Chapter Text
The drive out into the countryside takes hours as the cool dawn gradually warms into a bright morning. Mountains and rice paddies come and go as the road rises up to meet the wheels of Song Lan’s sedan. The blurry green shapes of fresh growth seem to meld together on either side of the long stretch of road until the transition from one township to another is impossible to decipher. The only way to tell that he is making any progress at all to his destination is the digital numbers on his dashboard ticking away and marking the passage of time.
A crossroads materialize out of the distance and Song Lan flips his blinker on. The car stutters a bit as he makes the turn and the sound of crunching bits of loose asphalt seem to echo in the silence. He hasn’t passed another car since daybreak, and Song Lan hadn’t bothered turning the radio on. He always prefers the quiet anyway.
At least, he had preferred silence before Xiao Xingchen…
Song Lan focuses back on the road, fingers tightening on the wheel. He grips it until his knuckles protest and the fake leather cover squeaks against the metal it protects. The physical sensation helps him to feel steadier, helps make his body seem more like a tangible piece of his existence rather than a shell that houses the mere chemicals that make a man.
He needs to be level headed for this. He will get himself under control.
The dark gray tar fades into a narrow dirt path. Grass eats at the winding road as if trying to hide it from the eyes of strangers. Song Lan’s vehicle wobbles as the wheels dip into forgotten holes and slipp over bumps hidden by the overgrowth.
He feels a jolt of pain in his lower-abdomen after a particularly hard rock and winces. His fingers twitch with the urge to touch the spot, to check if the skin had somehow torn open with the motion. Instead, he shakes his head, pushing the ridiculousness of the thought out of his mind. Stitches no longer hold his flesh together. It had healed long ago.
By the time Song Lan pulls up to the front of a lonely looking house, the path is entirely covered with grasses, weeds, and an assortment of wild flowers. The sun is high enough in the sky to escape the looming figures of the nearby mountains, and Song Lan can feel sweat prickling at the nape of his neck as he shuts the engine off and steps out of the car.
Just as the realtor had promised, the place ticks off all the requirements that Song Lan had asked for. There are no neighboring residences. The house hasn’t been used in almost a decade. The realtor had accepted an envelope of cash and promised discretion with minimal questions asked.
The brass key feels heavy in his pocket as Song Lan collects his suitcase from the trunk. It fits cleanly into the front door and swings gently when placed on the hook on the wall. The rust on the metal is like a prophecy to the state of the rest of the house, and Song Lan keeps his shoes on as he walks about the place.
His footsteps seem loud on the clay floor as he walks around the main room. There is an old wooden cabinet along one wall, a brick stove jutting out from another, and a large rack hanging from the ceiling. Various utensils and a kettle hang from the slats, all covered in what looks to be a thick layer of dust.
Pushing at one of the wooden shutters, Song Lan manages to force a window open to allow some fresh air into the room and continues wandering about, mentally taking notes of small repairs and chores he will need to complete before he arrives.
The main kitchen space has a hallway that leads to another smaller room, the only furniture an old-fashioned bed built over a brick platform and a tattered blanket lying atop it. Song Lan sets his suitcase down and adds ‘chopping wood’ to his list of preparations. They will be spending several months here at the very least, and winter this far north can be deadly without some sort of heating.
Behind the building, there is a small shack that houses a dry toilet. A few feet away, there’s a large circle cut out of the earth emphasized by a ring of stones, metal bucket, and long coil of rope.
Song Lan crosses himself in gratitude when he sees water inside. A well this close to the house is truly a blessing. He tells himself that this is a good omen. It is a sign of God’s favor. He is doing the right thing. This is a part of the Almighty’s plan for him.
Cleaning the old house takes time. With a rag tied around his face, Song Lan sweeps the lingering dirt and leaves out the front and back doors. He tears the forgotten blanket into strips and wipes the shutters, stove top, and the few pieces of furniture.
Slowly, the gray rooms take color. The dark of the wood beams and the brass hardware adorning the drawers give life to the house. It seems less and less like an abandoned corpse and more like a home.
