Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

I look at the barometer that seems to be pointing downward despite the clear skies. I think of the dance that will take place the day after tomorrow. I envy Jonas for being able to attend. If only I could walk, I would go too. I wouldn’t dance until I’d had more than enough to drink, but before that I’d see a few familiar faces, I’d find out a little more about what was happening in the village, and I’d talk about things with Maria and try to make her laugh.

Go ahead, it’s your turn, Matthias says impatiently. Go ahead and play, and get it over with.

It has been snowing for two days. The mountains that curve above the village and the line of the forest have disappeared from sight. The snow hurries to reach the earth and the immensity of the landscape has narrowed down to the four walls of this room.

Matthias is sitting in the rocking chair, absorbed in a book that he found on the other side. The afternoon will pass this way. He turns a page from time to time, and I watch the landscape swallow us up in slow motion. The wind rises as night falls. Squalls shake the trees and sweep past the porch. Jonas had it right. First snow, then wind.

Later, Matthias puts down his book and goes over to the stove. He stirs the soup and stares down at the bottom of the kettle.

Stories always repeat, he says after a time. We wanted to escape the fate that was assigned us and here we are, swallowed up by life’s course. Gulped down by a whale. Far from the surface, we hope it will spit us back up on the shore. We are in the belly of winter, in its very entrails. In this warm darkness, we know we can’t escape what will befall us.

Night has fallen. The snow keeps falling, but it has taken on shadows. Strange, but a weak glow illuminates the bottom edge of the sky. As if they had lit a streetlamp in the village. I observe the yellowish ring with my spyglass. A vague halo through the crests of the trees, and snowflakes harried by the wind.

Matthias lights the oil lamp and serves the soup.

As I empty my bowl, I realize that the light in the sky has become brighter. The village streets seem illuminated. We can hear the church bells. They must be celebrating the dance. I would have loved to be there and believe, if only for a few hours, that life is normal again.

The snow and the wind dropped off suddenly this morning. Like an animal that, for no apparent reason, gives up one prey to hunt another. Dense and heavy, the silence surprised us, since we still feared the gusts would tear off the roof and suck us up into emptiness.

When we look out the window, it is like gazing on the open sea. On all sides, the wind has sculpted giant waves of snow that froze just as they were about to wash over us.

With calmer weather, Matthias decides to take a look outside. In the endless tunnel of my spyglass, I watch him disappear across the snow hardened by the cold. His form grows fainter as he reaches the forest. He is like one of the Three Kings moving toward his star.

There are three tin cans on the counter. Open and empty. I take out my slingshot and a few iron pellets. I extend my arm, aim, and pull back the rubber band. When I let it go, the pellet cuts through the air with a whistling sound, misses its target, bounces off the wall, and ends up buried in the pile of logs by the stove. I start over. This time, I make sure my wrist is lined up straight with my arm. I close one eye and fire. One of the tin cans rattles to the floor. Not the one I was aiming for. But I still have some pellets.

Matthias returns from his walk with an armful of wood.

When you see the house from a distance, he says, taking off his coat, you realize how much snow is piled up on the roof. It’s absolutely crazy.

As he kneels down in front of the stove, he spots the tin cans upended on the floor. He looks in my direction. I display my slingshot. He smiles and sets up the metal targets on the counter again.

Go ahead, he challenges me, show me what you can do.

Dawn has broken. The sun has not yet risen, but the sky is bright. The snow glitters. We are drinking coffee. Even if it tastes very much like yesterday’s version, we hold onto our cups jealously and savour it, one sip at a time.

The porch is adapting to the cold. The wood structure has stiffened. The foundations clench their teeth. Sometimes, sharp tinkling noises echo between the beams: roofing nails yielding under pressure. The village chimneys give off generous amounts of smoke. Under every roof people are awakened by the icy caress of winter and they hurry to get the fire going again. Birch bark produces white smoke that rises straight through the still air. Like marble columns holding up the sky. As if we were living in a cathedral.

Once he has finished his lengthy contemplation, Matthias gulps down the rest of his coffee, turns away from the window, and begins his exercises. He balances on one leg, one arm stretched toward the ceiling, the other flat on his stomach. He rolls his shoulders and loosens his muscles, then squats down and straightens several times. I watch him go through his paces and tell myself that though my body is regenerating a little more each day, he is the one with new blood in his veins.

Suddenly the door swings open and Joseph appears on the threshold in a great cloud of steam. With his smoking nostrils and his loaded sled, he looks like a draft horse, shining with labour. His beard is frosted over and icicles hang from his moustache. He frees himself from his harness, sits down, takes off his mittens, and blows on his hands. He tries to take off his coat but his fingers are paralyzed by the biting cold and he cannot work his zipper.

Matthias heats up oatmeal and begins unloading the wood Joseph has brought us.

You know, Joseph tells us, Jude organized a dance last week. He started up the generators. Everyone was there. You could hear the music everywhere in the village. It was a party, just perfect. Like in a dream. People were eating and dancing. When the church bells rang in the middle of the night, they thought it was a joke. But someone cut the music and said there was a chimney fire in a house next door. When we got there, it was too late. The wind rose and whipped up the flames and the roof caught. Smoke came whirling out of the windows. The church bells were still ringing away, but we couldn’t hear them because of the wind. We waited and watched the fire. The gusts of wind pushed the heat into our faces. The flames wrapped around the gables and the beams. The sky was orange above our heads, as if the streets were lit the way they used to be. The snow was melting and streams of water were rushing past our feet. We were sure the house would burn to the ground. But the flames decided to devour part of the roof and the upstairs. As if they were toying with us. The next day, the house was still smoking, but there was nothing more to see. Just the charred rafters that were still hissing.

What about the people? Matthias asks, glancing up at the spot where the stove’s chimney climbs up past the ceiling.

At first, Joseph tells him, we were afraid for them. But luckily there was no one in the house when the fire broke out. In the days afterward, we found them new lodgings. But when they went back to recover their things, everything they owned was black and stunk of smoke. You know that kind of sticky, greasy smoke. Since then we’ve swept most of the chimneys in the village. With how cold it’s been these last days, people are burning whatever they can. Sometimes they lose control and the stoves overheat.

Joseph pauses, then runs his hand slowly over his forehead and his eyes.