The Weight of Snow. Christian Guay-Poliquin

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      FORTY-FIVE

      I think it snowed a little during the night, but this morning the sky is blue and hard. The icicles glitter from the roofline.

      On the stove, a kettle filled with snow. Back in the fall, Matthias would draw water directly from the stream that flows down toward the village. It was clear and transparent, and tasted of smooth stones and roots. Some mornings, he had to break through the ice to fill his bucket. At first all he had to do was lean on the surface, but soon he had to use a branch, then a hatchet. One day he got tired of it and started melting snow. It does not taste the same, but I can’t complain. Matthias does everything here. He feeds the stove, cooks, and empties the pot I use as a toilet. He is the one who decides, disposes, takes responsibility. He is the master of time and space.

      And I am powerless. I do not have the strength, and even less so the mobility. I don’t have the energy to communicate, interact, converse. Nor the desire. I prefer to ruminate on my misfortune in silence. At the beginning Matthias did not understand why I kept quiet. With time I think he has gotten used to it.

      Since my accident, I have had trouble retracing the chain of events. With the pain, fever, and fatigue, the usual duration of days and weeks has been disrupted by the impatience of snow. Everything happened so fast. The accident, the watchmen, the operation, then I found myself here, with Matthias. I know very well he wanted nothing to do with me. My presence makes him ill at ease and bothers him. His plans have been upset. Since the power went out, nothing has happened the way he anticipated.

      When they found me underneath my car, the watchmen saw I was finished. There was nothing anyone could do. My legs had been crushed by the impact. I had lost a lot of blood. By a stroke of luck, when they shined their light, someone thought he recognized me. And he convinced the others to bring me to the village.

      It was raining. Torrents of water streamed down over the forest. I remember that much, the people carrying me had trouble making progress in the mud. There was no doctor in the village. Only a veterinarian and a pharmacist. Since the power went out, they were taking care of the injured and sick. They took care of the worst cases too, when there was no more cause for hope.

      I was lying in a bed in a narrow, dim room. They had wrapped my legs in thick bandages and handcuffed my wrists to the bedframe. Some light managed to slip between the planks of the boarded-up window. Every time I lifted my head to see where I was, a lightning bolt of pain shot through my body.

      People were coming to my bedside all the time. To bring me food. Give me pills. Ask me questions. My name? Where was I heading? What happened with the accident? I was in enormous pain, and the world was reduced to a few shapes bending over me as they might bend over a bottomless well. They insisted I answer the questions they asked over and over again. I could scream and struggle all I wanted, no one seemed to understand what I was trying to say. They must have wondered if they should cut short my suffering or make the effort to take care of me.

      When they finally left me alone, I tried to listen to what was going on in the room next door. People were coming and going. Sometimes they raised their voices and I managed to decipher the conversation. Other times they whispered and nothing

      was audible.

      The accident was violent. I was in a state of confusion. I dreamed of my car. I searched for my father. My memories overlapped. I pictured the scene over and over again. Days and nights on the road. The black-out, the gas stations pillaged, the militia by the side of the roads, panic in the cities. And suddenly, a few kilometres from the village, in the tired glow of my headlights, two arms lifted skyward. Tires squealing on the pavement. The attempt at evasive action. The heavy impact. The blood. The cracks in the windshield. The car rolling over. My body thrown from it. Then the weight of the metal on my legs.

      I had left the village more than ten years earlier. Ten years and no word from me, or almost none. I buried the past and thought I would never come back. But the watchman had no doubt who I was and he insisted I be taken care of. His voice was clear from the other side of the wall.

      Enough is enough. We can’t leave him to die like that. Don’t you recognize him? He’s the mechanic’s son. He left here a long time ago. He’s in a state of shock, but give him a chance. His father just died, but he still has family in the village. His aunts and uncles live on the road that goes to the mine. I’ll go fetch them.

      My aunts and uncles came. At first I thought I was seeing ghosts, then I heard their voices and tears came to my eyes.

      Yes, my uncles confirmed, struck by the terrible shape I was in, that’s him. My aunts held my hands and tried to comprehend what had happened to me. I was so happy to see them I couldn’t say a single word.

      The handcuffs, take off his handcuffs, my aunts demanded. Right now.

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