I continue following Matthias’s tracks. They lead to a small network of paths that run from one house to the next. The village is frozen solid, and only three chimneys have smoke coming from them.
In front of me, at the end of the street, I spot a figure. I don’t think it is Matthias, but I want to be sure. I wish I had brought my spyglass. The person disappears down a side street. Whoever it is has not seen me. Unless they are pretending not to.
Further on I recognize the house that lost its roof in the fire. The charred rafters stand out against the whiteness of the snow, and the ice has given them a striking lustre, black and luminous. As if winter were toying with a burned skeleton that did not receive proper burial.
I cross the bridge to the centre of the village. A ray of sun shines through, and for a moment the air seems milder. Near the town hall, in the golden light, a man is leaning against a tree. I squint. It’s Jonas. I recognize his turquoise coat. I move toward him. My leg is giving me serious pain. I’m going to need to take a rest. When I reach him, Jonas gives me a mocking look.
I saw you coming, he says, chewing on something. You walk so slow, you give everyone time, everyone time, to see you coming.
What are you eating? I ask, sitting down in the snow.
Pemmican, he tells me, and proudly displays the piece he is holding in his hand. Matthias gave it to me. It’s good, really good pemmican. There’s not much meat left in the village. No one can go hunting. There are no guns anywhere. We looked everywhere. Jude and the others took them all. No one knows when they’re coming back. But I don’t want anyone to kill any more cows. I’m the one who takes care of them. I feed them, I clean the stalls, and they keep the stable warm. I sleep real good in the hay.
Where did he go?
Who?
Matthias, I say, trying to catch his eye, Matthias.
He came from that way. We talked. He promised me he’d give me more pemmican if I helped him find some gas. I told him I’d see what I can do. It’s easy, there’s some at Jude’s place. Eight canisters and I’m the only one who knows where they are. That’s going to be a lot of pemmican.
Where did he go?
I don’t know, I think he went toward the arena. But watch out, don’t go, don’t get too close to the arena. The snow, the roof collapsed, and parts of the wall are falling, piece by piece, and they don’t warn you first.
Jonas leans over and stares at me, scratching his head.
You’re going to catch cold sitting on the ground, he warns me.
He helps me to my feet and hands me my ski poles.
Anyway, winter, winter is coming to an end. The river has started to break up. You don’t see it, but you can hear it. If you know how to listen.
For a time we say nothing. Total silence.
It’s getting humid. Last night there was a halo around the moon. It’s going to snow pretty soon. A snowstorm, just one more, then it’s going to start melting. And after, after the snow, when the roads are clear, I’m going to be able to sell my bottles.
Where? I ask him, smiling.
On the coast somewhere, in a grocery store.
Jonas’s face shines, then a shadow falls over him.
I have a lot of bottles. And they’re heavy. I’ll need a car. And I don’t know, I don’t know how to drive. And I don’t have a licence. Matthias promised, he promised to take me there if I find him some gas. Do you think I can trust him?
I clear my throat.
I’m sure, I say, looking at the church a little further on, that he’s a man of his word.
Jonas’s face lights up again. He smiles at me, slips his pemmican back into his pocket, and moves off.
I evaluate the condition of my left leg. The rest did me good. The pain is stable. I can keep on.
As I head for the arena, the clouds knit together above the village and the landscape turns dull. In front of the church, I notice snowshoe tracks. I look up. One of the doors is ajar. I go to the entrance. Without a sound, I ease my head through the doorway.
It’s dark inside, but the grey light of day passes through the dull stained-glass windows. On one of the pews, close to the altar, I recognize Matthias, his bent shoulders. He is on his knees. I believe he is praying.
I retreat and walk quickly away from the church. I hide behind the rectory. This way, he won’t be able to see me. And I will be able to follow his next move.
TWO HUNDRED FORTY-SEVEN
It is not very cold, but since I am not moving, my limbs and the muscles of my face have gone numb. I start sneezing. Every time I do, I am afraid Matthias will step out of the church and see me.
The door finally opens, and Matthias comes out. He looks around, then follows the path. I let him get ahead of me, counting to ten, then start to tail him. I hide behind trees that have fallen under the weight of the ice, telephone poles, and the corners of houses. I suspect he isn’t the kind of man who keeps looking back, but you never know.
Despite his age he moves quickly, and I have to work to keep up. I lose sight of him near the arena. I stop and wait and look at the building, a prisoner of the snow. It has become a heap of twisted metal buried beneath an avalanche of silence. Like the porch, but on a bigger scale. Not a shipwrecked vessel, but a great steamship that has struck an iceberg.