Standing in the center of the room as the afternoon light wanes, dust particles falling around him like fading stars, Song Lan feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time. It takes root somewhere deep in his chest and blossoms up his throat. He chokes on the sob as if trying to keep the emotion inside.
His fingers clasp around a ring hanging from the chain around his neck, and Song Lan lets the hope settle over him like a second skin. In this moment, bathed in the golden light of the sinking sun, he can almost forget about the pain under his ribcage.
Several days later, the walls are patched, every cobweb is gone, and even the kettle sitting on the stovetop gleams. Piles of freshly chopped wood sit next to the large cabinet which now holds canned fruits, pickled vegetables, bags of beans, dried fish, and salted meat. A huge sack of rice stands on its own in the corner, and a brand-new pot and pan hang from the ceiling rack.
Song Lan is pouring freshly boiled well water into a jar for the growing stack when he hears a loud curse from the open windows. It’s been so long since he last heard another person’s voice without the buffer of a phone line and his heart pounds. He takes a deep breath as he twists the lid of the jar closed, places it with the others, and walks to the front door.
Slipping on his shoes and sliding the door open, Song Lan sees him.
The man is panting as he stomps up the path to the house. Sweat glistens along his brow and his cheeks are bright red. Dark hair falls out of his loose bun and drapes around his face. His plain tee is stained dark, and smears of dirt and grass litter his tattered jeans. He clings to the straps of his backpack as if it is somehow holding him together.
Song Lan thinks he might have been handsome if his face wasn’t twisted into such a furious grimace. The man looks ready to kill, and Song Lan has a brief flash of fear that this is the wrong person.
“Good afternoon,” Song Lan calls out. “I haven’t had a chance to cut the grass yet so, please be careful of any stray rocks.”
The warning comes a beat too late, and Song Lan hears another nasty curse as he watches the man stumble over one of the rocks hidden among the weeds.
With a snarl, the man says, “Could you not have picked a harder place to get to? The taxi guy laughed at me when I told him the address. Then, the motherfucker drove me to the middle of nowhere, pointed in this direction, and wished me luck.”
He kicks at the rock he tripped over and sends it rolling out of his way.
“I climbed like five kilometers to get here so, this better be the right place. You’re Song Lan, right? God, you better fucking be.”
Song Lan nods. “I’m sorry that the journey was so inconvenient. You certainly could have called me to pick you up. It wouldn’t have been a hardship to get you in my car.”
“’You could have called me to come pick you up,’” the man says in an annoyingly nasal tone, and Song Lan prickles at what is clearly a poor imitation of his own voice. “Are you stupid? Do you think I didn’t try that? I called you like fifteen times, and you didn’t bother to answer, dickhead.”
Pulling his cellphone out of his pocket, Song Lan glances down at the screen. Where there are usually bars indicating phone service or internet connection, it is merely blank.
The realization hits him like a punch to the chest. He has essentially been living off the grid for almost a week and hadn’t realized it. It stuns him how easy it is to become so completely detached from the modern world. Xingchen would have been beside himself with worry if he was…
Pushing past him, the man walks through the front door. He toes off his sneakers and whistles as he looks around.
“Wow, it actually looks pretty nice for a shit hole.”
Song Lan follows him as the man tosses his backpack onto the table and squints at the room.
“Usually, traditional homes like these always face south,” the man says. He frowns deeply as he grips the window sill and pops his head outside, swiveling his neck to get a good look at the direction of the sun and loosening even more hair from his bun.
“The front door faces south,” Song Lan replies. “But this room faces east, just as you requested, Xue-jǐngguān.”
Turning to look at him, Xue Yang rolls his eyes. “We’ll be getting to know each other really well very soon. There’s no need for formalities here, Lan-gege.”
Strutting over to the table, he plops into one of the four chairs and kicks his socked feet up onto the seat next to him.
“Got any snacks? I’m starving after hiking all the way out here.”
Song Lan nods and, a few minutes later, sets a steaming cup of tea and a bowl of assorted nuts out in front of him. Watching Xue Yang dig in greedily, Song Lan leans his hip against the counter and studies him with a critical eye. He had read stories of the man’s work, had heard whispers of his experiences. Xue Yang’s reputation is certainly undeniable.
