Chapter Text
“I feel kinda bad, dumping this on you on your second week, Zhan,” his boss had said, while they were in line for coffee.
Zhan. They call him Zhan, here, although in fact they call him Jan, as though it were short for Janice, the final N hard, harsh. Lan Zhan doesn’t mind. It’s certainly not novel, but he had become accustomed to a different standard in Wen Corp, with its highly diverse and Chinese-Canadian dominant culture. It had felt like being appreciated, to be addressed at work as he was at home, as he was by his friends and family.
Ultimately, of course, that appreciation had been utterly meaningless in the face of the company’s larger agenda. And so here he was, working for a government contractor in a province fourteen times smaller than the one he had left, where people queue up for coffee that isn’t really coffee and call him Jan.
“The trip’s been on the books for months, though, and we need to maintain mandated surveillance.”
“The surveillance schedule is important,” Lan Zhan had said, accepting a pre-steeped tea from the vendor that he had no intention of drinking. They had Tim Horton’s in Ontario, of course, but they also had other options, including a fully equipped kitchen at Wen Corp with a wide selection of imported teas and a kettle with three heat options. “That’s what we’re here for. I took this job to work in the field; I appreciate the opportunity.”
“It’ll be eye-opening,” his boss had said, leading the way out of the coffee shop and into the muggy summer heat that was lingering into September this year. His tone had not been uniquely positive.
“Is there something I should do to prepare?”
His boss had looked at him, and smiled. “Just go with the flow. That’s all you can do.”
So now here Lan Zhan is, his small luggage case and three large boxes of equipment at his feet, on the lilting dock where the float plane is moored. It is perhaps the smallest plane he’s ever seen up close, single-engine, its wing just one long piece of metal stretched over the squat box of its body, attached there by stiff shafts. There’s a door for the pilot and a door in the back; through the dirty back window he can see a cramped, dim space. Not ideal for a four-hour flight.
Go with the flow is not a philosophy he embraces. He became a biochemist because he thrives on rigid, replicable order. The comfort of sterility and planned assays and documented procedures. Not –
“Alright alright!” shouts an energetic voice from behind him.
Lan Zhan turns to see a young man in a ball cap, a black t-shirt and straight-cut blue jeans hurrying down the dock. He’s long and lanky, and his eyes under the brim of his hat are bright. His skin is tanned but his features are fine, smooth, his mouth generous. He’s got a clipboard in his hand. “Lan Zhan, is that right?”
His name rolls perfectly off this man’s tongue, smooth as if it were in Mandarin. He nods. “Cool. I’m Wei Ying – I’m your pilot and guide for this trip.” He sticks out his hand, and shakes Lan Zhan’s with a firm grip. “That your stuff?” he adds, glancing down at it.
Lan Zhan nods. “Yes. The boxes are fragile.”
The pilot – Wei Ying – steps past him and yanks the back door to the plane open with a roughness that shocks Lan Zhan, trained to work with delicate equipment. Inside, as he saw through the window, is a dark space with two seats behind the cockpit, and a flat floor with some bags already stored beneath a loose net. Wei Ying scrambles leggily in and unhooks the net, then comes back to the hatch and looks at the boxes. “Fragile, huh? Got your spare set of starched shirts in there?” he asks, with a crooked grin.
Lan Zhan glances down at the button-down he’s wearing, tucked neatly into his khaki pants, then at the boxes. “No. Scientific equipment.”
“Uh huh. Alright professor, load me up.” He squats down and holds out his hands. Lan Zhan, feeling deep misgivings, lifts the boxes filled with his testing equipment and hands them, one after another, carefully through the door. Wei Ying, to his credit, takes them smoothly and tucks them onto the floor of the plane. He slings Lan Zhan’s suitcase in after them, and re-fastens the netting more securely. Then he jumps out, landing smoothly on the dock. “We’re pretty much good to go, then. Unless you need to piss – there’s no bathroom on board. If you’ve gotta go, go now or forever hold your peace.”
“I am fine, thank you,” says Lan Zhan, coolly.
The pilot grins again. “Okay – your call. Get in through here and go up to the front, seat on the right.” He looks down and starts scribbling something on his clipboard.
Despite the ease with which Wei Ying had passed in and out of the small hatch, it proves harder than expected. The entrance is small, low, and Lan Zhan has to step onto the pontoon and fold himself almost in half to fit inside the plane’s fuselage. Within there’s a faint smell of gasoline, and very little room to maneuver. The seats are rickety, foam-covered vinyl on thin stilt-like metal legs. He sits in the one on the right, his knees up near his chest, his toes against the wall directly behind the cockpit. Outside the window he can see the lake and the shore, the dotting of houses which make up the small community here on the outskirts of Saskatoon.
Up front, Wei Ying hauls open the cockpit door and climbs in, thumping down into the seat on the left. He looks back over his shoulder, one arm propped against the seat back. “What’re you doing back there? C’mon, get up here.” He indicates the empty seat beside him.
Lan Zhan stares. “You want me in the front?” He looks past Wei Ying at the cockpit, at the dash full of switches and dials. The beating heart of the plane, naked and vulnerable.
“That’s what I said. For one thing: weight distribution. For another: it’s cramped as hell back there and you’re not a small guy.” He turns around.
