Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

As I grab my crutches and move to the table, he explains in great detail how to go about it.

It’s all right, I tell him, I know how to wrap a bandage, I’ve watched you change mine often enough.

He was lucky. The burn looks superficial. The skin is red and oozing, but there is no blister, not yet. It must be sensitive, but in a couple weeks there won’t even be a scar.

For lunch we eat hard-boiled eggs in silence, each in his own world. Later in the day, Matthias goes over to the other side and comes back with a toolbox. He sets it on the table next to the banged-up kettle and asks me to repair the handle that gave way. I pull the toolbox over and open it. The hinges creak softly. Inside the tools glitter. The wrenches, the hammer, the pliers, they shine like gold coins dug up from a royal tomb. He watches my reaction as if it were of the greatest importance.

You won’t be able to fix a dump truck with that, he says, pointing, or modify a minibus, but it’s enough to see whether you still like your trade. Maybe that’s what will save us. You won’t just be a cripple anymore, and I’ll be able to get back to town.

I say nothing. I go about fixing the handle of the kettle, completely convinced that, whatever we do, whichever way we choose, our actions and decisions will be meaningless.

The day is bright. The sky has deepened. The wind died down.

Matthias is in the rocking chair. He has a book in his hand, but he hasn’t opened it. I practice balancing on my crutches. Suddenly there is the high-pitched whir of a motor. Matthias gets up and we both move to the window. A snowmobile is climbing the slope in our direction. A minute later the door swings open and Joseph steps inside with his arms loaded down with sacks and cartons. Matthias pulls on his coat to help him bring in the rest.

I would like to help too, but with my crutches all I can do is drag myself from one place to the other.

When they come back inside with the last of the provisions, Joseph declares that there is no use clearing the roof of snow. Matthias looks at him, surprised.

It’ll take me two days to shovel off all that, he explains, and I’d have to start all over anyway. I’d rather reinforce the ceiling beams, understand, the way they do in hunting camps before winter. That’s the best solution.

I notice two butterfly bandages above his eyebrow. Exactly like what I have on my left leg, but smaller.

I’ve got to find wood for the supports. And I’ll need help, Joseph says, pointing at me. You coming? It’ll do you good, I’m sure.

I pull myself onto my crutches. A wave of happiness flows over me.

Go ahead, take my coat and boots, Matthias offers as he opens one of the boxes of provisions.

Joseph is quick about getting me into Matthias’s clothes. Once he succeeds, he hands me my crutches and we go out.

It’s the first time I have been outside since the beginning of winter. The snow is dazzling.

And with that thought, I take my first step, and the tips of my crutches sink into the snow. I fall face first in front of the door. Joseph laughs at me a second, then leans over, grabs me with both arms, and sets me on the back of his yellow snowmobile.

Hang on tight, he tells me.

The motor roars to life. And we’re gone. I look behind and catch Matthias watching us move away before shutting the door. From this angle the other side of the house looks enormous compared to the porch buried in snow.

The cold air stings. It makes my eyelashes stick together and pinches my nostrils. It burns my lungs. We reach the line of the forest. It is more imposing than I imagined. We take a path that snakes between the trees. The way is completely virgin, smooth, and white. On each side, the spruce bend low with snow. When the path curves, Joseph accelerates so the snowmobile will not bog down and dig a trap for itself in the quicksand of snow. We come into a small clearing. I recognize this spot. Joseph slows down and stops the machine on a little rise where the wind has hardened the snow.

In front of us are targets nailed onto the tree trunks. We are at the shooting range at the foot of the mountain. A few kilometres from the village.

The winter silence is deafening.

Joseph pulls a bottle from his coat, takes a good hit, then hands the bottle to me.

You know, he says, turning to me, this is where our fathers and our uncles came to tune up their rifles every year, at the end of the summer. Us kids used to follow them, remember? They parked their vehicles at the entrance, over there, and they walked here with their cases in their hands. They would open them up and fire at the targets. We weren’t very old back then. But I remember the sound of the rifle shots. They never drank here. It was a rule. No need for anything artificial at the moment of truth, they used to say.

I watch birds quarrelling over a spot on the branches of a pine tree.

Your uncles were completely right, Joseph states, gazing at the forest around us, it was the right thing to leave before the snow fell. Life in the village isn’t easy, you know. When those outsiders showed up, Jude insisted we go back to our watchman duties. I suppose you heard about that?

Yes, Jean told us.

Did he tell you that at first Jude refused to put them up more than one night? Even José didn’t want to give them medicine. We had to convince them that they weren’t criminals and that we had enough food for three more people.

We smoke a cigarette, sending thick spirals into the crystal air. The shooting range looks like a narrow lake caught in the snow’s embrace.

Jude is getting hard to figure out. Maybe everyone is. The snow weighs heavily on our little lives. He’s got a new project, I hear. With Jean, José, and some others, he wants to turn a minibus into a snowmobile. Do you realize? That’ll never work! Even if they manage to do it, how far will they get? That kind of machine burns way too much gas. They’ll empty the village supply and end up running out of gas a hundred kilometres further on. Then what’ll they do? Go looking for help? When they didn’t even want to help a few strangers who showed up here! They don’t understand the only thing they’ll find out there is frigid cold and the wind off the sea. Unless they head for the city and rob everyone they come across on the way there. I bet they’re going to come looking for you to help them install the tracks. You’re the only mechanic for miles around. I told them to get lost every time they brought up the subject, he mutters, lifting the bottle to his mouth.

I take a long drag off my cigarette and tell Joseph I should have done like him and become a carpenter.

Forget about it, he sighs, that wouldn’t have changed anything. But you’d be better off not getting mixed up in that minibus business. Matthias should be careful too. The last few meetings have been pretty stormy. Some people want Jude to open the books. Other people want us to vote on every decision made. I’m trying to keep my distance, but events keep pulling me in. Judith died last week. She never got over the flu. There were complications. She was in terrible pain and José helped her cross over. Her family buried her not far from the village, in the snow. It was sad, what with her two small children. She got the flu, her temperature rose and it never came down. Even with the medicine. Ever since people get scared when they hear someone cough. Some of them are afraid of Maria, you know, because she has a lot of contact with the sick.

Joseph throws away his cigarette butt and hands me the bottle. With two free hands, he quickly sharpens the chainsaw.

And with all that, he shakes his head, pointing to his eyebrow, José knows I’m sleeping with Maria.