Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

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.

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.

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 to 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.