Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

During the day, we take long breaks and go to the window to watch nature’s slow transformation.

Winter’s finishing up, Matthias says pensively, several times over. The roads will be passable soon enough.

Every time he mentions his departure, I wonder what kind of condition the city is in. Maybe power has been re-established, and life is going back to normal. Or maybe everyone has fled, abandoning the old, the sick, and the weak. Like here.

The temperature fell below freezing today. The snow hardened in the cold air, and we can walk on it a lot more easily. We use the opportunity to go in search of provisions.

To increase our chances, we split up. Matthias goes to the village, of course, and I climb toward the house by the lake.

As I close in on it, I look across to the mountains. I can feel the trees wanting to shake off the snow. There are no footprints around the house. The place looks deserted. No one has shovelled around the front door. I don’t know why, but the old shed attracts my attention. As if work spaces and storerooms have always been more familiar than the order and comfort of the house.

I want to go in, but the doors are caught in the snow and ice. I break a small window around the side. I make sure to break the glass cleanly, then I climb through.

The inside of the shed smells of dust, old oil, and closed-in spaces. My eyes grow accustomed and, little by little, the darkness gives up its secrets. Wood shavings, tools, tobacco cans full of screws, nails, and bolts. A wide workbench runs along the wall. At the back, by a heap of shovels and rakes, I spot two gas cans. There is even a canoe, upside down, in the rafters.

In the middle a tarp covers a heavy-looking block. I lift the cloth: it’s a four-by-four ATV. An old model. I sit down on the seat and put my hands on the controls. As I rest my leg, I picture myself speeding down the logging roads.

The key is in the ignition. I turn it. No answer. The battery must be dead. I pull on the starter rope. Nothing doing there either. I look beneath the machine to inspect the starter cable. Everything seems to be in working order. I take off the spark plug and carburetor, then clean and replace them.

I get back up and feel that this time the machine will roar to life. I pull on the rope and the motor starts right up. I hit the accelerator to wake up the engine. The smell of combustion fills the shed. When I turn it off and replace the tarp, I think of Matthias with his car and figure that I have no reason to envy him.

On the way out, I cover the window with a piece of plywood. It is still light out, but the day will soon be over. If I want to get back by nightfall, I won’t have time to look through the house. That will wait.

On the way home, I turn around a few times. I’m worried. The shed is a treasure chest, and even if the snow is hard, my tracks can still be seen. Anyone could follow them. You can’t hide anything from the snow.

The snow has melted by half over the last few days. Or nearly half. Enough so we can make out the rushing veins of water running beneath what remains of the ice and snow. When we step onto the porch and listen, we can hear the rivulets. In spots we can see bare ground. Islands of yellow grass, crushed by winter. When we turn our eyes toward the village, we see that sections of the road are starting to appear where the sun shines with full force.

It is evening now. Sitting across from each other, we are eating a can of corn beef that Matthias managed to unearth during his last expedition. We each take a spoonful, alternating scrupulously. When we have finished, he throws the metal container into the fire. The label burns immediately, then the metal glows red before turning completely black.

I did not tell Matthias what I discovered in the shed. He reveals none of his preparations, though he does describe the book he is reading, where the inhabitants of a village set in the middle of the jungle have been held prisoner by solitude for the last hundred years.

Matthias blows out the candle and we settle in to sleep. We stare at the ceiling weakly lit by the shimmering glow of the embers. Then he tells me he would have liked to play a game of chess. I warn him that I would have beaten him. We laugh. And I say I would have gladly drunk another bottle of wine. Like that day on the lake.

His voice is so low I can scarcely hear him when he says that was one of the best times all winter.

In the fireplace the ashes have won over the embers. The darkness is complete, and the silence that settles over us is comfortable.

I open my eyes when I hear the door close. Outside it is light, but the sun hasn’t risen yet. The fire has been lit and the coffee is ready. I go to the window with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Matthias is heading down the hill.

Something isn’t right. Why would he go to the village this early? I’m confused. Then I see the note on the bedside table. I don’t bother reading it, I pull on my clothes and rush outside. When he hears me calling, he stops and looks back. I reach him, limping and out of breath.

What’s with you?

Where are you going?

To the village – why?

There’s still too much snow, I tell him.

Matthias sighs, then looks me over. As if nothing ever happens the way he’d planned.

Look at me, look around, he tells me, furious. I’m old, I was patient all winter, and now spring is here. I can’t wait anymore. I’ve waited too much as it is. The roads are passable, the snow is melting fast. Look, you can see the asphalt on the village streets.

There’s still too much snow, I’m telling you, you’ll get stuck.

I’ve got a car, gas, tires with chains, and food. I even have a gun.

That’s not the point. Wait a few more days. Until it melts some more.

I’m the one who’s melting. I can’t take it anymore. I took care of you, you’re fine now, so let me go. I need to get back to my wife, can’t you understand? I need to find her.

I take a step closer, hoping to reason with him. Matthias backs away.

Let me at least walk you to the village.

No, he shouts. You’re going to turn around and leave me alone.

I move closer to him.

There’s too much snow, I insist, the roads will be blocked when you get to the mountains, you won’t even reach the villages on the coast.

Just as I’m about to put my hand on his shoulder, he pushes me away and pulls out his gun.

I freeze. His hand is trembling.

Above our heads a flight of geese crosses the sky, squawking.

You’re going to turn around, Matthias repeats. And you’re going to let me go.

He moves away, backing off carefully, the gun still pointed at me. The sun is rising. The geese have passed. I can hear them, though they have disappeared from sight. Matthias turns and disappears, following the slope down to the village. I know he would not have fired, but I didn’t want to push things.

Back at the house, I pace for a while. I drop onto the sofa and close my eyes, but sleep does not come. The smell of rotting fish hangs in the room. With all the humidity, the last bits have started to rot. I hurry outside to throw them away, then circle the house, looking for something to do. I stand in front of the fleshless body of the porch, which has become visible with the melting snow. Several times, I hear a car engine in the distance, down the hill.

I make my way through the debris and icy snow. I can’t get all the way to the trap door to the cellar, but by lifting lengths of sheet metal and planks, I find several dented cans, a torn bag of noodles, and a few damp packets of powdered soup. Everything is in bad shape, and I don’t know whether I’ll be able to do anything with it.