Lan Zhan, slowly, unbuckles his seat belt and rises. There’s just enough space, barely, for him to squeeze into the cockpit and sit in the passenger seat. Wei Ying points out his seatbelt – a harness, rather than a plain strap – and hands him a headset. He has one in his lap. “We’ll get going after the safety briefing. You know the drill. No smoking, no drinking, and no having fun without me. In the event of an emergency, that’s your exit,” he says, indicating the door to Lan Zhan’s right, currently looking out over open lake water. “There’s an emergency pack and the locater beacon at the tail of the plane. I packed some Skittles in it, so we’ll be fine. Life jacket under your seat. Photos are fine, but shut off your internet. Questions? Jokes? Serious medical conditions to disclose?”
“No,” says Lan Zhan.
“Great. Headset on, I’m gonna start her up and it’ll get loud in here.” He pulls his own headset on over his ball cap, adjusting the mic.
Lan Zhan slowly puts on the headset, and for a moment the world is muffled, distant. Then someone starts speaking – a pilot, giving his call sign and location. Someone else responds, the words only half-intelligible to Lan Zhan.
Beside him, Wei Ying flips a few switches with careless ease, and the engine sputters to life. The propellor ahead of them at the nose of the plane starts turning, fumes billowing up momentarily before being blown away by the backdraft. Wei Ying opens the door and shouts at someone on the dock; there’s a tug, and then the plane begins to slowly drift away into the lake.
Wei Ying shuts the door and, over the headset, requests permission for take-off. His tone is light but his words are – for the first time – professional as he rattles off their call sign and flight plan. He receives permission and acknowledges, glancing over to grin at Lan Zhan.
The plane has what could be loosely called a steering wheel, although it looks nothing like a car’s and pulls out from the console on a thick rod; Wei Ying holds it as the plane begins to sail forward through the water, slowly at first but gaining speed. The dash is a mixture of switches and instruments, most analogue although there’s an LED screen showing a little map, and another with additional information. Some of the toggles, Lan Zhan sees, have hand-written notes on masking tape. One of them, he notes with a little alarm, reads Nope! in jaunty script. Another says Never worth it.
The plane is racing along now, the ride getting bumpy. Water is starting to splash up outside, blue cut with white foam. The plane bounces once, twice, as Wei Ying pulls the wheel smoothly back, his tanned forearms smooth and cut. Then the ride smooths out and they’re airborne. He reaches down and cranks something beside his seat several times with a hard pumping jerk, disturbingly forceful, as they rise sharply. “Not to worry,” he says, catching Lan Zhan’s look. “Just releasing the evil spirits!”
Lan Zhan, trapped in a plane being piloted by a lunatic, glares. Wei Ying smiles. “Relax, relax. It’s the flaps. We’re all good. Look – it’s a beautiful day.” He lets go of the crank and waves at the windshield, at the view of flat fields stretching out beyond them.
Lan Zhan came to Saskatchewan much more by necessity than choice. He had been happy in his lab. Had been comfortable there, settled. Field work is not something he ever envisioned for himself, and certainly not field work four hours by plane from a city that was already smaller than most bedroom communities he had known. He has his uncle to thank for this, he supposes. For instilling the principles of righteousness and moral behaviour in him from childhood. Ironically, Uncle hadn’t understood when he quit Wen Corp without a back-up plan, when he walked out on his well-paying job and his pristine lab and the complicated system designed to hide the fact that what he had unknowingly been doing was, in fact, falsifying the results of chemical penetration tests.
So now here he is, working for a tiny contractor in a province whose primary source of recognition nationally is as the butt of the country’s jokes. Internationally, it isn’t even on the radar. The territory is huge, the population is tiny, and the abundant natural resources available make it a prime target for companies like Wen Corp to exploit.
Beneath them, the land stretches out to the horizon, long and flat. It’s shades of bronze and gold, now, fields of wheat and oats and flax scorched dry by summer heat and mostly harvested. A patchwork quilt of enormous fields, far larger than any that could be tended by hand, cut through by dirt roads like seams.
“You strike me as someone who’s new in his job,” says Wei Ying, over the headset. The background chatter of other pilots is sparse, growing sparser as they fly north. Lan Zhan looks at him, uncertain; Wei Ying seems to understand his hesitancy and taps his ear. “You can answer – we’re on a closed channel. It’s push-to-talk for open air.”
“I see,” says Lan Zhan. And then, “Yes, I started this job recently.”
Wei Ying nods, uncurling his fingers from the wheel and wriggling them momentarily, before wrapping them back over it. “Uh huh. Let me guess – you’re from Toronto?”
“Mississauga.”
“Potayto, potahto. Ever been up north before?”
“No.”
He glances over, his gaze drawing pointedly over Lan Zhan, so that he feels the cool press of his collar and the weight of his belt across his waist, and the straightness of his spine against the worn seat. “No offense, but you don’t exactly jive with your environment.”
“These are not my field clothes,” he says. Wei Ying’s eyebrows hike up.
“What? Then what are they?”
Lan Zhan frowns. “Travel clothing,” he says, pointedly.
Wei Ying blinks, then bursts out laughing. “Travel clothes? For me? Lan Zhan, you shouldn’t have.”
Lan Zhan wants to tell him to watch the road, but there is nothing ahead of them but blue sky. Wei Ying’s hands are resting comfortably on the steering control; occasionally he makes an adjustment, but they largely seem to be coasting. On the LED screen, the little picture of the plane moves past occasional names of small communities, like an incredibly bland video game.
