That morning, Pierre Marchais didn't want to get up. Instead, he wanted to stay warm in his bed because the air in his room was freezing. A white plume formed in front of his face with each breath.
The temperatures in the region had plummeted for a week now, thanks to a powerful cold air current from Russia and Northern Europe.
In addition to his two duvets, he had gotten used to sleeping fully dressed in two thick sweaters, three pairs of pants, two pairs of socks, and a hat. Thanks to these precautions, he hadn't felt the ambient cold too much. Unfortunately, there was no other solution if he didn't want to freeze to death in his home.
The day had already been up for several hours, but while some were already at work, he hadn't gone to the fields. After all, what could be done in the middle of winter? At worst, he had a few repairs to make here and there. It was incomparable to what he had experienced in the spring and summer. There had even been frost in the previous days!
The day before, he had no choice but to break the ice that had formed at the washhouse, burning his hands in the process while doing his laundry. They had turned purple in a matter of seconds and still hurt.
Well, when you gotta go… Ah!
As soon as he got out of bed, Pierre was hit by a powerful impression of cold. He rubbed his hands vigorously and headed to the single window in his room. Below it was a small radiator that naturally didn't work.
Immediately, he noticed there was a bit of snow in the streets, gardens, and on the roofs. The landscape was soothing in many ways, even though there wasn't much snow. There were barely two or three centimeters.
His precious mare, whom he treated like a faithful pet, wasn't in the garden for fear she would suffer from the cold but rather warm in the garage attached to the property. He had arranged the inside with plenty of hay from the summer wheat harvest. There was so much hay that it looked like a giant nest.
From what he had seen in recent days and weeks, Dakota was very comfortable, and that's all that mattered.
Whenever he could, he changed the straw on the floor and collected the manure to reuse later as fertilizer for his garden. In the meantime, everything was stored at the back of the garden with his own waste.
The man, dressed as if he were deep in Russia, scratched his head frantically and descended the painted wooden staircase like a zombie to the living room. He had lice, like many inhabitants of the town since it was no longer possible to take showers and use shampoo, which enraged him. Sometimes he saw them dancing joyfully on his hands, clothes, or bed sheets.
He looked at his dirty nails and grimaced.
Damn! These bastards make me scratch until I bleed!
In the living room, the fire had long since gone out in the fireplace since no one had come down during the night to add dry wood. He had plenty in reserve thanks to the three successive storms that had hit Brittany during the fall and early winter. They had caused serious damage: torn-off roofs, uprooted trees, and broken windows. Some inhabitants had been forced to abandon their homes since they couldn't be repaired.
One of the trees, a monster easily a century old, had fallen and taken huge chunks of asphalt with it. Fortunately, it hadn't killed anyone when it fell. The church next door had been spared by a hair's breadth.
Pierre's house hadn't been touched either. Surely, God had heard his prayers.
He had indeed become a believer and a practitioner. He didn't know exactly when this change had occurred and had been the first surprised. At first, he only called upon God to protect the harvest and the warehouse, but recently he had gone further. Now he attended church every Sunday for mass.
Curiously, he wasn't the only one. It had been a long time since the Saint-Pabu church had housed so many faithful under its roof outside of weddings and funerals. Their numbers had only increased since the blackout. Whether they sought answers, protection from the Lord, or to be part of a community, the inhabitants of Saint-Pabu regularly came to participate or attend the ceremonies.
It was precisely one of those days. It was Sunday, December 24, an important day for Christians who wanted to celebrate the birth of Christ. However, the mass was scheduled for late afternoon.
Pierre had some free time to attend to his activities.
He made himself a generous omelet with the eggs he had collected the day before from the chicken coop he had built for his three hens and ate a large piece of bread covered with rhubarb jam. He didn't make it. He got it from Madame Rioux, who lived on the same street as him. He had exchanged it for vegetables he had grown in his garden, out of reach of Dakota.
These vegetables didn't fall from the sky: they were the little seeds he had brought with him from Paris. Some would have certainly laughed at the time, saying he could eat his seeds while others enjoyed a good meal thanks to their accumulated cans. But who was laughing now? Thanks to his little seeds, he had carrots, leeks, salads, a few zucchinis, cauliflowers, and many other things. It had taken time, and the harvest hadn't been very good. However, he had enough to eat and to trade for other products.
