The Weight of Snow

SIXTY-TWO

Yesterday, the wind turned calm and fat heavy flakes began to fall. The snow continues to fall in tight ranks, in parallel formation. We can hardly make out the snow gauge. The trail that Matthias left over the past days has been completely swallowed up. A cottony silence has settled over everything. All I hear are the flames licking the sides of the woodstove and Matthias rolling out pie dough on the counter.

There is a knock on the door.

Matthias turns around, shakes the flour off his clothes, and rushes to open the door. A man walks into the room, covered with melting snow. He is carrying a bag on his back, and he sets it down and goes to sit on the stool by the entrance. He pulls off his coat and catches his breath. We quickly recognize the man, his face, his beard, his high forehead. It’s Joseph.

Matthias is happy to see him, and it shows. He offers to make him coffee, then tells him to get warm by the stove. Joseph thanks him, rolls up the sleeves of his woollen sweater, and takes out his tobacco. Joseph lights his cigarette, sending thick scrolls of smoke into the air. He gives us both a long look. Matthias puts water on to boil and casts an eye at the bag our visitor has brought, while I sit up as straight as I can in my bed.

And so, he asks, trying to hide a look of disapproval, how are things?

At his feet, the snow is melting, turning to water, and forming a pool. It is as if he were sitting on a rock, looking off into the distance, toward our desert island.

SIXTY-THREE

In the village, Joseph begins, some people claim it’s going to snow for the next few days. I don’t know how they can read the clouds, but that’s what they’re saying. And they’re saying it’s going to be a long winter. But you don’t need a crystal ball to come to that conclusion. In any case, this is a lot of snow for this time of year. Even with my snowshoes, it’s not easy to get up here. I think your house is moving a little further from the village every day.

When he speaks, Joseph waves his arms in the air and the ash falls off his cigarette, though he doesn’t notice.

This week, a group of hunters came out of the woods. Everyone had given up hope of seeing them again. The rest of them had returned from their camps a long time ago. They wanted to avoid needless manoeuvres, so they waited until the ice on the lakes was thick enough to bear their weight. With all the moose carcasses they were bringing back, I can understand. In the village, everyone’s busy salting the meat and putting it up. There’s no prettier sight.

He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned over me.

But we still have no news of your family. In the village, some people are saying that they had trouble in the woods and got trapped in the snow. Who knows? People tell all kinds of stories. Maybe they decided to spend the winter in the woods, far from the blackout and everyone else. I’m not worried about them, they’ve seen it all before.

As Matthias serves us coffee, I picture my uncles and their hunting camp. It stands on the bank of a river, between two chains of mountains. At that spot, I remember, the water is fast and the riverbed is deep and green. To get across you need a canoe. On the other side, the cedars are enormous and moss carpets the ground. The camp is back from the river. You follow a path made of roots to reach it. When you spot the chimney through the trees, you’re there. It’s not very big, but there’s room for everyone. They could very well spend the winter there.

You know, Joseph continues, we’ve had a few meetings in the village. Even with the blackout, Jude wanted to go on being mayor. At first we weren’t too sure, but José threw his support behind him and everyone got used to the idea. After all, we’re not so bad off, and we owe that to Jude. He does the coordination work, takes good care of our precious supply of gas, and distributes the provisions that were stored in the grocery. Since the blackout hit, half the population has deserted the village. People went to other villages, or the city, or maybe into the woods, who can say? Jude is right. No sense leaving. Or worrying more than we need to. We have to stick together and make it through the winter. It’s strange, but if you ask me, the snow has made people calmer. Almost everyone was there when it was time to bring in the stove wood. I’ll be bringing you some soon.

A prisoner of my bed, I curse my fate. I would have loved to contribute and fell a few tall trees. Instead, I twist and turn in bed, my head in a vise and my legs in splints.

