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Crying. So much crying. It was a maddening sound, a catalyst for a throbbing headache that left Ogata pressing his palms to his aching temples for an ounce of relief. Of course, it didn’t help that only a month had passed since his eye had been ungracefully gouged from its socket. The pain lingered in the form of sudden sharp shocks that branched from the empty cavity to the back of his skull, and the incessant high-pitched banshee wails that echoed throughout the abandoned shed only added to his misery.
Ogata had lit a fire, he had covered the infant with saddle cloths swiped from the nearby stables and fed it warm cow’s milk, yet the small boy continued to scream and squirm with no sign of fatigue. He was at a loss. How was he to soothe the boy so he himself could have a moment of peace? The child was perhaps two or three months old, his body thin and weak unlike the typical healthy infants, plump with baby fat, that Ogata had seen throughout his life. He had been left in a waste-ridden alleyway, abandoned only with a thin blanket to shield him from the merciless night breeze.
Having been found just north of Karafuto, Ogata assumed the boy to be Russian. His hair was an inky black and his eyes almost as blue as Asirpa’s. An unnatural paleness cloaked his form, the absence of lively, pink flesh enough to elicit unease from Ogata. If the child died in the night without parents, without even possessing a name or a chance at life, what would Ogata feel when he buried him? He didn’t want to imagine the numbness, the inevitable lack of grief that would make him wonder if there was something wrong with his mind. Nor did he want to think about the possibility that this child’s death would be the final straw, the incident that finally caused the dam holding back his emotions to break and send him spiraling in its current. Such an inconvenience.
“What more do you want?” he asked the wailing child, hoping the he would hear the frustration in Ogata’s voice and slip into silence. Nonetheless, the screams and cries of distress continued, and Ogata wondered if they were perhaps becoming louder out of spite. “I already fed you.”
At the sound of his voice, the child reached out a tiny arm before his strength quickly gave out and the limb fell back down to the saddle cloth. Ogata blinked, trying to decipher the movements and prolonged bawling to no avail. He gripped his hair, displacing the dirty bandages wrapped around his sweat-dampened brow in the process. Had taking this infant from his bed of garbage been a mistake? Ogata did not even know what had prompted him to do so. It was as if something else had taken control of his body when he reached down to clutch the foul-smelling child to his chest, his small breaths puffing tiny clouds of condensation into the night air. When Ogata had whisked him away to warmth, it felt natural and purposeful in a way that he could not explain. Now that he held the child’s life in his hands, though, his exhaustion seemed to weigh more heavily against his aching shoulders.
“Have you tried changing his diaper?”
The sudden strange, muffled string of Russian words caused Ogata to jump backwards. He whirled around with the speed and intensity of a mouse trying to evade the claws of a hungry house cat. Staring back at him, those icy eyes expressing a strange mixture of intensity and gentleness, was none other than the soldier he had bested at the Russian border. Up close, Ogata was not only much more aware of the advantage that the man had over him in height but also the calculating intensity of his eyes. Sweat coated Ogata’s palms as his eye landed on his rifle, propped up behind the still-wailing child. It would take many precious seconds for him to reach it and fire off a shot, seconds during which the Russian sniper could easily launch an attack of his own. Ogata’s pain, his overwhelming frustration his attentiveness towards the infant, it had all caused him to become careless.
The other sniper followed Ogata’s gaze to the lonesome rifle and clicked his tongue. The sound was garbled, likely the result of the injury that Ogata had bestowed. The man’s face was covered with a thick layer of tan fabric, though, shielding the injury from Ogata’s view. As Ogata kneeled there, frozen in a stalemate, waiting for the right moment to pounce, he imagined the scars that were now etched into the flesh of the man’s cheeks. Were his molars intact? Had his wounds closed up completely? Did he now think of Ogata every time he looked in the mirror?
