the shore. Nothing moving there. But if there are people inside, they must be watching. And laughing because we haven’t caught anything.

  What do you think? Matthias insists.

  It depends.

  He nods and waits for the rest.

  It depends on the motor, it depends on the road, it depends on all kinds of things.

  But it’s possible?

  I consider the sun that has started its descent toward the horizon.

  Yes, maybe. With a little luck.

  He gets to his feet, shouting.

  I’ve got something, I’ve got a bite!

  He reels in his line, as excited as a schoolboy, and pulls a handsome trout from the dark waters of the lake. With one hand he proudly displays his catch. With the other he grabs the bottle of wine. He keeps the pose a moment as if I were going to take a picture, then sits down silently, watching the life slip away from the fish’s writhing form.

  Give it to me, I tell him.

  I unhook the trout and cut it into pieces so we can bait our hooks. As soon as we get our lines back in the water, Matthias pulls another trout to the surface. Two minutes later it’s my turn to get lucky.

  We’re off to the races.

  And we still have plenty of wine.

  TWO HUNDRED FOUR

  For three days, we ate all the fish we could. Today we are smoking the rest. A cloud is floating through the living room. Our eyes are stinging and our clothes stink.

  We set the fillets on a grill above the fire and feed it slowly, just enough to keep it from going out. That way the smoke stays dense and thick. It is easy, but it takes forever. It shouldn’t cook, it should dry. Matthias made that clear.

  If there’s any water left in the meat, it will rot.

  For hours and hours, heads spinning from the smoke, we watch, hypnotized by the glowing embers and the delightful perspective of meals to come.

  ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-NINE

  For some time now, we have not had to take turns keeping an eye on the fire. The cold is still insistent, but during the day, the heat of the sun helps us keep the house warm. From time to time, blocks of ice break off from the roof, slide down, and crash to the ground. Each time a powerful groan shakes the walls and we jump, as if an avalanche were bearing down on us. The ice that falls from the roof piles up in front of the window, the doorway, all around the house. It is surrounding us, walling us in.

  This morning, opening my eyes, I hear an unusual sound. For a moment I figure another piece of icy snow is falling from the roof, and then I think someone is trying to sneak into the house. But the sound is coming from the chimney. Carefully, I approach the fireplace and stick my head into its black mouth. Suddenly, something bursts from the darkness and pushes against my face. I try to protect myself and end up falling backward. Matthias wakes up, startled at seeing me in a cloud of soot and ashes.

  Above our heads a bird is frenetically throwing itself against the ceiling and windows. We want to capture it, but it is quick and frightened. Mat
thias throws his coat over it like a net and manages to still its flight. I take it firmly in my hands. It is a beautiful thing. Its heart is beating like crazy. At the same time it is completely calm. As if ready to die.

  Outside, I ease my grip. For a fraction of a second the bird is motionless. Then it flies off and disappears.

  We stand on the porch, as if waiting for something. The day is dawning before us and the snow gauge is standing free. Finally we go inside because of the morning chill.

  I make coffee and contemplate the living room. We have taken apart the floor, done our washing, and darned our clothes. And stuffed ourselves on smoked fish. As we do every day, at every meal.

  Matthias goes to the window and gazes pensively outside.

  We could have varied our menu and eaten that bird, he points out.

  True, I agree.

  A little later Matthias heads off to the village in search of food. He looks determined. When he closes the door, a block of snow slides off the roof. I hear it pick up speed and crash to the ground with a dull, heavy thud. Just behind Matthias who goes on his way as if nothing had happened.

  ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-THREE

  Matthias returns from the village at the end of the afternoon. I spot him coming up the slope. He is walking head down, and his progress is laborious. With every step his snowshoes sink into the wet snow. He comes in and collapses onto the sofa without taking off his boots.

  His clothes are spattered with blood.

  I found something to eat, he explains. But it didn’t go the way I thought it would.

  I do nothing. I say nothing. I can’t keep my eyes off from the blood on his coat and pants.

  Heat some water, he asks, barely lifting his head, do you mind? I have to wash off.

  I stoke the fire and fill two kettles with snow. Matthias lets his clothes drop to the floor and wraps himself in a blanket. I ask no questions. I pick up his clothing and put it in the wash basin. A revolver slips to the floor. He bends over, picks it up, and hides it under the sofa cushions, away from my prying eyes.

  I’d spotted a house that didn’t seem to have had any visitors for a while. Right behind the church. Maybe I could get my hands on something. Even if it was only some ketchup and mustard. People always leave stuff behind. I was trying to force the door when Jonas came up behind me in a panic. At first I thought he wanted pemmican, but he told me he needed help, he was being threatened. I showed him the house I was trying to break into, and told him he’d be better off hiding, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I had to go with him. I followed him to the stable. Five people were standing by the door. Four men and a woman.

  They want to kill, they want to kill one of my cows, Jonas explained to me. He was a nervous wreck. They want to kill one of my cows. There’s only three left, just three.

  I went over to the little group and we talked. It was very simple. They were starving. And there were three cows in the stable.

  Jonas was desperate, but he knew he couldn’t stop the group. I asked him why he had come looking for me.

  No one said anything.

  I hear you have a gun, one of the men finally said.

  I denied it.

  That’s not what Jonas told us, he replied. Listen, nobody’s got a gun here anymore. Jude and his bunch took them all. We looked everywhere.

  I started to back away.

  We just want you to shoot a cow, the lady begged. We’ll share the meat.

  It’s true, Jonas said. That’s why I went looking for you. The last time, the other time you went looking through your things to give me a piece of pemmican, I saw your gun, I saw your gun under your belt.