Meanwhile, Joseph adds, we keep watch over the entrance to the village, but with this buildup of snow, I’d be surprised if we had any visitors. I’m happy not to have to do surveillance and carry my rifle wherever I go anymore. The thing is heavy for nothing. If there’s a problem, the church bells will sound the alarm. That church has to be good for something. Jude asked us to go through the abandoned houses and gather up the supplies that people left behind. In one cellar, we found someone’s garden harvest – potatoes, carrots, and turnips.

With those words, Joseph picks up the bag and sets it on the table. Matthias reaches for it immediately, delighted by the abundant manna.

And someone managed to dig up an old short-wave radio kit and solar panels, Joseph says.

Were you able to communicate with other villages? Matthias questions him.

No. We tried, but no one really knows how to use that thing. On the other hand, with the solar panels we can recharge our batteries without starting up the generators. And I found a hand-powered water pump. We drove a pipe into the snow and we can finally draw water directly from the river. We also came across some propane tanks, fondue pots, tools, and blankets. Some people use the search to take all the money they can find, as if the return of the electricity would usher in their hour of glory. There were a few skirmishes, but no one wanted to get involved.

Did you bring some milk? Matthias interrupts him.

No, that will be next time. There are only twelve cows left in the stable. All the rest turned into meat. The herd would not have made it through the winter with the hay we have. To go looking for milk is complicated, so we keep it for the children. But everyone who tasted your cheese really liked it. Some of them are ready to barter to get more.

Matthias raises his eyes and gives Joseph a questioning look.

I’m telling you, your cheese really is good. You should go see Jacques. He lives in the old hunting and fishing store. He’s an odd duck, but his offers are always the best. Everyone ends up doing business with him.

Matthias thinks it over a moment, then goes back to methodically putting away the meat, vegetables, and preserves. Joseph comes over to me.

It’s good, you’re getting stronger, or at least it looks that way to me. In the village nobody believes me when I say you’re going to make it. While we’re at it, I have a present for you. A while back I went and had a look at the old mine entrance. I hadn’t been inside for fifteen years. Remember? We went there all the time when we were kids. I’d heard that people had holed up in there looking for shelter. But there was no one, that was just a rumour. Anyway, what can anyone do in that place? I mean, besides sneaking a cigarette, scaring the bats by shooting at them, and drawing timeless pictures of extinct animals on the walls? You remember, don’t you?

Then Joseph slips his hand into the inside pocket of his coat and hands me a little box.

I stumbled over this in there.

As I am about to open it, I notice Matthias watching us on the sly as he divides up the rest of the supplies in the cellar. In the box, I discover a slingshot and a few iron pellets. I pick it up, test the elasticity of the rubber band, weigh the pellet in my hand, and place it in the middle of the leather band. I aim at different objects in the room, but don’t dare take a shot. Joseph smiles.

I knew you’d like it. We had the same kind back in the day. Next time we’ll see which one of us can still hit a target, but right now I have to go if I want to be back in the village before dark. Oh, I forgot, Maria says she’ll come see you in the next few days.

As Joseph puts his coat back on and chats with Matthias, I practice with the slingshot, thinking of my uncles in the heart of the forest, living off the hunt.

Joseph says goodbye and closes the door. Suddenly the room seems empty. On the floor, his boot prints shine like great interlocking lakes seen from a mountain top at dawn.

Outside, shadows lengthen over the landscape. The wind has risen. I can hear it swoop down the stovepipe. The snow is heavy now. The flakes are so big that a single one could blot out the view. Matthias lights the oil lamp and, his eyes shining, holds up a package of meat high in the air like a trophy, like precious spoils.

So, hungry now?

SEVENTY-ONE

The squall shakes the porch, the walls groan, and the silence shatters clean through.

Matthias is sleeping. His breathing blends in with the flames growling in the woodstove. And the gusts of wind trapped under the eaves. Sleep eludes me. I think of Maria, the way she speaks to me, the way she laughs at my silence, her hands gentle when she examines my wounds, and the memories that well up when I see her. She hasn’t come to see me for a long time. Time heals what it can, but nothing has been resolved. I am still lying here, and I watch the days leading one into the other and hope one day that my legs will carry me again. Meanwhile, Matthias feeds and cares for me. I know he has no choice. We are each other’s prisoners.