Wei Ying is still grinning. “You know, most of my passengers consider they’ve dressed up if they’re wearing a shirt with sleeves.”
“So I see,” replies Lan Zhan blandly, glancing at Wei Ying’s t-shirt.
“Aiya, Lan Zhan is a fashion critic, it turns out. I can’t wait to see your field clothes. How did you ever end up here? Is this your punishment? You must’ve made some big mistake, somewhere along the line.”
Lan Zhan looks out the window. “In a way, I did,” he says, quietly.
The channel between them goes quiet. The only sound is the distant buzz of the engine, muffled by the headset. He sees Wei Ying turn to look back out the windshield.
***
The transition from plains to forest is abrupt. The trees start without warning and stretch across the earth like a border, like a curtain. Suddenly the land passing by beneath them is no longer flat farmland but dense trees broken up by lakes.
It’s a few lakes, at first. Then more. Then more, hundreds, thousands, spread across the land like puddles reflecting the sky, all shapes and sizes.
“There are too many to have names,” says Wei Ying in his ear, noticing him staring raptly out the window. “Some of those lakes have never been touched by a human, never sailed on or swum in. Never will be.”
Lan Zhan knew, intellectually, that the lakes were here. They’re the reason he is here, to perform testing looking for chemical penetration from mine work. He has seen a map, has seen the location of his trip marked out on it.
That knowledge had not prepared him for the reality of it. “It’s incredible,” says Lan Zhan, without really meaning to. It’s awe-inspiring, the natural beauty, the innumerable untouched pools of clear water sparkling in the sun.
“It is, isn’t it,” agrees Wei Ying. “I love coming up here. Makes being back there –” he waves a hand behind him, towards the south, “almost worth it, knowing this is here. Unknown, safe.”
Lan Zhan glances at him. “Safe?”
Wei Ying looks back, steadily. “Where we can’t touch it. Where we can’t do to it what we’ve done everywhere else – strip the trees, dam the rivers, lay down concrete and build highways.”
“There is industrial activity, even here.”
“I know. But it’s small scale, and the profit margin isn’t huge. The local Indigenous communities are finding how to make their voices heard, finding ways to protect the land. And people like you are coming up to keep an eye on it. That’s another reason I like coming up here. Between that and forest fire surveillance, at least I’m doing something.”
Lan Zhan inclines his head, studying the pilot closer. His casual grin belies the brightness of his eyes, the sharpness there as he scans the horizon, the dash full of indicators that mean nothing to Lan Zhan. “You do forest fire surveillance?”
“Sure. There’s a major shortage of bush pilots; most of us pitch in where we can. I do a bunch of stuff, Lan Zhan. Fishing charters, and government work, and private contracts like your outfit. Even some med-evac, but that’s pretty rare. What, did you think I just spent my time chauffeuring handsome men to do chemical testing in the wilderness?”
“I suppose I did not consider,” replies Lan Zhan.
Wei Ying grins at him – crooked, and just a little coy. “You’re very honest,” he says. “Aren’t you afraid of damaging your reputation?”
“If a reputation can be damaged by the truth, then it isn’t worth holding,” replies Lan Zhan.
The smile slips away slightly, replaced by something softer. “You’re an unusual person, you know.”
Lan Zhan shrugs. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I am simply ill-suited to this job.”
Wei Ying tilts his head to the side. “Well. Maybe. I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
***
Wei Ying advises him when they start to descend.
They’ve been in the air for hours, with Wei Ying mostly chattering about superficialities – Cheezies vs Cheetos, whether it’s possible to design a non-controversial bike lane, the best name for the boat he hopes some day to buy. Topics upon which Lan Zhan, largely, does not hold an opinion but finds himself responding to anyway. Wei Ying has a strange magnetism. He is a little like a heavy metal; he builds up in the blood stream slowly, and does not let go.
The point at which they begin descent looks no different than the terrain has for the past hundred kilometers. Trees and lakes, spread out in a vibrant tapestry. It’s only as they begin to dip low enough for Lan Zhan to be able to make out individual trees that he can identify the lake Wei Ying is targeting; it is long and narrow, and there is a tiny wooden dock at one end jutting out into it. Nearby is a cabin, set in a small clearing by the shore.
They dip lower and lower, over the trees, coming in steeply. Very steeply, too steeply, aiming not for water but for trees. “Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan, his hand tightening over his thigh. “Wei Ying.”
“We’re good,” says Wei Ying, cranking the lever by his chair and pushing the steering yoke toward the dash, eyes focused on the lake.
They skim so low Lan Zhan is surprised he doesn’t feel the tree tops brushing the plane’s belly, and then they drop like a stone – his stomach flip-flops – before evening out just in time to meet the water. They land like a swan, gliding down into the waves, cutting across the lake. The far shore charges up fast, the plane eating up the surface as they begin to slow with friction. Lan Zhan finds himself shoving his feet against the floor of the footwell, as though this were a car and he could apply the brake.
They come to a stop only meters from the dock, at the far edge of the lake. Lan Zhan’s heart is skittering fast, sickly, his hands shaky. Wei Ying is grinning. “Sorry – this one’s a bit of a sharp stop,” he says. “Barely enough runway.”