Snow begins to fall. The flakes are delicate, as if they have been ground to powder inside the clouds.
I continue to trail Matthias. As I go past the arena, I spot him entering a house. I stop and wait. It is the third house on the left, before the edge of the village. The house with the garage. The one where Joseph grew up. Like the others it seems to have been abandoned, and some time ago. I move forward carefully, leaving tracks in the soft snow, and suddenly I feel very far from the living room and the fireplace. If I go in and Matthias sees me, he will fly into a rage, and I do not have the strength to calm him down. Or run for my life. I circle the house, peering into the windows, but it is dark inside, and I can’t tell if he is there. I retrace my steps and notice a small pane of glass on one side of the garage. Snow covers part of it and I have to kneel down to look in.
I look, but don’t see much. Matthias is behind a car. He opens the trunk and leans in. He rummages through a large black suitcase. A shiver runs through me. He is sorting pemmican, canned goods, boxes of cookies. He is taking notes on a scrap of paper and counting on his fingers. When he finishes he gets in behind the wheel, takes out his key ring, and stares at the plastic moose hanging from it. He starts the engine and lets it idle for a while. His eyes shine, as if one of his wishes were about to come true. Then he cuts the motor, sets a photo on the dashboard, and begins to pray.
I sigh. It is all so predictable. I did not need to come this far to understand. Matthias is preparing his departure. I won’t be able to stop him. I am jealous – it is that simple.
When I stand up again, I can hardly feel my leg. I rub it, exercise it, but to no effect. When I tighten the straps on my snowshoes, I feel like I am leaning on a phantom limb, but after a few minutes of walking, the feeling returns little by little. And with it the pain.
The tracks I have left are visible for all to see. I can only hope the falling snow will conceal them from Matthias.
I move past the arena again, then the church. I cross the bridge and trudge down the main street. My leg is hurting. A sudden wave of fatigue overtakes me. I will need to rest before making the climb back to the house. Rest and warm up.
I choose one of the paths that leads toward a house that seems inhabited, even if no smoke is rising from the chimney. As I draw near, the snow weighing upon the roof makes my head spin. I take off my hat and scarf so my face is visible, and I knock on the door and wait. On the porch are several cords of wood, tall and tightly stacked. I knock harder. No answer. I open the door.
Hello?
No one home.
I pull off
my snowshoes and move into the snowy shadows of the house.
There are boot tracks on the floor. Dirty dishes on the counter. Empty cans. I look in the cupboards: rice and flour. A good stock of potatoes, canned meat, and instant coffee. Dazzled by this wealth of supplies, I take a little of each and put everything in a bag. That way, nothing will be too obvious, and I will not go back empty-handed.
I go into the living room and put my hand on the woodstove. The metal is warm. Someone made a fire today. I sit down on one of the armchairs and set the bag on my knees. I unbutton my coat and exhale. My leg is hurting and my heartbeat is located next to my knee.
A heap of blankets lies near the stairway. The floor is covered by a large rug, a few items of clothing, and gossip magazines. My eyelids grow heavy. I fight sleep at first, shake myself, remind myself I have a long walk back. Then I drift off, momentarily forgetting the shooting pain in my leg.
TWO HUNDRED FORTY-EIGHT
Suddenly I’m awake. I heard someone cough. I’m sure I did. It wasn’t a dream. I turn around. I feel someone watching me. No one. No sound in this room.
It is still light out, but I don’t know how long I might have slept. I take my bag, get up, and walk toward the door. As I button my coat, I hear something again. Like the rattle in someone’s chest. It’s coming from upstairs.
I will go and see.
The stairs creak under my weight.
On the second floor, a hall and three bedrooms. The doors are open. I look into the first room. Two people are in bed and a third is lying on pillows on the floor. They are not moving, but I hear them breathing. They are thin and pale. Their faces are hollow and their eyes so sunken I can see the bones of their skulls. I take a step, then hear a voice from the room next door. It is so weak and wavering I can hardly understand it.
Jannick? Is that you, Jannick?
I don’t answer. I go back down the stairs, making no noise, then out the door, leaving the bag of food on the front porch. They need it more than we do.
I cross the deserted village on my snowshoes. The wind has picked up. My tracks fade in the blowing snow, but still, they are visible. Matthias could follow me step by step if he wanted to. I adjust my scarf and trudge toward the edge of the village. The snow is dense and the crystals slash through the air sideways as if they were cut from sheet metal. I am limping seriously now. I have trouble lifting my left foot, and my snowshoe drags in the snow. I understand why neither my uncles, nor Joseph, nor Jude wanted to take me with them. I am not strong enough. Nor agile. The first obstacle would have killed me and they wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.