“Don’t worry. I won’t shoot you now,” the man said. Even as he spoke his reassurance, his posture remained cautious, shoulders raised and eyes alert, not trusting Ogata to become sated by the words.
If the sniper had wished to kill Ogata, he already would have. After all, Ogata hadn’t noticed him creeping into the abandoned shed with footsteps as light as a ghost’s – he could have easily let loose a bullet into the back of Ogata’s skull, showering the infant in blood. But he hadn’t. Ogata didn’t know the man’s motives, if he sought to torture information out of Ogata or simply have a friendly chat. The former seemed much more likely.
“Leave your rifle at the door, then,” Ogata mumbled, hoping that his Russian hadn’t become too rusty with disuse.
“Not until you move away from yours,” the man shot back.
Below them, the child coughed. The man’s eyes shifted downwards, and in that brief moment, Ogata launched toward his gun. His hands grasped the cool metal of the barrel before the man could even let out a growl. The effort was in vain, though – the distance between him and his beloved weapon had been too great, and Ogata would pay for his carelessness. He attempted to shoulder the weapon, to aim at this intruder and fire off a fatal shot, but his opponent had the advantage. When he turned, all Ogata could see was the butt of a rifle descending upon his forehead, the blow cleansing him of violent thoughts along with his consciousness.
For what might have been the first time in his life, Ogata woke to the strange sound of laughter. The noises were tiny, like squeaks from a mouse, yet the pure happiness radiating from the small child was clear. Even odder was the display that greeted Ogata’s fuzzy gaze. The Russian sniper was hovering over the child, trying his best to wrap a piece of white cloth around his bottom. Wet patches stained the man’s tan military jacket, and a pungent odor wafted through the small shed. Momentarily, Ogata wondered which of the three of them smelled the most unpleasant what with the foul aromas of sweat, grime, and now urine clouding their nostrils.
“You piss on me and think it’s funny?” the man asked the child, only slight annoyance present in his voice. For the most part, the man seemed amused and perhaps relieved to see the malnourished boy laughing. Ogata didn’t know why he cared, why he was attempting to shoulder some of the responsibility that Ogata had taken on himself. Above all, though, Ogata wondered why the man had not killed him yet.
The child continued to laugh as the impromptu diaper was messily pinned to his form. Ogata found himself entranced by the sound, by the scene that was playing out before him. There was no more screeching that poked at Ogata’s eardrums like needles. Rather, the pleasant, honey-sweet noises of mirth soothed him. This child was not too far gone. The bony fingers of agony and weakness had not yet grasped him fully – the hold was weak and wavering. Happiness was still an option for the child. He was not a lost cause. For a moment, daydreams of teaching the growing boy to shoot a rifle and hunt for wild game invaded Ogata’s mind. He would kneel behind the boy, helping him keep the gun steady in his small hands. Steady your breathing, the Ogata in his vision would say. Good job.
“You’re awake,” the man said in his garbled voice, pulling Ogata from his odd reverie. It was then that Ogata noticed that his gun had been moved behind the other sniper, far beyond his grasp. The defeat stung, but Ogata knew that he would have won the disastrous duel once more if not for the added weight he had decided to bear.
“I changed your bandages,” the man said with a shrug, his gaze falling onto the cheerful child once more. “They were disgusting.”
“How kind of you,” Ogata said with a sneer. More than ever, Ogata was mad at having let his guard down, although part of him wished to be shot to free him from this torment. The sniper seemed to be gloating – his posture was relaxed as if he no longer perceived Ogata as a threat. It annoyed him to no end.
“I also tore up your hospital gown to wrap him a new diaper,” the man added. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Ogata scoffed. “What are you, my mother? I could’ve done that myself without you knocking me out. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“Really? You seemed awfully distressed. And weak.”
Ogata felt his face heating up, a mixture of fury and embarrassment bubbling inside of him and threatening to spill over in another bout of violence. He refrained from throwing any punches, though. The pain and soreness that had taken hold of every muscle was much too great.