While the engine is still running, he opens the door and looks out. He kills the engine with a flick of a switch, then hops out of the plane, propeller still rotating. He disappears, and Lan Zhan feels the plane yank sharply to the side once, twice, before settling. Wei Ying pops back up, pulling his head set off and dropping it on his seat. His hat is askew now, raven bangs poking down beneath the brim. “Okay – you can come on out. Same way you went in.” He closes the cockpit door, then opens the back door into the fuselage.
Lan Zhan shakily pulls off his headset and tries to get up, only then remembering he’s strapped to his seat. He undoes the harness and stands, crawling between the seats into the back of the plane. The muscles in his legs feel like jelly, trembling. Wei Ying is standing on a narrow wood-slat dock; he moves aside to let Lan Zhan out. Lan Zhan, sun-blind and wobbling, stumbles over the edge of the hatch and tumbles out towards the dock. For an instant he pictures scraped palms and bloody knees, sun-bleached wood dabbed red; the next moment Wei Ying is stepping up to catch him, hands tight and strong on his arms as though he weren’t a good thirty pounds lighter than Lan Zhan.
“Whoa – take it easy. It’s a bit stuffy in there, I know. And the gas fumes,” he says, kindly, holding him up until he straightens. His grip is strangely reassuring, the kind of touch it would be easy to lean into, to rest against. He looks up at Lan Zhan from beneath the shade of his cap, eyes bright. They’re large, his eyes, Lan Zhan notices. Expressive. “You good?”
Lan Zhan nods and sucks in a deep breath of fresh air. His head clears. He steps back, out of Wei Ying’s grip, out of his shadow. Then he looks around.
They’re on the end of a small lake, completely surrounded by trees. There are no roads, no cars, no telephone wires or sounds of traffic. Only the wind in the trees, a soft background whisper. The lake water is clear; looking down over the side of the dock he can see the green-painted bottom, silty and clean. A small school of fish dart past, flickering like shadows.
It feels incredibly remote, the unbroken tree line almost like a fence, a wall. Nature pressing in on him, dense and pristine and, just slightly, unsettling.
“Whoops, here we go,” laughs Wei Ying, who has climbed into the plane and is now coming out with Lan Zhan’s suitcase and a beaten-up duffle bag. He jogs along the dock – rickety, a little unstable, to put them on the shore. He comes back and starts unloading the boxes of equipment. Lan Zhan pulls himself together to help, carrying them carefully to the shore. After them come a couple more bags – stuffed, heavy – and then something long and narrow with a lock on it. Lan Zhan frowns.
“Is that…?”
“It’s a rifle case. We’re up in the back of beyond, Lan Zhan. Plenty of wildlife here – including wolves and bears. Safety first.”
“Mn,” says Lan Zhan. Wei Ying rolls it easily onto his back, and shuts up the plane. He ducks into the cockpit and flips a few more switches, then shuts that, too.
“Alright. We’re here! Let me show you our home sweet home. I hope you’ve adjusted your expectations accordingly.”
When Lan Zhan was informed of this trip, he was told he would be staying at a lodge regularly used by both government and contractors who came up to the region. He knew there wouldn’t be electricity – had been told to bring a portable charger – but he had been imagining something in the nature of an alpine resort, with shared amenities, private rooms, a kitchen, perhaps a shared bathroom.
What there is, in fact, is a small wood cabin that looks like it would be just about large enough to house a single hermit. Wei Ying leads the way up to the porch, which holds a small supply of chopped firewood and some larger saw-sliced trunks. There is no lock on the door, just a wood bar through a slot which secures it tightly. He throws it open and carries the first of the bags inside.
Inside there’s a table and three chairs, a squat black cast-iron wood burning stove, and two sets of bunk beds with bare mattresses and folded bed linen. There is a large wood cabinet, which Wei Ying opens to show some pots and pans, cutlery and crockery, and a shelf of canned food.
And that’s it. No bedrooms. No bathroom. No running water.
“Just like camping,” says Wei Ying, opening his bags to show a supply of canned and fresh food. Lan Zhan watches as he unloads chili, pork and beans, and beef stew. He doesn’t mean to make a sound, but he must, because Wei Ying turns and sees the look on his face. “Problem?” he asks, looking from Lan Zhan to the bag of food.
“I do not eat meat,” says Lan Zhan, slowly.
Wei Ying’s face freezes, then he nods slowly. “O…kay. No one, uh, told me that.”
“No one asked,” replies Lan Zhan, carefully. “I assumed there would be…” he waves a vague hand. A kitchen, he thinks. A store. Options.
“Right,” says Wei Ying. “Right, right. Right. It’s – okay. It’s fine. We’ll figure it out. I have bread, and peanut butter, and some plain beans. Do you eat fish?”
Lan Zhan nods, a little helplessly.
“Great. Totally fine. We’re gonna rock this.” Wei Ying seems, if not unperturbed, at least undampened.
Lan Zhan shifts, looking around the small, single room. There’s dust on the floor, and a blue hair elastic around the top of one of the bunk beds’ struts, a sad reminder of some previous visitor. “I’m sorry. I did not realise it would be so…”
“Charmingly rustic?” says Wei Ying, with a grin.
“Remote,” replies Lan Zhan.