  Why don’t you use a knife? I asked.

  They’re my cows, Jonas insisted, they’re my cows. I don’t want them to suffer. I don’t want them to panic. The last time, the last time it turned out badly. Me, I told them to wait when I saw you go by.

  I nodded my head.

  Thank you, Jonas murmured, relieved, thank you.

  It all happened very fast.

  We went into the stable. They pointed out the cow. It was tied to a post. I took out my gun. The cow was beautiful and very calm. I walked right up to it, put the barrel of the gun to its ear, and fired. I didn’t think it would go off that quickly. And that the explosion would be so loud. The cow stood there a moment, then slid slowly to the ground. I don’t know why, but I wanted to catch it in its fall. But it was too heavy. I nearly broke my back. The next thing I knew, the guys started to cut up the animal. I let them go about their business, and I went back outside where Jonas was.

  When he saw me, his eyes got wide and he looked away.

  What’s wrong?

  Blood, the blood on your clothes, he told me.

  When I saw what had happened to my coat, my head started spinning.

  Matthias is quiet. I look at him. His shoulders slump forward, his face is thin, his eyes are surrounded by dark circles. Suddenly he looks like nothing. Nothing but a weary body worn by years and circumstances.

  During the great wars, he tells me, when the army was retreating, soldiers ate horses. Here it’s the end of the winter, and we’re eating our cows.

  I take out the piece of meat he brought. It’s a good cut. I slice off several pieces and fry them quickly in a pan. When it is ready, I offer him dinner.

  No thanks, I’m not hungry.

  ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN

  The ceiling is low. The clouds are sewn to the snow. It has been raining for the last ten days. Sometimes hard, sometimes just drizzle. As if the skies wanted to speed things up now and melt the landscape.

  We tear down the room dividers and closets upstairs to feed the fireplace and bring down the humidity. When we pull off the drywall, dust goes billowing through the rooms and galaxies of particles float in the grey light of day. With a sledgehammer we break down the uprights, the lintels, and the two-by-fours. With every blow the house echoes like an empty theatre. Then we saw everything into pieces. A lot of work for not much wood. But it keeps us busy.

  Often, before breaking down some sections, we have to cut the electrical wires that run from one wall to the next. I think of radiators, switches, ceiling lamps. I think of the constellations of green and red indicators that belong to electrical equipment. All that seems light years away.

  During the day, we take long breaks and go to the window to watch nature’s slow transformation.

  Winter’s finishing up, Matthias says pensively, several times over. The roads will be passable soon enough.

  Every time he mentions his departure, I wonder what kind of condition the city is in. Maybe power has been re-established, and life is going back to normal. Or maybe everyone has fled, abandoning the old, the sick, and the weak. Like here.

  EIGHTY-NINE

  The temperature fell below freezing today. The snow hardened in the cold air, and we can walk on it a lot more easily. We use the opportunity to go in search of provisions.

  To increase our chances, we split up. Matthias goes to the village, of course, and I climb toward the house by the lake.

  As I close in on it, I look across to the mountains. I can feel the trees wanting to shake off the snow. There are no footprints around the house. The place looks deserted. No one has shovelled around the front door. I don’t know why, but the old shed attracts my attention. As if work spaces and storerooms have always been more familiar than the order and comfort of the house.

  I want to go in, but the doors are caught in the snow and ice. I break a small window around the side. I make sure to break the glass cleanly, then I climb through.

  The inside of the shed smells of dust, old oil, and closed-in spaces. My eyes grow accustomed and, little by little, the darkness gives up its secrets. Wood shavings, tools, tobacco cans full of screws, nails, and bolts. A wide workbench runs along the wall. At the back, by a heap of shovels and ra
kes, I spot two gas cans. There is even a canoe, upside down, in the rafters.

  In the middle a tarp covers a heavy-looking block. I lift the cloth: it’s a four-by-four ATV. An old model. I sit down on the seat and put my hands on the controls. As I rest my leg, I picture myself speeding down the logging roads.

  The key is in the ignition. I turn it. No answer. The battery must be dead. I pull on the starter rope. Nothing doing there either. I look beneath the machine to inspect the starter cable. Everything seems to be in working order. I take off the spark plug and carburetor, then clean and replace them.

  I get back up and feel that this time the machine will roar to life. I pull on the rope and the motor starts right up. I hit the accelerator to wake up the engine. The smell of combustion fills the shed. When I turn it off and replace the tarp, I think of Matthias with his car and figure that I have no reason to envy him.

  On the way out, I cover the window with a piece of plywood. It is still light out, but the day will soon be over. If I want to get back by nightfall, I won’t have time to look through the house. That will wait.

  On the way home, I turn around a few times. I’m worried. The shed is a treasure chest, and even if the snow is hard, my tracks can still be seen. Anyone could follow them. You can’t hide anything from the snow.

  FIFTY-THREE

  The snow has melted by half over the last few days. Or nearly half. Enough so we can make out the rushing veins of water running beneath what remains of the ice and snow. When we step onto the porch and listen, we can hear the rivulets. In spots we can see bare ground. Islands of yellow grass, crushed by winter. When we turn our eyes toward the village, we see that sections of the road are starting to appear where the sun shines with full force.

  It is evening now. Sitting across from each other, we are eating a can of corn beef that Matthias managed to unearth during his last expedition. We each take a spoonful, alternating scrupulously. When we have finished, he throws the metal container into the fire. The label burns immediately, then the metal glows red before turning completely black.