“Yeah, I just had my fucking eye gouged out, so forgive me for not singing any lullabies,” Ogata spat. The man only blinked, and the lack of reaction was disappointing. Ogata was supposed to be the one who was calm and collected, the one who evoked frustration in others. This sudden role reversal was maddening to the point that Ogata could not concentrate on a single thought for more than a moment. His head was a mess of half-formed questions and plans of attack, the notions all coming and going in a matter of seconds.
The man ignored Ogata’s sarcasm. His eyes crinkled, and Ogata assumed it to be the hint of a smile – the fabric covering his mouth made it hard to be sure. “I’m Vasily.”
“I didn’t ask. And you smell like piss.”
The man, Vasily, huffed and looked down at his stained jacket. He seemed only vaguely disgusted as he slid out of the garment and let it fall to the ground behind him. Ogata suspected that if Vasily were alone without judging eyes upon him, he would have certainly remained fully clothed, preferring warmth over cleanliness. Now, Vasily sat in a thick, white tunic, the fur-lined bashlyk still adorning his head and snaking over his mouth. It was a shame that Ogata could not see the injury he had bestowed upon Vasily. His desire to lay his gaze on the supposed deformity was not to gloat or revel in his victory – it was simply curiosity.
With reduced protection from the cursed draft that crept between cracks in the shed, Vasily shifted closer to the fire. “You’re Ogata,” he said so suddenly that Ogata nearly startled. It was such an odd statement and he could not tell if it was accusatory or just a simple musing.
“How do you know my name?” Ogata asked as he eyed the infant who had finally become silent. His eyelids appeared heavy, slowly sinking as sleep overtook him. As his arms fell limp, a small yawn escaped the child, and Ogata could not help but soften his gaze.
“I heard that girl calling for you when we were in the forest,” Vasily answered. He extended his hands above the fire, occasionally rubbing them together for additional warmth. Ogata stared at the light hair that grew along his knuckles and his fingertips that were stained with some dark, black substance. Judging from the well-used sketchbook that Ogata noticed peeking out of Vasily’s supply pack, it was likely charcoal.
“Before I shot you,” Ogata said. He just wanted to remind Vasily of who he was dealing with, of the power he held over him.
Ogata caught Vasily’s eyes narrowing, but his gaze became neutral once more, almost instantaneously. “Before you got lucky.”
At that, Ogata let out a laugh. “Luck? I outsmarted you. You and I both know that. You’re the one who got lucky. You should be dead.”
“So should you, Ogata,” Vasily said, gesturing at the bandages that lined his face. Vasily’s words rang true, but his new injury was irrelevant. Vasily had not been the one to inflict the wound, to gouge out his eye and suck the venom-infused blood from its socket like fine wine. Ogata could see the envy clear on Vasily’s face.
“Someone’s a sore loser,” Ogata said with a growing grin. Vasily opened his mouth to throw out a retort, but just then the infant stirred from his light slumber and fell into a fit of crying once more. Again, Ogata found himself at a loss. Offering comfort seemed like the most obvious course of action, and yet he could not bring himself to cradle the child, to coo and rock him as he imagined a mother might. Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation that dulled Ogata’s motivation to provide solace, or perhaps the act was simply impossible for him. Providing support in an emotional sense rather than through violence and carnage was not yet something to which he had grown accustomed. The mere thought of it made him squirm.
Lucky for him, Vasily moved to scoop the child up into his arms before he could even let out a second ear-piercing wail. As Vasily supported the child’s small head lest it wobble uselessly on his thin, weak neck, the crying morphed into whines. It was as if the boy already trusted Vasily, that he knew Vasily had learned to decipher his senseless babbling and would provide for him whatever he desired. When Vasily lifted what remained of the cow’s milk to small, chapped lips, the boy drank awkwardly. From the edge of the tin cup, milk spilled along puffy cheeks and onto the warm horse blanket. Some of the fluid did end up in the child’s mouth, however, and he became too busy gulping down the cold milk to continue crying.