“Well – not to put this on you, but we did just fly due north of civilization for four hours to get here. Not to worry. It’s only for three days, right? You’ll be fine. Will you be fine?” He shifts to look up fully at Lan Zhan, attention no longer on the food stacked by his knees.
“I – the advice I was given, for this trip, was ‘to go with the flow.’ That’s not my comfort zone, but… I suppose this is a learning experience.”
Wei Ying grins. “That’s the spirit. And hey – you’ve got me. What else could you need?”
The thing is – it is oddly comforting, the idea that Wei Ying will be here with him. Wei Ying who clearly is suited to this life, who is both carefree and confident, who seems completely equipped to leap over any hurdle.
“Mn,” replies Lan Zhan, after a moment. And then: “Bathroom?”
Wei Ying’s grin grows a little tighter, and he thumbs over his shoulder. “Out back.”
***
What is out back is a chemical toilet in a shack. It does not bear thinking about, so Lan Zhan doesn’t. There’s also an external storage locker with some tools and equipment – shovels, an axe, fishing supplies, some basic carpentry tools.
He returns to find Wei Ying has moved all the baggage into the cabin. He’s pulled off his ball cap to reveal black sweat-spiked hair, short at the back and sides and longer on top. He’s on his knees with his back to Lan Zhan and like this the clean line of his hair and the nape of his neck is on display. Seen from behind, without the energy his expression brings, Lan Zhan can tell that he is narrower than he seems to be otherwise, fine-boned with a lovely neck and sharp thin shoulders. His waist, suggested only by the tight nip of his jeans’ waistband, is small. It would fit, almost, within the circle of Lan Zhan’s hands. His palms itch, just a little.
Then Wei Ying turns, that smile back, and he again is a presence so much larger than his size. “Everything where it should be?” he asks, letting his eyes run down Lan Zhan and making it unclear whether he’s referring to the shack or something more personal. Lan Zhan makes a vague noise, and checks his watch.
It’s just after two. The trip plan has him working this afternoon as well as the next two days, then returning to Saskatoon on the fourth morning. He goes over to check and unpack his equipment, some of it for on-site testing but much of it to store samples to take back with him for more sensitive tests. It’s all in good order. He pulls out the print book that carries the instructions for his testing, flipping to the section laying out the map and plan for this, the first lake. He skims it, re-familiarizing himself with it.
“So,” says Wei Ying, when he closes the book. “Am I going to be treated to Lan Zhan in his work apparel?”
“Apparently.” He digs through the carefully packed equipment and pulls out his folded blue jumpsuit, boots and rubber waders.
“Lan Zhan. It’s like twenty-five degrees and full sun out there. You’ll get heat exhaustion.”
“It is eighteen,” replies Lan Zhan, who already checked his portable thermometer, “and I am testing for dangerous chemicals.”
“From a mine a hundred clicks away, on a different lake entirely.”
“There are many immature river systems here which interconnect in times of heavy rain. Weren’t you the one who said safety first?” He stands, and realises abruptly that there is absolutely no privacy in this cabin. His choices are to ask Wei Ying to leave, to leave himself and change outside, or to undress here in front of him.
They honestly seem equally poor, a complex labyrinth of social awkwardness. He stares down at the neatly-folded blue fabric in his hands for a moment, trying to do the calculus on the options.
“Well, who am I to mock health and safety?” says Wei Ying. He looks at Lan Zhan, standing frozen in the centre of the cabin, fretting, then gets to his feet. “If you need me for further fashion validation, I’ll be back after I empty two fluid litres from my bladder.” He walks out the door, closing it behind him. Lan Zhan watches him pass by the window, his gait easy.
He’s not entirely sure Wei Ying is accommodating him, but he certainly suspects it. If so, it’s unexpected; Lan Zhan is aware his standards of personal modesty tend towards the extreme end of the spectrum, and Wei Ying seems incredibly at east in his own body.
Lan Zhan changes rapidly, stripping rapidly out of his button-down shirt and pants and pulling on the jump suit over his white tee. It is relatively tailored, tight around his ankles and waist to avoid fabric drag in the event of full immersion in water. He zips it up to his collarbone, the fabric mechanic blue and a low-quality blend that feels less than ideal against his skin. At least there is no nametag.
He has finished folding his travel clothes neatly along the creases and is filling his large travel satchel with equipment when Wei Ying returns. He keeps his attention focused on his task until it is complete, then stands to pull on the dark green rubber waders, similar to overalls with built-in boots.
“That’s… a look,” says Wei Ying, leaning against the wall beside the crockery cupboard, when he is encased in the thick trousers. “I bet they didn’t make you wear that in Toronto.”
“Mississauga,” replies Lan Zhan. “And I worked in an indoor facility. The dress code was considerably more business-oriented.”
“Well, it does feel like a crime, making you wear something so hideous. You should get extra pay – compensation for damage to your good taste. My sympathies, Lan Zhan.” He’s grinning again. Lan Zhan doesn’t understand how he can ricochet so fully between competent and childish, between thoughtful and thoughtless. He is used to people who are, by in large, what they seem to be. Wei Ying feels impossible to categorize.
“Unnecessary.” He picks up the now-heavy satchel and moves towards the door. Wei Ying joins him, stopping him in the doorway with a hand that just brushes his sleeve. Lan Zhan freezes immediately, looking at him.