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.

SEVENTY-SEVEN

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.

SEVENTY-SEVEN

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.

EIGHTY-ONE

The barometer points skyward and daylight floods the room. I lie in the sun the way cold-blooded animals do.

Ever since he forced me to call Fire! Fire! Matthias has not stopped pressing his advantage.

The neighbour lady never came, and your aunts and uncles left you here. We are alone in this world. But at least now you’re talking. I know it’s true, I heard you. I always knew you’d end up giving in.

Suddenly, the sound of a motor in the distance. Matthias freezes, as if he had heard the cry of an animal that has been extinct for millions of years. I get out my spyglass and scan the horizon. A yellow snowmobile appears at the top of the hill. It is pulling a sled piled high with wood. The driver is standing, head lowered, both hands gripping the controls. I lose him behind some trees, but the noise of the clattering pistons comes closer. The yellow snowmobile speeds into sight, then halts by the front door. It’s Joseph with his load of wood. Matthias hurries to open the door.

Smells like smoke here, Joseph says.

Matthias dodges the subject and asks him how he managed to find some gas. Joseph leans against the door frame. His eyes are shining.

I didn’t have to convince anyone, you know.

Matthias pitches in to unload the wood. When they finish they come inside to warm up and drink coffee. Joseph figures we can heat the place for quite a while with what he brought. Not all the way to spring, but almost. But there’s some green birch in the lot, he warns us.

You’ll see, some of the logs will hiss.

He pulls out a metal flask and pours some brownish alcohol into his coffee. Then he inquires after Maria.

I bet José was with her when she came. He’d follow her everywhere if he could.

Matthias and I look at each other.

We haven’t seen Maria in a long time, Matthias says.

Really, Joseph says, surprised, that’s strange. Everything’s quiet in the village. I’m going to go see her, he decides, turning up the collar of his coat. If José lets me. You know, it’s never easy with guys like him.

Then Joseph drinks off the rest of his coffee, wishes us well, and climbs onto his snowmobile. Before he starts it, Matthias runs out to remind him not to forget to bring milk next time. For cheese. Joseph nods, pulls on the crank, and damages the landscape by revving up the engine.

Meanwhile, in the woodstove, the green logs whistle in the flames as if cursing their fate.

EIGHTY-ONE

Today, everything is grey. The snow and the sky run together. Only the black triangle of the tall spruce trees hints at the horizon.

Matthias has gone out. With my spyglass, I watch him trudging ahead, fighting the snow. More than once he stops to catch his breath, then sets out again with a determined step. Further on, in the folds of the landscape, I spot another figure. The person is wearing a bright red coat and moving quickly, as if she were gliding over the snow. When Matthias sees her, he waves. They move toward each other and come together in the clearing, near the snow gauge. I watch them talk a moment, then they turn toward the house.

A short time later the door opens and Matthias comes in with Maria. As he shakes off his snowshoes, she leans her cross-country skis against the wall and unbuttons her coat. I try to sit up in bed in as dignified a way as possible.

How are you doing? she asks.

I go to answer, but Matthias cuts in first.

He’ll make it, he says, he’ll make it.

Joseph told me you’re doing better, Maria pursues, looking me in the eye, and I see he’s right. Can I examine you?

I nod. She comes closer, acknowledging my smile, then puts down the bag she was wearing across her body. When she leans over to place her hand on my forehead, I can sense the shape of her breasts beneath her sweater.

I would like to thank her. Tell her I’m happy to see her, that I remember her, back when she was young, when we were in school together. Tell her how beautiful a woman she has become, that her wavy hair and delicate features and the ease of her gestures would bring a dying man back to life. But when I open my mouth to speak, she sticks a thermometer into it.

Keep it under your tongue and close your lips around it.

Then she uncovers my legs and loosens my splints. Matthias joins her.

José isn’t with you? he asks.