Ogata stared at Vasily’s arms, the way that they wrapped protectively around the child’s frail form. He took in the concentrated look on Vasily’s face and the gentleness with which he prompted the child to drink. The clash of gruffness and innocence was captivating, a pure contradiction that left Ogata speechless. How could this cold-blooded soldier who had listened to the tortured cries of his dying comrade without so much as a flinch take care of another with such naturalness, such compassion?
“It’s late,” Vasily mumbled when the infant refused to drink any more. Ogata had to lean forward to make out the words. “We can leave him in morning if he’s still alive. There’s family nearby with large farm.”
The thought of death loomed once more, this time unsettling Ogata more than it should have. A nameless child buried in an unmarked grave was a dismal thought, especially now that Ogata had witnessed hope in the boy’s smile, in his weak laughter. He had sought to maintain a safe distance, to vehemently refuse attachment to this new presence that now lingered, innocent and overbearing. Such was an impossible feat when the small, fragile being was so dependent on the kindness of others. It made Ogata wonder how he himself had survived when he was so small. Had his mother held him like Vasily now cradled the discarded child? Had she wiped his tears with the backs of her slender fingers when he cried?
The overwhelming urge to present the child with a name invaded Ogata’s mind with forceful swiftness. As he sat and watched Vasily care for him, possessing all of the tenderness that had eluded Ogata, he realized that it was the least he could do. Names were humanizing; they were care and thoughtfulness reflected in words. They were a memory. Ogata had always wondered why his mother had chosen Hyakunosuke as his own name, but no matter the reason or Ogata’s feelings towards the name, part of her consciousness existed in those three characters. Hearing it spoken was odd – it reminded him of his childhood, of his grandparents calling for him to return home when the sun was beginning to set. At the same time, hearing his name could be pleasant, a reminder that he existed outside of his own thoughts and observations. He was human, and so was this child.
“His name is Naoki,” Ogata said with such unwavering finality that Vasily seemed almost startled, his wide-eyed gaze darting to Ogata rapidly. The momentary confusion subsided within seconds, and a hidden smile grew on Vasily’s face, making his eyes crinkle once more. Ogata was not able to decide whether the ease with which Vasily could show emotion around his would-be killer was admirable or incredibly careless.
Vasily looked the boy over. Again, he was allowing sleep to take hold of his small form, slipping from consciousness slowly and peacefully. As if he were handling the most delicate china, Vasily placed the bundled child onto the ground and gave a single decisive nod. “Well then goodnight, little Naoki,” he said. The moment of pure fondness made Ogata wonder if this was all an elaborate scheme, if Vasily was simply playing the role of some gushy, kindhearted soul in a twisted effort to get Ogata to fully lower his guard. Was he trying to build up trust so that sadistic betrayal would taste much sweeter?
As Ogata’s mind fell into turmoil, Vasily leaned back and rested on the wooden floor without invitation. Despite Ogata’s suspicions, the temporary unspoken truce was oddly exhilarating. Vasily had shamelessly and naturally inserted himself Ogata’s situation and getting to talk with the man who he had almost killed, who he would eventually try to kill again, was interesting. In a way, it was intimacy, the act of knowing one’s prey. Ogata wondered about little details that he had already picked up on: the sketchbook that remained tucked away in Vasily’s supplies, the way he chose to sit on his knees despite apparent discomfort, and a thin scar that lined his collarbone. Of course, Ogata didn’t care enough to inquire about those tiny details; he would never verbalize his curiosity. However, there was solace in recognizing the intricacy of humans – it meant that Ogata wasn’t alone, that when he had bested Vasily it was truly because he had outsmarted him and the complex web of thoughts that was strung throughout Vasily’s mind. And when Ogata died, it would not be to some mindless nobody. No, he would lose his life to someone who mimicked his complicated system of thoughts, to someone who understood him more than he understood himself. Such was a comforting thought.