“Okay, well, if you’re going out, quick briefing time. Any time either of us is outside for more than a trip to the john, we have to be in each other’s sight line. No wandering off alone, at any time, for any reason. It’s incredibly easy to get lost. If you do get lost, stay where you are and shout for help and I’ll find you. Don’t try to find your way back. Okay?”
He nods.
“Remember: there’s no cell reception up here. So don’t take chances.”
“Understood,” says Lan Zhan, and walks out, off the rough-built porch, and onto the narrow sandy lakeside.
The water is still and silent, the lake far too small to have even rudimentary waves without a stiff breeze. The shore here is coarse grey sand turning to patchy grass briefly, before the trees crowd up hungrily to meet it. They are tall and narrow, mostly deciduous – aspen and birch and poplar, their leaves thick and green and rustling as they flicker. Different from the towering, stocky maples out east, both more delicate and closer-knit. Young trees, each one perfect but without individuality, the kind that it would be very easy to become lost among. He turns his back on them and walks to the water’s edge.
As he had already observed, the water is clear, the bottom smooth and lifeless at first with flora beginning to emerge deeper in the lake.
Lan Zhan’s routine is simple. Soil samples, then crude water tests, then water samples, each to be done at pre-determined locations around the lake’s edge. He sets his satchel down at the first location, opens the flap, and pulls out the first of the soil containers.
It is not strenuous work, rather it is meticulous, carefully measuring, carefully portioning out soil and water into sterile containers and labelling each in neat lettering. It’s the kind of work he excels at, creating order from chaos. He performs the chemical tests he is capable of in the field – pH and temperature, then dissolved oxygen, nitrates and phosphates, and so on down the list. They’re crude tests, designed to ensure basic drinking water quality rather than ascertain microscopic levels of dangerous chemicals which will require his lab equipment, but it is still rewarding. To see the tests come up one after another within acceptable range, the lake water clean, unspoiled. He charts the results in his book, one after another.
Lan Zhan works his way around the lake as the sun passes by overhead, already past the highest point. The air is warm but not uncomfortably so, not after the endless humid crush of Mississauga. The water is cool where it presses in against his legs, close as a caress. The smell of it as he wades through it, thigh-deep, is faint, a scent of green life and dampness. It is immersive, the sensation that here he is part of the environment, the life of this lake and everything in it brushing up against him. Green weeds twine at his ankles, thick as underwater forests; minnows flash in the sun.
From time to time he looks up to see where Wei Ying is. He’s moved one of the wooden chairs out onto the porch and is reading what looks like a battered paperback, the cover folded over around the back in a way that makes Lan Zhan want to shudder. His feet are outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He looks utterly at ease, as though he were on vacation.
It takes Lan Zhan several hours to complete the full round of the lake, stopping for five separate test points. He is hot and sweaty when he returns, his bag cutting heavily across his chest, laden with several litres of water in various carefully-labelled containers.
Wei Ying looks up as he approaches, letting his book fall into his lap. “All done?” he asks, as Lan Zhan climbs gratefully onto the shady porch and puts down his bag. “You got a bit of sun.” He brushes his thumb over his own cheeks, a mirror to Lan Zhan’s face. Lan Zhan resists the urge to echo the gesture. “I’ve got some sunscreen you can borrow, for tomorrow.”
“Mn,” says Lan Zhan. And then, “Thanks.”
“No prob.” Wei Ying stands, twisting his hips a little until something pops. “Wow, 28 and already decrepit,” he laughs and pulls sideways into an overexaggerated flank stretch before ducking into the cabin.
Lan Zhan blinks. If asked, he would have supposed Wei Ying to be nearer twenty than thirty. Nearer twenty than his own age, in fact. He tucks away the assumptions made there for exploration at a later date. Now, he peels the rubber straps off his shoulders and steps out of the waders, laying them on the grass in front of the porch to dry, careful to keep his socked feet on the wooden deck.
He is still hot, becoming sticky as the sweat dries. He didn’t bring an additional pair of trousers with him, just the travel khakis and some loose jogging pants for bed. He does not feel like wearing either of those now.
Wei Ying comes out with a metal thermos in his hand and holds it out. At some point while Lan Zhan was working he’s rolled his sleeves, turned his t-shirt into a tank. His biceps are clean-cut and wiry, a lean strength. Everything about him is lean, Lan Zhan thinks, remembering his firm forearms on the plane’s controls, his long legs as he scrambled in and out of the hatch. Even his conversation, the way he cuts from topic to topic, like a needle slipping along to stitch together ideas one after another rather than belaboring his point.
“Iced tea,” he says. “Have some. Better drink it now while it’s cold – I made it this morning. No more ice after this melts.”
It would be polite to refuse, to let Wei Ying have his own drink. But he smiles as he holds it out, so Lan Zhan takes it, opens the cap and drinks. It’s rich, green tea with a hint of lychee, tiny slivers of ice bumping against his teeth. He catches Wei Ying watching as he swallows, sees him turn the glance into a grin. He takes the thermos back and drinks too, his lips where Lan Zhan’s had been a moment ago.
The heat within the poorly ventilated jumpsuit feels broiling suddenly, as though he had stepped beneath an incubation lamp. Lan Zhan’s eyes drop to Wei Ying’s rolled-up sleeves, to his untucked hem and the frayed cuffs of his jeans.
Go with the flow.