The jam was just one example. For a small price, he had gotten a kilo of apples and pears thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Péron, his neighbors, whose fruit trees were very generous.
He also ate a hot, coarse grain porridge that was very pleasant when hungry and put on his long black coat. When he opened the front door, he was greeted by a wave of cold air. It felt like a slap because it was so violent.
At least the wind is weak, and it's not raining.
The air was as dry as an old person's face, and the sky as clear as an undisturbed lake. The fresh snow subtly crunched under Pierre's feet as he headed to the chicken coop. His hens were doing well despite the cold. He picked up a beautiful egg from under his black hen, Josie, and placed it with the others in his kitchen. He then returned outside and headed to the garage.
The large PVC door was damaged, but that didn't surprise him since it was his doing. After all, without electricity, there was no other way to open it.
Dakota was there, calm, surrounded by heaps of hay. The smell was strong, but Pierre didn't flinch.
"Hey, Dakota! How about a little walk?"
Of course, the horse didn't answer him. However, she seemed to understand the word and approached slowly. Pierre also took a few steps towards the massive animal, making sure to come from the front to be seen, and began to equip the beast. He was used to it now. In a few minutes, the beautiful mare was ready to go.
"Let's go."
He gave a small kick to Dakota's sides, and she started to move slowly in the fresh snow.
He left the property and headed onto the road. All the cars were being moved outside the town, to an uncultivated plot. The inhabitants could go there to help themselves whenever they wanted, whether to take tires, seats, mirrors, whatever. Some had even tried to turn a car into a cart that could be pulled by a horse or an ox. But most often, it was the blacksmith of Saint-Pabu who went there.
His name was Maxime Prigent. While he knew absolutely nothing about the art of blacksmithing, he worked very hard to learn on the job, through mistakes.
He had proposed to the mayor to take on this role, arguing that the inhabitants would always need tools, which made sense. He was young, in his twenties, and his intentions were actually quite different from what he announced. More than tools, he wanted to forge bladed weapons like in the Middle Ages. It was no secret to anyone, but everyone let him do it. Everyone was aware that they had taken a significant technological step back and found it difficult to imagine what the future would look like.
To date, he had mainly made scythes, as that was what the farmers needed most to quickly harvest. However, he was also working on spearheads and arrowheads in parallel.
The rider and his brave mount advanced silently through the streets of Saint-Pabu and crossed paths with a few people. It was mostly children who wanted to take advantage of the day to laugh and play. They hadn't seen snow for a long time because, so close to the sea, it almost never happened. There could be two, three, or even five years without seeing a single flake. Even though almost nothing had fallen during the night, it was a lot for them.
They made snowballs and fought at various points. Meanwhile, others took the opportunity to sled where the slope was sufficient, and others still tried to build a decent snowman. Branches became arms, stones became eyes and a mouth, and a pot turned into a hat.
Pierre couldn't help but smile slightly as he watched them because he had done the same thing as a child. Certainly, he would have joined them if he were their age.
He, who hadn't expressed his emotions for more than ten years or very rarely, had started to open up to others. However, it remained modest. To Yvon and Jean, he was much less closed off than before. This slight smile was proof.
Both hoped to see him laugh out loud one day, but Pierre wasn't sure he would ever see that day. It had been far too long since it last happened. The photo he kept in the inside pocket of his coat was a rare witness to that time. In the meantime, there had been middle school and high school. The bullying he had suffered throughout those years had marked him so much that he still suffered from it.
His ride was short but very relaxing. Passing by the port, he met Yvon exchanging with other fishermen. They hadn't gone to sea that morning to repair their nets.
"Hey, Pierre!" Yvon exclaimed as soon as he saw him arrive. "How are you?
"Hello, Yvon. Gentlemen," he said, nodding at the tired-looking fishermen.
"Hey!" they all responded cheerfully, some making a small gesture with their hands.
"Are you taking a walk? In this weather?"
"It doesn't bother me. And this way I'm alone. What are you doing?"
"We're fixing our nets. They wear out quickly at sea. Today, we're not going out to make sure we're back in time for mass."
"Are you all going?"
"Yep! Funny how all this mess changes people, huh? Before the blackout, I had never been in a church. Now, well, let's say all help is welcome. Right, guys? We pray for good catches, safe returns, and for those who stayed behind."
The fishermen all nodded, some with a serious expression. The town had indeed lost four people at sea since the blackout. Whether they got lost or sank, they needed to pray for them.