Ogata had not even realized that he had fallen asleep. For a moment, he was alarmed as consciousness flooded back into his body. Had he truly been weakened by his injury, by the pain and fatigue that grew behind his eye sockets and pulsated throughout his skull? He felt feverish – his mind was working slower than normal, taking many more precious seconds to become fully aware of his surroundings. Even more worrisome was that Vasily had awoken before him with such silence that Ogata had not even stirred.
Vasily was already holding Naoki and feeding him what little remained of the cow’s milk. The cold had at least been good for keeping the milk from spoiling, although Ogata could not imagine that it tasted pleasant. The child was protesting, turning his small head away from the cup with a mixture of distaste and distress present on his twisted features. Crying would soon follow, Ogata knew. But, for now, he was simply relieved to see that Naoki had survived. His heart still beat, refusing death with small yet spirited mightiness that made Ogata breathe out a long, thankful sigh. At that, Vasily finally turned to face Ogata.
It was then that Ogata noticed the puffy bags under Vasily’s eyes, prominent against his pale skin. Satisfaction washed over Ogata at the telling sight. “You didn’t sleep,” he remarked, knowing that his deduction was correct when Vasily failed to respond. The man had been afraid, afraid of Ogata killing him while he was asleep and vulnerable. Although Ogata would never kill such a worthy opponent with those cowardly tactics, he was pleased to see that Vasily was still wary.
Vasily only shook his head, choosing not to continue the conversation any further. Instead, he set down the remaining milk and held Naoki out to Ogata. Ogata sat up and stared at the bundled infant being offered to him like one would offer a gift. “Here, hold him,” Vasily prompted. Ogata only blinked. “Children need to be held.”
That’s untrue, Ogata wanted to spit. Children didn’t need to be coddled. They would survive without such affections – Ogata was living proof of that. Yes, they craved the touch of loving parents, but they did not need it.
For the first time since arriving, Vasily seemed truly annoyed. Ogata’s lack of movement made him narrow his cold eyes and let out a forceful, audible huff. Then, Naoki was shoved to Ogata’s chest before he could even let out a gasp. Ogata could not tear himself away, not when Vasily had grabbed his wrist and forced him to wrap an arm around Naoki, to support his pitiful weight with an unwilling grasp. “You found him, now you take care of him until we get to the farm,” Vasily said. Ogata wasn’t sure what had shifted in his strange companion, why he was suddenly so frustrated. No matter the reason, Ogata felt anxiety overtake him as Vasily pulled away. It was as if he had been dropped into the middle of an open field without cover from lurking enemies – danger seemed to surround him, making his heart race as unsteady breaths escaped him.
“Someone’s grumpy. Did you not get enough sleep?” Ogata said to Vasily, trying his best to disguise his discomfort with sarcasm and nonchalance. Luckily, his voice did not break, but he knew that Vasily was incredibly perceptive. He would surely notice the change in Ogata’s breathing, the sweat that now coated his palms. Nothing escaped the watchful eye of a sniper – Ogata knew that better than anybody.
Vasily said nothing, although his face softened. Ogata watched his eyes widen and dart to his supply pack in the corner of the room, the display so quick that Ogata barely missed it. Just as he did with every minuscule action, Ogata drew conclusions; he connected the dots in his head until he found a way to get under Vasily’s skin, to poke and prod at him meaninglessly. “What, you want to draw me?” he said, his voice nearly cracking once more. The sharp claws of discomfort were taking hold of him, sinking into his skin deeper and with much more strength than they would have if his mind and body were healthy. “You want some portrait of me that you can jack off to later, is that it?”
“You’re annoying,” Vasily said, his tone neutral, lingering on the side of amusement. It appeared that his annoyance had dissipated as he watched Ogata hold Naoki in uncertain arms. “But you’re doing a good job.”