Slowly, fighting down awkwardness, he unzips the jumpsuit down to just above his waist and carefully peels it off, tying the sleeves tight around his hips. Wei Ying’s eyes drop to his chest – his white t-shirt is thin, tight, and he can feel now in the breeze that it’s sweat-dampened and sticking to him.
This was a bad idea. He is under-dressed, is inappropriately dressed, and – and Wei Ying smiles and caps his thermos. “Nice to see you letting your hair down, Lan Zhan,” he says. And then, like it’s nothing, like everything is completely fine – is everything completely fine? – he asks: “When do you want dinner?”
“I,” says Lan Zhan, a little helplessly. “Six?”
“Great. Beans on toast tonight. And after that… we improvise.” He steeples his fingers, like a movie villain. Lan Zhan gives him a look, half repressive, half concerned. He smiles. “Don’t worry, Lan Zhan. I’m very good at what I do. Haven’t you realised that by now?” He hoists the thermos, and turns to go inside.
The strange thing is that Lan Zhan thinks he’s starting to.
***
They do in fact have beans on toast for dinner, Wei Ying toasting the bread directly on the top of the cast iron stove, which seems like a probable health and safety violation, if there were health and safety requirements here. He’s not even sure what local authority this region of the province is governed by. He asks Wei Ying, who shrugs. “Does it matter? The only people here are us.”
Lan Zhan finds himself frowning, unsettled by that response. Wei Ying, scooping beans onto his toast with his fork, raises his eyebrows. “Still adjusting?”
“I do not… my life has always revolved around order. Knowing it, understanding it, seeking it. It’s the foundation of my education, and my work. Whether it’s the scientific method, or merely municipal bylaws, ordered processes are the lens through which I view the world.”
Wei Ying finishes chewing and rests his chin in the cup of his palm. “Does chaos frighten you?”
“Not natural chaos,” says Lan Zhan, slowly. Wei Ying waits, watching. “But as creatures, as a society, I find us fundamentally selfish. Many of the systems we have created to protect ourselves are flawed, damaging. They protect the most powerful, at the expense of the most vulnerable. But I still believe we must promote order to have any hope of harmony.”
“So not an anarchist, then. You shock me.” Wei Ying smiles, and wipes away a trickle of sauce with the pad of his thumb, licking it briefly. His tongue is soft, pink, and Lan Zhan feels a flush of heat at the sight of it. “I, on the other hand, embrace chaos. Not that I always have. I used to think like you. That the systems we have are imperfect, but if we work to fix them it’s better than nothing.”
Lan Zhan nods. When the pilot doesn’t continue, he asks, “What happened?”
Wei Ying shrugs, his expression still easy, body lithe. “I went to law school. U of T. I was naïve, I thought I’d learn how to apply the law right, properly. For good. Turns out, there’s no such thing. It all comes down to interpretation, and all that means is that it comes down to the people interpreting it. And they’re rich, and white, and straight, and male. I dropped out at the end of second year. Left school, left Toronto. Left civilization, kind of. I’m not proud. But I just couldn’t be a cog in that system, pretending that by doing my tiny part I was making a difference. Not to mention the squick factor of getting held up as a token symbol of diversity. Turns out if you’re gay and Asian, you get to do double duty.”
Lan Zhan is not closeted, but outside of safe spaces he is generally slow to announce himself. There’s something both impressive and alarming about the way Wei Ying tosses it out, heedless, into the conversation.
“I’m sorry,” says Lan Zhan, quietly. “I was not out, in university. But I can understand the sentiment. And I can understand the feeling of being used, rather than making a difference.”
“Yeah?”
Lan Zhan nods. He could say more, can almost taste the words on the tip of his tongue, feel the shape of them – smooth, round, like pearls. Layers and layers of protective coating around something painful, ugly. He’s not ready to expose the grit, yet. “I don’t think you in any way lessened yourself, by leaving.”
Wei Ying snorts. “The guys I work with, they say that. My family – the community – they think I’ve ruined my life. And theirs too, a little, by association. If I had to guess where you’d fall on that spectrum…” his eyes drift over Lan Zhan, and then he smiles. It’s like a flower blooming. “You’re full of surprises.”
“That’s not something I often hear,” says Lan Zhan.
“No? Everyone’s capable of surprises, Lan Zhan. But it’s people like you, who think hard and don’t say a lot, who bust out the biggest ones.”
“Debatable,” says Lan Zhan, but kindly.
“Nah – trust me. I’m like, the grand master of surprises.” He finishes his toast and straightens, brushing crumbs from his fingers, the tips shiny with grease. “Done?”
Lan Zhan nods.
Wei Ying fetches a plastic bin and loads the dishes into it, along with a scrubber and a small container of dish soap; Lan Zhan steps out onto the porch to watch him take it down to the lake shore to wash the dishes in the water.
The sun dipping low towards the tree line, the light becoming softer, heavier, saturated with warm tangerine tones. The lake water is still, shimmering gold in places. Dragonflies are skimming low across it, hunting for insects. They’re fat and stubby and russet-coloured, the last of the season.
Wei Ying scoops in a big bucketful of water and squats down on the sand, bin balanced in front of him. He’s fast, employing more energy than thoroughness, water slopping out and over his thighs while he hisses and laughs. Lan Zhan, disturbed by the entire process, grabs a burn-marked towel and comes down to join him. “I will wash,” he says, squatting down. “You dry.”
