Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

If there’s any water left in the meat, it will rot.

For hours and hours, heads spinning from the smoke, we watch, hypnotized by the glowing embers and the delightful perspective of meals to come.

For some time now, we have not had to take turns keeping an eye on the fire. The cold is still insistent, but during the day, the heat of the sun helps us keep the house warm. From time to time, blocks of ice break off from the roof, slide down, and crash to the ground. Each time a powerful groan shakes the walls and we jump, as if an avalanche were bearing down on us. The ice that falls from the roof piles up in front of the window, the doorway, all around the house. It is surrounding us, walling us in.

This morning, opening my eyes, I hear an unusual sound. For a moment I figure another piece of icy snow is falling from the roof, and then I think someone is trying to sneak into the house. But the sound is coming from the chimney. Carefully, I approach the fireplace and stick my head into its black mouth. Suddenly, something bursts from the darkness and pushes against my face. I try to protect myself and end up falling backward. Matthias wakes up, startled at seeing me in a cloud of soot and ashes.

Above our heads a bird is frenetically throwing itself against the ceiling and windows. We want to capture it, but it is quick and frightened. Matthias throws his coat over it like a net and manages to still its flight. I take it firmly in my hands. It is a beautiful thing. Its heart is beating like crazy. At the same time it is completely calm. As if ready to die.

Outside, I ease my grip. For a fraction of a second the bird is motionless. Then it flies off and disappears.

We stand on the porch, as if waiting for something. The day is dawning before us and the snow gauge is standing free. Finally we go inside because of the morning chill.

I make coffee and contemplate the living room. We have taken apart the floor, done our washing, and darned our clothes. And stuffed ourselves on smoked fish. As we do every day, at every meal.

Matthias goes to the window and gazes pensively outside.

We could have varied our menu and eaten that bird, he points out.

True, I agree.

A little later Matthias heads off to the village in search of food. He looks determined. When he closes the door, a block of snow slides off the roof. I hear it pick up speed and crash to the ground with a dull, heavy thud. Just behind Matthias who goes on his way as if nothing had happened.

Matthias returns from the village at the end of the afternoon. I spot him coming up the slope. He is walking head down, and his progress is laborious. With every step his snowshoes sink into the wet snow. He comes in and collapses onto the sofa without taking off his boots.

His clothes are spattered with blood.

I found something to eat, he explains. But it didn’t go the way I thought it would.

I do nothing. I say nothing. I can’t keep my eyes off from the blood on his coat and pants.

Heat some water, he asks, barely lifting his head, do you mind? I have to wash off.

I stoke the fire and fill two kettles with snow. Matthias lets his clothes drop to the floor and wraps himself in a blanket. I ask no questions. I pick up his clothing and put it in the wash basin. A revolver slips to the floor. He bends over, picks it up, and hides it under the sofa cushions, away from my prying eyes.

I’d spotted a house that didn’t seem to have had any visitors for a while. Right behind the church. Maybe I could get my hands on something. Even if it was only some ketchup and mustard. People always leave stuff behind. I was trying to force the door when Jonas came up behind me in a panic. At first I thought he wanted pemmican, but he told me he needed help, he was being threatened. I showed him the house I was trying to break into, and told him he’d be better off hiding, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I had to go with him. I followed him to the stable. Five people were standing by the door. Four men and a woman.

They want to kill, they want to kill one of my cows, Jonas explained to me. He was a nervous wreck. They want to kill one of my cows. There’s only three left, just three.

I went over to the little group and we talked. It was very simple. They were starving. And there were three cows in the stable.

Jonas was desperate, but he knew he couldn’t stop the group. I asked him why he had come looking for me.

No one said anything.

I hear you have a gun, one of the men finally said.

I denied it.

That’s not what Jonas told us, he replied. Listen, nobody’s got a gun here anymore. Jude and his bunch took them all. We looked everywhere.

I started to back away.

We just want you to shoot a cow, the lady begged. We’ll share the meat.

It’s true, Jonas said. That’s why I went looking for you. The last time, the other time you went looking through your things to give me a piece of pemmican, I saw your gun, I saw your gun under your belt.

Why don’t you use a knife? I asked.

They’re my cows, Jonas insisted, they’re my cows. I don’t want them to suffer. I don’t want them to panic. The last time, the last time it turned out badly. Me, I told them to wait when I saw you go by.

I nodded my head.

Thank you, Jonas murmured, relieved, thank you.

It all happened very fast.

We went into the stable. They pointed out the cow. It was tied to a post. I took out my gun. The cow was beautiful and very calm. I walked right up to it, put the barrel of the gun to its ear, and fired. I didn’t think it would go off that quickly. And that the explosion would be so loud. The cow stood there a moment, then slid slowly to the ground. I don’t know why, but I wanted to catch it in its fall. But it was too heavy. I nearly broke my back. The next thing I knew, the guys started to cut up the animal. I let them go about their business, and I went back outside where Jonas was.

When he saw me, his eyes got wide and he looked away.

What’s wrong?

Blood, the blood on your clothes, he told me.

When I saw what had happened to my coat, my head started spinning.

Matthias is quiet. I look at him. His shoulders slump forward, his face is thin, his eyes are surrounded by dark circles. Suddenly he looks like nothing. Nothing but a weary body worn by years and circumstances.

During the great wars, he tells me, when the army was retreating, soldiers ate horses. Here it’s the end of the winter, and we’re eating our cows.

I take out the piece of meat he brought. It’s a good cut. I slice off several pieces and fry them quickly in a pan. When it is ready, I offer him dinner.

No thanks, I’m not hungry.

The ceiling is low. The clouds are sewn to the snow. It has been raining for the last ten days. Sometimes hard, sometimes just drizzle. As if the skies wanted to speed things up now and melt the landscape.

We tear down the room dividers and closets upstairs to feed the fireplace and bring down the humidity. When we pull off the drywall, dust goes billowing through the rooms and galaxies of particles float in the grey light of day. With a sledgehammer we break down the uprights, the lintels, and the two-by-fours. With every blow the house echoes like an empty theatre. Then we saw everything into pieces. A lot of work for not much wood. But it keeps us busy.

Often, before breaking down some sections, we have to cut the electrical wires that run from one wall to the next. I think of radiators, switches, ceiling lamps. I think of the constellations of green and red indicators that belong to electrical equipment. All that seems light years away.