Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

Hello?

No one home.

I pull off my snowshoes and move into the snowy shadows of the house.

There are boot tracks on the floor. Dirty dishes on the counter. Empty cans. I look in the cupboards: rice and flour. A good stock of potatoes, canned meat, and instant coffee. Dazzled by this wealth of supplies, I take a little of each and put everything in a bag. That way, nothing will be too obvious, and I will not go back empty-handed.

I go into the living room and put my hand on the woodstove. The metal is warm. Someone made a fire today. I sit down on one of the armchairs and set the bag on my knees. I unbutton my coat and exhale. My leg is hurting and my heartbeat is located next to my knee.

A heap of blankets lies near the stairway. The floor is covered by a large rug, a few items of clothing, and gossip magazines. My eyelids grow heavy. I fight sleep at first, shake myself, remind myself I have a long walk back. Then I drift off, momentarily forgetting the shooting pain in my leg.

Suddenly I’m awake. I heard someone cough. I’m sure I did. It wasn’t a dream. I turn around. I feel someone watching me. No one. No sound in this room.

It is still light out, but I don’t know how long I might have slept. I take my bag, get up, and walk toward the door. As I button my coat, I hear something again. Like the rattle in someone’s chest. It’s coming from upstairs.

I will go and see.

The stairs creak under my weight.

On the second floor, a hall and three bedrooms. The doors are open. I look into the first room. Two people are in bed and a third is lying on pillows on the floor. They are not moving, but I hear them breathing. They are thin and pale. Their faces are hollow and their eyes so sunken I can see the bones of their skulls. I take a step, then hear a voice from the room next door. It is so weak and wavering I can hardly understand it.

Jannick? Is that you, Jannick?

I don’t answer. I go back down the stairs, making no noise, then out the door, leaving the bag of food on the front porch. They need it more than we do.

I cross the deserted village on my snowshoes. The wind has picked up. My tracks fade in the blowing snow, but still, they are visible. Matthias could follow me step by step if he wanted to. I adjust my scarf and trudge toward the edge of the village. The snow is dense and the crystals slash through the air sideways as if they were cut from sheet metal. I am limping seriously now. I have trouble lifting my left foot, and my snowshoe drags in the snow. I understand why neither my uncles, nor Joseph, nor Jude wanted to take me with them. I am not strong enough. Nor agile. The first obstacle would have killed me and they wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.

The sky has become a grey glow behind whirlpools of snow. I look up and try to situate myself in this empty landscape. Around me everything is black. Around me everything is white. To one side I can make out the dark line of the forest. It is the only sign that I am not moving through a desert.

I begin the climb toward the house. The slope is steeper than I thought. My breathing is laboured. My leg is numb from the effort.

I’ll make it, I know I will.

I hang onto my poles for dear life. I move like a snowplow down a mountain road, keeping my eyes dead ahead so I won’t be tempted by the precipice. Sweat runs down my skin and makes my clothes heavy. I must not stop. My body heat would disappear in a second and I would not be able to fend off the cold.

I must be halfway there. The wind tears at my coat. I try to make out the shape of the house at the top of the hill. But it is too dark now, and the snow is blinding.

I push forward, concentrating on the cold air rushing into my lungs. With each step my wounds could open. And then as I shift my weight, thinking of the comforting immobility of my splints, my left leg gives way and I collapse.

Face to the ground. When I try to lift myself with my arms, my hands sink into the snow. The wind whirls above me with great gesticulations and its gusts punish my face. I look toward the top of the hill. The snow is falling faster. The house must be there, somewhere, in the maw of winter.

I manage to stand, but I have to attach one of my snowshoes. The cold bites at my fingers and tries to devour my hands. The snow sticks to my clothes, my beard, my eyelashes. The upward slope has disappeared in the darkness.

I breathe deeply, concentrate my energy, and put one foot in front of the other.

But my leg gives way again.

I close my eyes for a moment. When I reach the house, I will get undressed and bundle up in a big wool blanket. A fire will be burning in the fireplace. Matthias will put the soup on. Maybe there will be black bread. I will eat everything he sets down in front of me, then I’ll fall asleep, watched over by the light and heat of the flames.

I open my eyes: I am still lying on the ground. And it’s snowing like crazy. I roll over, I struggle, I try to get up. But I only sink deeper. The cold is holding me down. Every movement weighs a tonne and I have no more strength. My leg has stopped sending pain signals. I don’t feel it anymore. I should have taken shelter with Jonas in the stable. I would have been comfortable in the straw. I would have been warm.

Ice is forming knots on my coat and hat and gloves. I must not stop, I must get up. I’m almost there. I stir into action. Propping myself up on my elbows, I crawl, I twist, I drag myself along the snow. I make a little progress, though it feels like I am sinking. Pulled down by icy underground currents.

I move more and more slowly. My hands are completely numb. Maybe I should do like Matthias and pray.

The blizzard howls. It is impatient, eager to cover me up, embrace me, and close over me. It can salivate a little before it devours me.

I curl up to keep warm. I am like everybody else. I cannot accept the possibility of my death. I am too afraid.

I try to stay calm, but my breathing is out of control.

I can’t stay here. I have to keep moving.

The snow is a bed of cutting crystals.

I have to stand up, but the cold won’t let me.

I refuse to go this way, bent into myself, face to the ground.

I gather my courage and roll onto my back, my arms outstretched, palms open to the sky.

All around me shadows prowl.

The night is hungry. And the snow carnivorous.

I awake suddenly as if someone had grabbed me by the collar to save me from drowning. I am lying by the fireplace. I feel the weight of my legs at the far end of my body but do not dare move them.

The daylight is dazzling on the other side of the window. The sun is melting the snow on the roof, and water comes streaming down everywhere, along the roofline. The smell of flour is in the air. I turn my head and see Matthias kneeling in front of the fire. On the coals there is a kettle of soup and an aluminum plate with slices of black bread.

I sit up and touch my face. Frostbite has formed a film of dead skin like a snake that has molted.

Matthias looks in my direction. I raise my chin to swallow my saliva. We consider each other for a moment. Then he shakes his head and sighs, disapproving of my stubborn nature. Or refusing to believe in my resilience. I lift my eyebrows. He gives me a bowl of soup and a slice of bread. It has been a while. I eat hungrily. After the meal, Matthias makes instant coffee.