“How would you know?” Ogata spat back.
Vasily hummed thoughtfully before giving a quick shrug, the wrinkled fabric of his tunic creasing as he did. “I guess I don’t. He seems content, though.”
Ogata looked upon the child for the first time since taking him into his arms. Naoki stared back up at him with glistening blue eyes. He breathed calmly despite the snot that ran from one of his nostrils, and as Ogata met his eyes, Naoki smiled. His chubby face wrinkled as he flapped his arms with glee, appearing as though he was trying to fly away like a courageous fledgling. Ogata watched as if in a trance. This baby, so innocent and untainted by violence or corruption, was smiling at him, an unworthy being who had sent countless souls to hell. That smile was indiscriminate, not caring whether Ogata was blessed or cursed by life. In that moment, nothing mattered. Ogata was not only seen; he was accepted. All he could do then was melt.
They soon packed up their gear to begin their journey to the well-kept farm. In the distance, Ogata could hear the mooing of the few cows that were feasting on fodder. Naoki rested peacefully in his arms, whether from exhaustion or comfort Ogata was not sure. What he did know was that the child felt warm in his grasp like a canteen full of freshly-boiled water. Occasionally, he squirmed and nuzzled himself against the thick cloak that covered Ogata’s chest. Ogata watched with fascination, unable to stop himself from viewing the small movements as utterly endearing. He was tumbling down a hill of sudden infatuation. It was certainly new terrain, and Ogata almost wanted to ask Vasily why something odd happened to his heart when Naoki looked up at him with those soft and trusting eyes.
The small farmhouse soon came into view, smoke escaping its chimney in cottony puffs that stood out against the grey-blue sky. The uneven carpet of hardened mud, branded with hoof prints and the thin lines of carriage wheels, was stretched out before them, inviting them to carry onwards towards the warmth of civilization. Despite the straight, sure path that beckoned him, Ogata’s pace slowed.
Against his chest, Naoki sneezed with a tiny squeak. Snot connected the child’s nose to the fabric of his cloak and Ogata felt himself lucky that he had long since grown used to such gross displays – after spending days at a time in polluted trenches, body fluids did not faze him in the least. Pinching a clean corner of his cloak, Ogata wiped away the excess mucus until Naoki was clean once more. As if to tease him, Naoki’s face then scrunched, warning him of another sneeze that Ogata was ready for this time. He held his cloak to Naoki’s nose.
The second sneeze never came. Instead, Naoki’s face softened and one chubby head reached up to take Ogata’s finger in its grasp. All at once, Ogata’s body stiffened like a songbird paralyzed by the fangs of a viper, digging past flesh until venom lethally merged with warm blood. His heart seized up, almost painfully, even as the child attempted to put the finger into his mouth. Ogata stopped him, but he allowed Naoki to pull his hand to and fro in a senseless pattern, tiny coos escaping him all the while. The desire to hold Naoki even closer was immense and irresistible, and succumbing to it felt natural. In front of him, Ogata barely registered Vasily’s footsteps slowing or his name being called. He was entranced, wholly and shamelessly.
“We’re almost there,” Vasily said, and Ogata looked up to take in the farmhouse, cozy and sufficient for a growing child. Perhaps Naoki would have a good life here, or at least a normal one. But now, something had shifted, something that refused to let Ogata take another step. He felt constricted by a phantasmal swirl of thoughts and fears, and he didn’t dare fight against them – not yet, not until he understood them.
“What if he remembers that I abandoned him?” Ogata asked. It was less of an inquiry and more of a bubble of dread rising to the surface. He didn’t expect Vasily to have an answer.
“He’s too young for that,” Vasily said after a moment of silence. He remained several strides ahead of Ogata, standing with a softened expression.
“But what if he’s not?” Ogata shot back. “What if, for the rest of his life, he always feels like something, someone, is missing?”
“Then you won’t be around to know about it,” Vasily said, as if the answer were so simple.