The sky has become a grey glow behind whirlpools of snow. I look up and try to situate myself in this empty landscape. Around me everything is black. Around me everything is white. To one side I can make out the dark line of the forest. It is the only sign that I am not moving through a desert.
I begin the climb toward the house. The slope is steeper than I thought. My breathing is laboured. My leg is numb from the effort.
I’ll make it, I know I will.
I hang onto my poles for dear life. I move like a snowplow down a mountain road, keeping my eyes dead ahead so I won’t be tempted by the precipice. Sweat runs down my skin and makes my clothes heavy. I must not stop. My body heat would disappear in a second and I would not be able to fend off the cold.
I must be halfway there. The wind tears at my coat. I try to make out the shape of the house at the top of the hill. But it is too dark now, and the snow is blinding.
I push forward, concentrating on the cold air rushing into my lungs. With each step my wounds could open. And then as I shift my weight, thinking of the comforting immobility of my splints, my left leg gives way and I collapse.
TWO HUNDRED FIFTY-TWO
Face to the ground. When I try to lift myself with my arms, my hands sink into the snow. The wind whirls above me with great gesticulations and its gusts punish my face. I look toward the top of the hill. The snow is falling faster. The house must be there, somewhere, in the maw of winter.
I manage to stand, but I have to attach one of my snowshoes. The cold bites at my fingers and tries to devour my hands. The snow sticks to my clothes, my beard, my eyelashes. The upward slope has disappeared in the darkness.
I breathe deeply, concentrate my energy, and put one foot in front of the other.
But my leg gives way again.
TWO HUNDRED FIFTY-THREE
I close my eyes for a moment. When I reach the house, I will get undressed and bundle up in a big wool blanket. A fire will be burning in the fireplace. Matthias will put the soup on. Maybe there will be black bread. I will eat everything he sets down in front of me, then I’ll fall asleep, watched over by the light and heat of the flames.
I open my eyes: I am still lying on the ground. And it’s snowing like crazy. I roll over, I struggle, I try to get up. But I only sink deeper. The cold is holding me down. Every movement weighs a tonne and I have no more strength. My leg has stopped sending pain signals. I don’t feel it anymore. I should have taken shelter with Jonas in the stable. I would have been comfortable in the straw. I would have been warm.
Ice is forming knots on my coat and hat and gloves. I must not stop, I must get up. I’m almost there. I stir into action. Propping myself up on my elbows, I crawl, I twist, I drag myself along the snow. I make a little progress, though it feels like I am sinking. Pulled down by icy underground currents.
I move more and more slowly. My hands are completely numb. Maybe I should do like Matthias and pray.
The blizzard howls. It is impatient, eager to cover me up, embrace me, and close over me. It can salivate a little before it devours me.
I curl up to keep warm. I am like everybody else. I cannot accept the possibility of my death. I am too afraid.
I try to stay calm, but my breathing is out of control.
I can’t stay here. I have to keep moving.
The snow is a bed of cutting crystals.
I have to stand up, but the cold won’t let me.
I refuse to go this way, bent into myself, face to the ground.
I gather my courage and roll onto my back, my arms outstretched, palms open to the sky.
All around me shadows prowl.
The night is hungry. And the snow carnivorous.
VI. ICARUS
High above, all will be clearer, all will be more beautiful, and finally I will give myself over to the light. Finally I will be delivered of wisdom, measure, and duty. And meanwhile, my son, you will flap your wings. Later, much later, you will turn and look behind. No doubt your heart will freeze in your chest. You will look everywhere, but you will not find me.
TWO HUNDRED SEVENTY-THREE
I awake suddenly as if someone had grabbed me by the collar to save me from drowning. I am lying by the fireplace. I feel the weight of my legs at the far end of my body but do not dare move them.
The daylight is dazzling on the other side of the window. The sun is melting the snow on the roof, and water comes streaming down everywhere, along the roofline. The smell of flour is in the air. I turn my head and see Matthias kneeling in front of the fire. On the coals there is a kettle of soup and an aluminum plate with slices of black bread.
I sit up and touch my face. Frostbite has formed a film of dead skin like a snake that has molted.
Matthias looks in my direction. I raise my chin to swallow my saliva. We consider each other for a moment. Then he shakes his head and sighs, disapproving of my stubborn nature. Or refusing to believe in my resilience. I lift my eyebrows. He gives me a bowl of soup and a slice of bread. It has been a while. I eat hungrily. After the meal, Matthias makes instant coffee.
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. Ma
ybe 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.
TWO HUNDRED FIFTY-TWO
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.
The Weight of Snow Page 13