No, José isn’t with me. Jenny is going to give birth any day now. He stayed behind with the family. In case the contractions begin.

While she unwraps the gauze, I stare at the ceiling beams. It is the only way to stay calm. And keep pain at a distance. I feel ridiculous with my injuries, my silence, and my underwear that fasten on the side. I know my legs are covered with bruises, and my thighs and calves are atrophied. I know I look more like a ghost than a man.

Did Joseph come and see you? Matthias asks.

No. I mean yes, he came by, Maria says, blushing.

Then she palpates my bones, bends my knees, and gently turns my ankles. Her hands are warm and attentive. Pain rises in me, along with desire.

You’re experiencing pain, and that’s normal, she tells me, because of your ligaments. Still, we should cut back on the analgesics because sooner or later you’re going to have to get used to the feeling. Your right leg is healing well, but the left is recuperating more slowly.

Suddenly I remember what Matthias told me at the beginning to frighten me. And force me to accept his care.

You see that? he shouted, pointing to the handsaw hanging on the wall, that’s what’s awaiting you. We’re living like the old-time lumberjacks in the camps. A cabin buried by the snow, a woodstove, just enough to survive on. Their techniques are ours too. When the axe slipped from a man’s hand because of cold, fatigue, or overreaching, and it sunk deep into his thigh or tibia or foot, there was only one solution. Brandy, fire, and the saw. Otherwise it was gangrene, fever, and a horribly slow death.

As I gaze at the handsaw hanging on the wall, Maria takes out my stitches one by one, using tweezers and a pair of scissors.

She works gently, but I can feel my flesh pulling. I turn toward her.

It’ll be all right, she tells me, her eyes focused, I’m almost finished.

As she rewraps my bandages, Maria asks me how I feel. I make a few unintelligible sounds. She laughs and takes the thermometer out of my mouth. She had forgotten all about it.

I’m okay, I tell her, looking at the immaculate whiteness of my new bandages. I’ll be all right.

When he hears my voice, Matthias lifts his head.

In any case your fever is gone, Maria says.

When am I going to be able to walk?

Be patient, she tells me. Your bones are knitting well, but your muscles are still very weak. Start by taking off your splints from time to time. That’ll do you good.

Then she gives me a wink and turns and hands Matthias her bag.

Take this. There’s fresh gauze, ointment, antibiotics, and everything else you’ll need. Some of it is past the expiry date, but that doesn’t matter.

I’m making soup. Why don’t you stay and eat with us?

Thank you, she declines, but I really must go. I’m expected in the village. I’ll be back soon.

Everyone says the same thing around here, Matthias mutters.

Maria smiles, but says no more, takes her skis and goes out the door. Through the window, the red stain of her coat grows fainter, giving light to the landscape.

Matthias puts the soup on the stove and shakes the fire with a poker. When he turns in my direction, his pupils are the colour of burning embers.

EIGHTY-ONE

Matthias carries a chair to my bedside and sets up the chess game on my table.

I smile, but would rather play cards, maybe even for money.

I always knew you’d end up giving in, he goes back to his old refrain. If we can’t change things, we can always change the words that describe them. I’m not your doctor, I’m not your friend, and I’m not your father, understand? We’re spending the winter here, we have to get through it, and then it’s finished. I’m looking after you, and we’re sharing everything, but as soon as I can leave, you’ll forget about me. You’ll get along on your own. I’m going back to the city. Understand? My wife is waiting for me. She needs me and I need her. That’s my adventure, that’s my life, I have nothing to do here, this is all a big accident, a twist of fate, a terrible mistake.

He says that, then moves a piece on the chessboard and dares me to challenge him.

I always knew you’d end up giving in. No one can keep his mouth shut like that. Everyone turns back to words sooner or later. Even you. And soon, I’m telling you, you’re going to speak to me. You’re going to talk to me, even without a fire in a pot, even if I’m not a young veterinarian. You’re going to talk to me, understand? And you’re going to play chess with me. That’s what’s going to happen. That and no more. Now go ahead, it’s your move.