Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

Between two gusts of wind, I hear another sound. I think it is coming from the other side. Some small animal slipping along the wall in search of a way into our cellar. A mouse, maybe, or an ermine or a squirrel. Or something bigger, I can’t tell.

I raise myself onto my elbows and look around the room, but the darkness is complete. I can’t even make out Matthias on the sofa. In the depths of the night, only the red maw of the woodstove is visible.

The snow finally let up a few hours ago, at the end of the afternoon. The sky has lifted and the line of trees has become visible again, clear and imposing. With my spyglass, I examine the landscape to see if someone might be coming our way, but I spot only trees weighed down by snow. Beneath the branches are an infinite number of tunnels leading toward the mountains; those passageways are shored up by columns of stoic sap. The forest is a vault, vast and alive. I understand my aunts and uncles who have stayed there.

At this time of day, they must be debating one thing or another in their loud voices around the stove. The disorder of their words laid one on top of the other and their exclamations are the fruit of the alcohol they have not forgotten to bring, the precious rations that keep them warm. They talk about the day’s hunt, or maybe stories from years past. They tease, they cut each other off, they start all over again. That’s how it is. How it’s always been. A storm of stories and jokes and laughter that makes the winter easier to bear.

Here the snow piles up in silence as Matthias cooks and cleans and I lose myself in the landscape. Here life is measured by supply days and nursing days. Here I cannot escape my bed and my wood splints.

Water is boiling in a big pot. Matthias gets up and pours it into the plastic basin. He sets the steaming receptacle on the edge of the table, and with a bar of soap and a sponge in his hand he comes at me.

Get undressed, it’s bath time.

One by one I pull off my sweaters. But my T-shirt sticks to my skin and I get caught in one of them. Before finally coming to my rescue, Matthias watches me struggle uselessly. Then he pushes aside the blankets and rolls me onto one side to remove my underwear. Since he can’t slide it down my legs because of my splints, he cuts it along one side. That way, he can take it off and put it back on afterward much more easily. Practical for him, but embarrassing for me.

I am naked on the edge of the bed. I feel my bones pushing against my flesh. Matthias moves the rocking chair over and puts his arms around my waist.

Come on now.

I grab onto his neck. His arms tighten, he grasps me to his chest and carries me to the rocking chair. When he sets me down, pain travels from my tibias to my jawbone. I try to concentrate on the cold drafts blowing across my skin. Matthias soaks the sponge in soapy water and hands it to me.

At least this way, if Maria comes calling in the next few days, you’ll be cleaner, he jokes.

We size each other up a moment, then I look down at my splints. They are like hollow tree trunks, eaten away by ants.

Matthias sighs and shakes his head.

You know, sooner or later I’m going to make you talk. One way or another.

I wash myself the best I can, my arms, my armpits, between my legs. The sponge quickly cools off and the water evaporates off my body, carrying with it what little heat I have. I go as fast as I can. I clean my neck and face. My body shivers and goosebumps break out everywhere. I cough to let Matthias know I have finished. He takes over and rubs my back, thighs, and feet. He is brusque, rough but efficient. When he finishes, he hands me my sweater, then helps me put on a new pair of cut underwear.

I feel better sitting on the chair. Still as frail, maybe, but in better spirits. Matthias hands me a glass of water and some pills. They don’t look the same colour as the usual ones. I don’t care. I grab them and swallow them down.

Before putting me back in bed, Matthias washes himself in the same water. From the corner of one eye, I see him unlace his shoes, unbutton his sweater, and pull off his pants. He turns his back. Lit by the wavering light of the oil lamp, his silhouette is diaphanous. Even if he is well built and moves quicker than I do, his buttocks droop and his vertebrae press against his skin. I watch him scrub away at his bony body, rinse off quickly, and throw his clothes back on. The click of his belt buckle rattles in the room. When he moves to the mirror to smooth his hair, he stands still a moment, facing his reflection. He mutters something, but I can’t make out what he is saying. A prayer, an incantation, or a sob.

When he turns around, I close my eyes and my neck muscles relax, as if I had drifted off.

Matthias takes a few steps in my direction.

You’ll see, it won’t be long with the pills you took – you won’t have to pretend you’re sleeping. You really will be quiet.

I am walking on a path of cracked earth and roots. The sun is beating down on the forest, the air is hot, and everything is dry. All around the trees press in, opaque and spiny. I am carrying a big bag on my back, yet it is weightless. Hidden in the branches, birds call to each other. Their song is clear, but I can’t recognize the species. Squirrels dart across the path. There are many of them, and they are bold. They stop and examine me, crying out on their strident voices. I try to pay them no mind. My pace is good. Self-assured and vigorous. Suddenly the surroundings grow dark. The birds take flight, the squirrels huddle in their hiding places, the other animals slip into the underbrush. I move faster now. I have no idea what is happening. The wind rises and blows from every direction. The forest has turned on its head. I move faster still. Suddenly I smell smoke. I don’t know where it is coming from. I spot a tall cedar a hundred metres off. I drop my bag and reach the tree by jumping over the roots that try to grab my ankles. The cedar is huge and its trunk lifts high into the sky. I grab onto its fibrous bark and climb as far up as I can. Everywhere is the smell of burned fibre, metal heated white hot, and charred flesh. When I can finally see over the crests of the pines in their close ranks, I see immense flames, swollen with pride and desire. They move forward, their step heavy, they laugh twisted laughter and devour the forest with an insatiable appetite.

I sit up in bed as if emerging from a coma. My dream scatters immediately, but my eyes and throat are stinging. My lungs are burning. In the dazzling light of day, a thick cloud of smoke whirls through the room.

I look around. Matthias is nowhere in sight. I am having trouble breathing. I cover my mouth with the edge of the sheet. Smoke is billowing from a pot on the stove like an erupting volcano.

I stir into action. I consider easing myself out of the bed, but I will never be able to lift myself up to reach the pot. Or open the door. But I have to get out of here! And in a hurry. Get out or do something. Do something or call for help. That’s it, call for help. I have no choice.

Fire! Fire!

A few seconds later, the door to the other side swings open and Matthias runs into the room, through the spiralling smoke.

He moves to the stove, picks up the first piece of cloth he sees, grabs the pot, and rushes outside.

The smoke dissipates, driven out by the cold drafts of air. The room stinks, but at least we can breathe again. Matthias stands frozen in the doorway, staring at the sweater he picked up to protect his hand. The wool has been burned through in several places by the red-hot metal.

My wife gave me this sweater, he says in a shaky voice. I never wore it much, but I take it wherever I go.