Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

In the village, he says, I found a bag of food on a front porch. I figure someone left it for us. At least that’s what I thought when I saw there was a little bit of everything inside. Maybe people aren’t so stingy as we thought.

Next to the fireplace is a crowbar and a pile of short planks.

I started pulling up the hardwood floors in the rooms upstairs, he explains. Look how good it burns.

He throws a few pieces on the fire. The varnish melts, bubbles, colouring the flames, then evaporates. The wood is dense. It burns well and produces a lot of heat.

We’ll survive this, he predicts, showing me the book that was on his bedside table. The blackout, your accident, this village – just detours, unfinished stories, fortuitous meetings. Winter nights and travellers.

I watch the pieces of wood being consumed. The nails that are left turn red, fall, and are lost in the carpet of hot ashes where the coals glow.

I didn’t break anything. My legs are swollen, but I’ll be all right. I’ll be back walking again, tomorrow, soon. But I probably won’t be able to trust them.

Matthias stares at me, his head to one side.

I told you you’d never make it.

We have had a week of good weather, maybe more. At midday, we can feel the temperature rise above the freezing point. But when the sun sets, the landscape drops down below zero as if the illusions of the day had no effect on the world of the night.

Slowly, the skin of my face is healing. I went to look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and I just look like I have a bad sunburn.

Yesterday we did an inventory of our reserves. We have been rationing for a while, and skipping a meal now and again. Matthias went to the village this morning. I used the time to do the exercises he taught me earlier in the winter. I concentrated on my leg. So it won’t give out on me again in the middle of nowhere.

Early in the afternoon, I stick my nose outside for the first time since Matthias found me in the blizzard. I lean on the door frame and watch the light nestle in the black arms of the trees. With the growing warmth, the snow seems to be sinking deeper into the landscape. I stand there for a time, between the day’s warm caresses and the wind’s icy hands. I think of my uncles, who must have put out chairs on the front steps of the hunting camp to soak up the sun and listen to the promises spring makes. I think of my map in the wreckage of the porch. And my slingshot and spyglass.

The sight of Matthias climbing the hill tears me from my daydreams. He joins me in the doorway.

I searched a few houses but didn’t find much, except for these dried dates. We’re not the only ones going over the places with a fine-toothed comb. And this time no one left us any bags of food. I’m going back tomorrow. There are still some houses to check.

We eat a few dates. They are stiff and dry.

With a few of these, he points out, the men of the desert could survive for weeks.

I give him a penetrating look.

How long in the frozen desert?

Eat and we’ll see.

We suck the remaining nourishment from the pits and watch the sun flood over the surroundings. I gaze at the distant mountains, a series of superimposed planes.

Suddenly an idea comes to me.

There’s a lake in the back country, a few kilometres from here.

What about it?

We can go fishing.

It’s winter, he says stubbornly.

I know. And we have everything we need in the basement. A shovel, a chainsaw, fishing line.

Matthias squints at me.

Is it far?

A few kilometres, the other way from the village.

You’ll never make it, he tells me categorically.

I’m better and you know it. I’m still limping, but I’m better. We’ll leave early to be back before dark.

We move across the crusty snow hardened by the cold of the night. We make slow progress, slowly but surely. Matthias is pulling the sled with the equipment. He is huffing and puffing like an old horse, but he isn’t letting go. I’m saving my strength by putting most of my weight on my poles.

When we finally reach the lake, the sun is just peeking over the treetops. We get right to work, moving onto the middle of the frozen surface, then shovelling aside the snow for a few metres in all directions. Beneath our feet the ice is smooth and dark. I start up the chainsaw and cut a wide rectangle. The ice is very thick. It takes a while before the water begins to bubble up and we can push the block under the surface.

I attach gold-coloured lures to the end of our fishing lines. It’s not ideal, but it’s all I could find. Once we catch something, we will be able to use it for bait. Fish don’t have any taboos.

We sit down on the sled. The sun caresses our shoulders and the backs of our heads. Our lines are deep in the cold, black water. From time to time the ice grumbles, and cracks run between our legs and dart across the frozen lake.

The light changes quickly, the sun turns and lengthens our shadows. A snowy owl flies high above without a sound. In its claws it grasps the body of a rabbit that it is about to devour.

Matthias leans over the hole we have cut.

They aren’t biting, he sighs. Maybe we should have set snares for rabbits. Do you know how to do that?

My uncles trapped when I was young, but I never tried.

Just then I spot a house hidden among the trees at the edge of the lake. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it sooner. From here I can’t tell if anyone is living there, but there are no signs of life around it. Once again I could use my spyglass. One thing is clear: there is no smoke coming from the chimney.

Did you see that? I ask Matthias, pointing at the house.

He pays me no mind. He is concentrating on opening a bottle of wine with a corkscrew.

That’s the wine Joseph gave us?

Yes, monsieur.

Warmed by the heat of the sun, we drink and stare at our fishing lines. Warmed by the wine too. As we pass the bottle, the air grows milder. There is not a breath of wind. The mountains thrust out their chests, and the snow is splendid.

Tell me, he asks abruptly, do you think that eight canisters of gas is enough?

I glance at the house by the shore. Nothing moving there. But if there are people inside, they must be watching. And laughing because we haven’t caught anything.

What do you think? Matthias insists.

It depends.

He nods and waits for the rest.

It depends on the motor, it depends on the road, it depends on all kinds of things.

But it’s possible?

I consider the sun that has started its descent toward the horizon.

Yes, maybe. With a little luck.

He gets to his feet, shouting.

I’ve got something, I’ve got a bite!

He reels in his line, as excited as a schoolboy, and pulls a handsome trout from the dark waters of the lake. With one hand he proudly displays his catch. With the other he grabs the bottle of wine. He keeps the pose a moment as if I were going to take a picture, then sits down silently, watching the life slip away from the fish’s writhing form.

Give it to me, I tell him.

I unhook the trout and cut it into pieces so we can bait our hooks. As soon as we get our lines back in the water, Matthias pulls another trout to the surface. Two minutes later it’s my turn to get lucky.

We’re off to the races.

And we still have plenty of wine.

For three days, we ate all the fish we could. Today we are smoking the rest. A cloud is floating through the living room. Our eyes are stinging and our clothes stink.

We set the fillets on a grill above the fire and feed it slowly, just enough to keep it from going out. That way the smoke stays dense and thick. It is easy, but it takes forever. It shouldn’t cook, it should dry. Matthias made that clear.