Streaks of sun are slanting through the air; they catch in the finest threads of Wei Ying’s hair like spun gold as he looks up, grinning. His skin is a lovely tone, like polished amber, almost glowing. “Aiya, your judgement is scathing, Lan Zhan.”
But he hands over the bin, water sloshing over the half-clean dishes within it. Lan Zhan picks up a plate and begins to clean it calmly, thoroughly. Wei Ying takes it when he’s done and mimes chucking it into the lake like a frisbee, before ducking his chin towards the dip of his collarbones at Lan Zhan’s noise of disapproval and drying it properly.
When they’re done, the bin clean and the dishes stacked inside it, Wei Ying stands. “How about a swim?” he asks.
Lan Zhan looks from him to the lake, calm, pristine. “You realise I am here to test for chemical pollution,” he says.
“Yeah, you mentioned. But you haven’t found any. Drinking water tests all came back in range, didn’t they?”
“They did, but that does not ensure an absence of micro-pollutants.”
“Well, those probably aren’t gonna kill me in one swim. Also, spoilers, there’s no other water source here, so that’s what we’re drinking for the next two days. Well, and the two-four I brought.”
Lan Zhan looks at him. Wei Ying looks back, grinning. “Lan Zhan. Don’t freak out. I’ve been up here three or four times before. The water’s always tested clean. And there’s no showers. So I’m going for a swim. Don’t come if you don’t want to.”
He turns and hikes back up to the cabin. Lan Zhan, bin of crockery balanced on his hip, watches him go.
Aware that Wei Ying is presumably changing inside, he puts down the rubber container and walks slowly around the lake in the direction of the dock. The float plane stands out alone on the water, immense, the complex curves and lines of its white metal body strange against the backdrop of unbroken trees. Still, silent, it doesn’t fit in here, but it at least doesn’t disturb the tranquility.
From behind him, out of nowhere, comes a long, wordless yell. Lan Zhan whips around to see Wei Ying – chest naked, gleaming, long legs pumping, loose dark trunks the only piece of clothing on him – come running full-speed out of the cabin. He sprints around the lake, past Lan Zhan, and pounds onto the dock, timbers shuddering beneath his bare feet. Without stopping he launches straight off the end, shifting into perfect diving form and slipping into the still water with little more than a ripple.
When he bobs to the surface he’s twenty meters from the dock, his head dark and sleek as a seal. “Lan Zhan!” he calls, waving. “You should come in! It’s great!”
Lan Zhan shakes his head, and goes to bring the crockery inside.
***
Twilight is falling when Wei Ying emerges from the lake.
There are two battery-powered camp lanterns in the cabin and Lan Zhan has both of them on. There are two settings: too dim and sterile-white, a shade which feels unnatural and a little unhealthy. So he’s sitting in partial dimness, a dirty lace yellow tone, reading Wolf Hall. He had chosen to bring the longest novel he owns, uncertain how much time he would have to fill. Some night insects have come in from outside, the door left open according to Wei Ying’s instructions of remaining within each others’ sights, and are dipping and dancing around the lantern. The room is still except for the sound of pages turning and the breathy beat of moth wings.
There’s a creak on the porch; Lan Zhan looks up and sees Wei Ying in the doorway. He’s dripping wet, his hair stuck to his skull in a black cap, the soft light shining on his skin. It seems to caress the long lines of his body, the obtuse angles of his forearms and biceps, the smooth curve of his calves. The wide, rising plane of his chest gleams, droplets of water drawing wet streaking over his pecs, one trickling to cling to the chill-peaked nub of his nipple. “Towel?” he asks, plaintively, raising a pathetic eyebrow.
Lan Zhan swallows. Then, standing, he puts down his book and goes over to the bed where Wei Ying has partially unpacked his bag by the simple expedient of dragging everything inside it out onto the unmade mattress. He picks up the towel – a travel one, quick-drying – and brings it over. Wei Ying takes it with a grateful smile, chafing his hair violently before passing it over his damp skin.
Lan Zhan sits down again; Wei Ying comes in and goes over to the wooden cabinet. He pulls it open and, from the bottom, yanks free two cans of Molson and puts them on the table. He sits in the chair opposite Lan Zhan, towel around his neck, still naked from the waist up.
It’s… it shouldn’t be worse in the dim lighting, but somehow it is. The way Wei Ying’s skin gleams in the lanternlight as though oiled, so smooth and satiny that it begs to be touched. The way the shadows hug the dip of his collarbone, the close turn of the inside of his bicep where it tucks against his chest, an effortless intimacy. The sleek dampness of his hair shining, thin pieces plastered against his skin as though pressed there by a careless thumb.
Lan Zhan reaches out and grabs a can, pops it open, and drinks without thought.
It’s wretched, of course – he has no taste for alcohol in general, and he’s always found beer squalid. But he’s downed half the can before he knows it, Wei Ying smiling – those bow-shaped lips crooking coyly – and pouring his own portion down his throat. Lan Zhan watches the way it bobs as he swallows.
He keeps drinking.
At some point, he realises the world’s gone strange – both too far and too close, his thoughts hard to hold onto. At some point there’s a rustling of cloth, and the sound of wood creaking, and a light voice, laughing.
At some point Lan Zhan lies down, head spinning, and closes his eyes.
Sun set.