But, cringing at the sound of smacking lips and sharp incisors easily crushing almonds and cashews, a sliver of doubt worms its way into Song Lan’s gut.
“Are… you sure you can do this?”
Xue Yang turns to give him an incredulous look. He throws his head back like a snake to swallow his mouthful before reaching for the tea. “What? You think this is some kind of interview? I’m here, aren’t I?”
He drains his cup and sets it back down. The fingers of his left-hand slide circles around the rim, and Song Lan’s eyes are drawn to the black glove strapped around his wrist. It wraps only around his pinkie finger and is as dark as midnight.
Tipping the cup back and forth, Xue Yang asks, “Who else did you call?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sure I wasn’t your first choice. So, who did you ask before me?”
Song Lan wishes he was holding a tea of his own, so that he could take a sip himself before answering, “Wei Wuxian.”
With a nod, Xue Yang leans back in his chair. The wood of it groans as he balances on its two hind legs. His fingers dance along the edge of the table.
“Yeah, he would be my first call, too. But now he’s married, settled down,” Xue Yang’s mouth twists in disgust, “with a child, if you can believe it. What a waste of talent.”
The front legs of the chair smack against the clay as Xue Yang picks up his teacup and waves it in Song Lan’s direction. Obediently, Song Lan brings the kettle over to pour the man a fresh cup.
Breathing in the steam, Xue Yang grows serious. The youthfulness of his face seems to fall away completely, leaving only ink-stained smudges above his cheeks and eyes that some claim have seen God Himself.
“You’ve already started, right?” he asks. “The purifying process takes time, and I don’t want my precious remaining moments on this earth wasted.”
Curling his hands into fists, Song Lan nods and recites, “No food between dusk and dawn, no alcohol, and no sexual gratification. Today marks the twenty-seventh day.”
“The no sex rule is really important. You haven’t been jerking it, have you?”
Biting the inside of his cheek, Song Lan swallows the flare of annoyance as Xue Yang’s eyes drag over his body, gaze lingering over his long legs. He resists the urge to stand up straight. He will not allow anyone to intimidate him in his own space.
“Complete abstinence.”
Xue Yang’s eyes return to Song Lan’s, “Good. We’ll both be fasting for the next three days. No food, just water, and only after sunset. What religion are you again?”
Song Lan hesitates for a moment.
“For fuck’s sake, I’m not here to arrest you.”
Xue Yang rolls his eyes and reaches up to tug the hair tie out of his destroyed bun. His fingers run through the dark strands, pulling them up into a high ponytail. The deep black color squeezes at Song Lan’s heart, stopping his throat, and he briefly wonders if it would feel as silky between his fingers as Xiao Xingchen’s had.
With the snap of the tie, Xue Yang shakes out his hair, the tips barely grazing the back of his neck, “The method is just a little different depending on which name of God you use and which book you trust.”
Song Lan glances out the window to take in the bright afternoon sun. It seems to reflect off the greenery around the house. The shine of it is almost blinding, cutting.
The last time he had been asked this type of question, Song Lan had been much younger.
Even now, he could close his eyes and see it as clearly as if he was watching a film play out on the back of his eyelids. He could see a uniformed man yanking his arm as others overturned the furniture in his family’s small home. Plates broken and chairs smashed to pieces. There were burning questions asked in raised voices, questions regarding Sunday activities and affiliations with known, and imprisoned, religious leaders. He remembered how his parents had hugged him close on top of the wreckage afterward, praying fervently for forgiveness and protection.
Opening his eyes and looking back at Xue Yang’s expectant expression, Song Lan swallows the ingrained impulse to lie.
“Catholic.”
Rolling his shoulders and looking unfazed, Xue Yang nods as he reaches for his ratty backpack, “Have you been baptized?”
Song Lan watches him pull out a thick notebook and a pen. Its pages are stuffed full with memos and different colored envelopes. Some of the paper is discolored and torn at the edges. The entire thing seems to be held together only by the shoe lace wrapped around it.
“Technically, yes,” he answers, watching Xue Yang flip open to a page near the back and start jotting down notes. His wrist flies up and down the page in a way that assures Song Lan that his handwriting would certainly be horrendously sloppy, if not completely illegible. “My family belonged to an underground church, so the priest wasn’t officially appointed by a bishop, but a baptism was done.”
