Who is here watching the lake?

7

THE WOODEN FLOOR IS freezing on my feet. It’s cold this morning. Winter has settled in for good.

I’m happy. A pale band of frost makes a pattern like transparent ferns on the window. Through the door you can see the silent valley. The trees stand like stone statues. Light flakes of snow dance on the wind in the frosty air.

The lake has turned white during the night. Trails of powder run down its back, mingle with the alders on the shore and swirl up to the tousled heads of the spruce trees.

My dogs smell the coming storm and take shelter in their dens, which will soon be covered with snow. Only big Carcajou for some reason is sitting on his roof, his chest high, his front legs stiff. The wind plasters his long black coat against his body. His eyes are fixed on the lake, staring at the invisible mountain.

Suddenly I am filled with a deep feeling of friendship and respect for this animal. What is going on inside his head, in his heart? He looks so alone, so big in the storm.

I quickly put on my trousers, my mukluks, my anorak and toque and go out. The air is brisk and biting, so cold it burns my throat. The frozen planks of the porch echo like a tight drum beneath my feet.

I jump down into the snow, sinking up to my knees. I struggle down the path to the dog dens.

Carcajou and I are face to face. The dog doesn’t budge. Our warm breath mingles in the cold. Beneath his shaggy, frost-covered eyelids, his eyes shine like two tiny beads. Icicles are hanging from his muzzle and lips.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders. With my right hand, I lean his head against mine and press him to me. I pat his back. I can feel him shiver. The two of us disappear in a whirl of snow. I close my eyes for an instant. The flakes melt on my warm cheeks.

“Come on, my good Carcajou. You’ll feel better inside.”

I kick aside the snowbank that is blocking the entrance to his den. Carcajou jumps down from his perch and goes inside. He turns several times, paws the ground and lies down, rolling himself into a ball, his nose buried up to his eyes in the long, stiff fur of his bushy tail.

I hurry back to the cabin, thoughtful.

Is Carcajou remembering the days when his ancestors ran freely in the forest?

Inside, I stir up the hot embers in the fire and fill the stove with wood. Pinamen makes tea. We are in the heart of the world.

It is so cold that nothing moves in the forest. It is as if the earth has suddenly stopped breathing. The animals have all sought shelter, burying themselves in the thick wood or under the snow. They are smart. They are waiting for better weather. Pinamen and I will do the same.