Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

Saliva sprays my face as his bony hand holds me prisoner. I reach out to grab one of my crutches, but he reads my mind. With one hand he pushes them out of reach. With the other he steps up the pressure, pushing my head deep into the mattress.

Look at me, he thunders. I’m twice your age. But I won’t be pushed around. Not by you. Not by Jude. Not by anybody in this place!

Our breath comes hard and fast. Our eyes are glued to each other. Then, for a split second, I sense a weakness in the muscles of his face.

Everything happens very fast. I let out a shout. Matthias is startled. I push him away and free myself from his grip. I slip off the bed and crawl toward the door, paying no attention to the shards of glass on the floor. Matthias grabs my ankle. I fight back with my other leg. Though the pain blinds me, I manage to kick him in the crotch. I knock the wind out of him, and his balance goes. He falls backward, hitting a post and knocking it flat as he falls.

When he gets to his feet among the upended chairs, his nostrils flare and he is staring straight ahead. He sizes me up, picks up one of my crutches, and waves it in the air like a club. I dodge the first blow by backing against the wall. I parry the second with the stool that stands by the front door. I ward off his assault and look for a way out. If I manage to stand, he’ll knock me down. If I open the door to escape, I won’t get further than a few metres. I throw the stool, but I don’t have much strength, and it falls to the floor before reaching its target. Matthias attacks again, I roll in a ball to protect myself, the crutch slams into one of the posts that breaks free from the impact. He roars in pain; the blow must have travelled up his hands.

He prepares to attack again as I try to reach the poker from the stove. Suddenly, a groaning sound startles us both. Matthias freezes on the spot, but I stay in my defensive crouch, keeping my eyes on him. I hear water pouring onto the floor. He has recovered his senses and stares in amazement at the state the room is in. I lift my head and glance at the ceiling. There are four or five leaks now. And the window next to my bed is cracked from one end to the other.

A great boom shakes the porch. Seconds later, the window explodes into pieces, icicles fall away from the roof, and cold air invades the room.

Matthias stands there, uncomprehending, like a monument from a bygone age. Outside, the rain has changed back into snow and the wind rushes in to scatter flakes on the floor, the bed, and the stove. The beams groan dangerously. Matthias looks at me. Winter is walking on our heads. Then part of the ceiling collapses and knocks him to the floor under a tonne of wreckage, pieces of sheet metal, and blocks of ice.

The porch is a heap of snowy debris, and a wide expanse of sky stretches above our heads. The lamp was spared by the collapse, but it fell off the table and shattered, and the pool of oil continues to burn. I pick myself up and hurry to throw snow on the flames. The room goes very dark with only the light of the night sky coming through the breach in the ceiling. I turn my attention to Matthias. He is unconscious but still breathing, I believe. His legs are buried beneath a broken beam, twisted sheet metal, and snow. I try to free him by pulling on his arms, but it is no use. I kneel by his side and dig at the snow with my hands. I push aside the blocks of ice, pull away the sheet metal, and with a piece of wood prevent the beam from collapsing further and crushing his legs. Despite the numbing cold, I manage to grab him by the armpits and pull him across the floor. He is heavy. Like the dead weight of a corpse I must hide. I pause for a moment and lift my eyes toward the snowy sky. We were lucky after all: part of the roof still holds.

Everything could have ended here, I say, shivering. Everything could have ended. But it didn’t.

I go back to work, take hold of Matthias again, and carry him over to the other side.

I set him on the sofa in the living room and cover him with blankets I found upstairs. I consider tying his hands, but decide not to. I picture the scene over and over, and I don’t understand. The man who was boiling with anger a few minutes ago is now pale and fragile.

There is no wood in the room. To light a fire in the fireplace, I break two chairs into pieces. But the wood burns fast and the heat disappears up the large stone chimney.

For a time I try to sleep by curling up on the love seat, but I’m cold and my legs hurt too much. I get up, smash another chair, and sit in front of the fireplace, massaging my painful limbs.

The night deepens as I stare at the room in the wavering firelight. The bookshelves, half empty, the open drawers of the furniture, the shards of dishes, the disorder, it all reminds me of pictures of earthquakes or tidal waves.

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.