“Were you confirmed?” Xue Yang looks up from his scribbling. “When was your last confession? I hope you did all that before coming, because I don’t have the proper authority to tell you how many ‘Hail Mary’s’ you ought to do.”
“Yes, I’ve been confirmed. And yes, I went to confession before driving out here.”
A sharp pain pierces through Song Lan’s side. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from wincing, and blood floods his mouth. He swallows the bitter tang of it down as he slowly exhales through his nose. The pain retreats as quickly as it comes, but the dull throb, the memory of a wound long gone, lingers.
Xue Yang twirls the pen in his fingers with a hum, “Did you get a Saint name? What is it?”
“Jude Song Lan.”
The man jots another note down and snaps the notebook closed with a flick of his wrist. He rests his head against his fist while the other hand taps the pen on the table. The taps ring out in an unpredictable rhythm and the intensity of Xue Yang’s eyes on him make Song Lan’s stomach turn.
The coppery taste from his stinging cheek overpowers his tongue. He suddenly strongly wishes for the sun to rush its way across the sky, allowing him the relief of darkness and fresh water. Song Lan grips the edge of the counter behind him tightly, grateful for the solid surface to lean on.
“So, I’ve done this whole thing three times,” Xue Yang says, pen taps growing almost frantic against the wood. “It worked once. I can’t guarantee that it’ll work again. I can’t guarantee that it’ll work for you.”
Song Lan nods. He knows the chances of success are minimal. He also knows that the risk is incredibly high. But he would give anything, everything for the slim possibility that the ceremony works, that he can get what he wants.
“You said over the phone that your motivation was ‘love’, or some shit like that,” Xue Yang continues, pen rhythm slowing. “Explain.”
Fingers wrapping around the ring dangling around his neck, Song Lan replies softly, “My husband died.”
The words alone clog up his throat.
People always say that feelings lessen over time. Dozens of online articles stated that mourning gets easier day by day, but Song Lan hasn’t known peace since. There are days when he wakes up and feels as if he is choking on his grief. The heaviness of it weighs his very bones down until he can do nothing but lay in bed, wondering how the Earth continued on while his whole world had been destroyed.
“He was taken from me, and it was my fault,” Song Lan raises his eyes to Xue Yang’s. The man’s pen is frozen mid-tap, and he seems to be listening attentively. “I have to hear his voice again. I need to speak to him.”
Setting the pen down on top of his notebook, Xue Yang nods slightly, as if in approval. “And here I thought you were going to try and force someone to fall in love with you. I should have known better, you having a face like that.”
Xue Yang gestures vaguely in Song Lan’s direction before continuing, “Talking with your dead husband on the other hand... that’s meaningful. That’s some real powerful shit. That’s something worth getting up for in the morning. Tell me, how much do you want it?”
“More than anything.”
Pulling his backpack closer, Xue Yang fishes around for a moment before pulling out a lollipop. He unwraps it with a flick of his wrist as he laughs, almost to himself. “A gay Catholic, huh? No wonder it was like pulling teeth trying to get answers to some of my questions over the phone.”
The candy knocks against his teeth as Xue Yang shoves the lollipop deep into his cheek and says, “Let’s set some ground rules here. I’m not sleeping on the floor. If there’s only one bed, it’s mine. Also, you’ll be the one doing the cooking and the cleaning. That’s not my job.”
Pulling the lollipop out of his mouth with a ‘pop’, Xue Yang waves it in Song Lan’s direction. “Are you abso-fucking-lutely sure that you’re ready for this? That you understand the risks involved? This isn’t your run-of-the-mill spellcasting or astral projection. This is the real deal. We’ll be dealing with real angels and real demons and real danger.”
Song Lan nods. Being alone- the days of waking up to an empty bed in a once-shared apartment, the long nights of researching that led to finding Xue Yang’s number, watching the sun peek up over the blue mountains guarding the little house with only a few twittering birds for company- had given him time to pray and contemplate. He is as certain as he will ever be, as confident as he ever could become.
“I’m ready.”