Is that what Ogata’s father had thought when he abandoned Tome and his newborn son? Had he believed that, if he disowned his son, all responsibility for that child’s well-being would dissolve in an instant? Ogata frowned and clutched Naoki impossibly close. He wouldn’t allow this child to lead a damned life; he wouldn’t be like his father. “I won’t,” Ogata said, mustering an icy glare to fire at Vasily like the bullet he had sent flying through the man’s cheek.
“You don’t even have a home,” Vasily said, taking a step closer. In response, Ogata backed away, maintaining the distance between them.
“Fuck off. It’s none of your business. What are you even doing here?” Ogata whirled around to trek back the way he came. He had no destination in mind, nor could he visualize an end goal. He only wished to place himself farther from that perfectly quaint home that stood like a warm beacon against the cold, vacant stretch of land.
“Where are you going?” Vasily called after him. Ogata heard him jog to catch up. “You’re being selfish. He’ll starve. What the fuck are you thinking?”
Ogata wanted to punch him, to run from him, anything that would get Vasily’s voice of reason out of his ears. He couldn’t bare it, the logic and the sanity the dripped from Vasily’s tongue. He raised a fist in warning, daring Vasily to take another step. His companion watched with narrowed eyes, but he finally became still. He watched Ogata with a mixture of frustration and what appeared to be a glimmer of understanding. His brow was furrowed and yet soft eyes made Ogata’s raised arm waver ever so slightly.
It was then that he heard the all-too-familiar cocking of a gun. Ogata hurriedly turned to see a tall, stocky woman wearing a billowing dark blue dress. Wild strands of curly red hair, the color of rusted metal, shot out from her scalp while the rest of her thick locks sat braided along her back. Light freckles dusted her cheeks and forehead like a splattering of paint droplets, circling her eyes and stretching all the way to her ears. Ogata spotted deep brown eyes staring at him from the other end of the gunsight, the harsh gaze demanding answers or at least a hasty retreat. Tall grass rustled in the frigid breeze while all else around it, in that moment, stood still.
Ogata opened his mouth to order her to lower her pathetic excuse for a rifle, to scare her back into her home, but before he could, Naoki began to wail. Perhaps the child had sensed Ogata’s distress, or it could have been likely that Naoki simply had good instincts. With the undeniable, screaming presence of an innocent baby, how could this woman dare shoot him? As expected, she quickly lowered her weapon upon spotting Naoki and her expression shifted into something apologetic, wide eyes and parted lips communicating her remorseful shock.
“Is he hungry?” the woman asked Vasily, apparently not trusting Ogata to have a thorough understanding of Russian.
“He is,” both answered at once.
After a brief, passing period of hesitation as was to be expected in anyone who found herself in the company of two armed and unkempt strangers, the woman gestured at them to follow. Upon approaching, she made them hand over their weapons until three rifles were strapped over her shoulder in an almost comedic display, their stocks swinging against her back with every step she took. Only when they were near defenseless did she lead them onwards toward that pleasantly inviting cottage, and like moths to a guiding light, they followed.
The woman’s name was Yelena and she lived with her husband who had chosen that morning to travel to the nearest town in an attempt to trade milk, potatoes, and other wares for meat and grain. With Yelena were her two children, both young girls and both possessing the same curly red hair as their mother. The girls gathered around Naoki as soon as they saw him, reaching out arms to pat the tufts of hair that grew from the child’s head and to feel the smooth skin of his round cheeks. All the while, Yelena stood behind them, rifle in hand and ready to be fired at a moment’s notice.
She watched as Ogata backed away from the excited children who spoke of putting on a play for Naoki and dressing him in their knit hats. Ogata held the child closer, not trusting that the girls knew their own strength, that their fingernails would not scratch Naoki’s cheeks or leave blisters along his delicate scalp. It was then that Yelena allowed herself to give them a small smile. “You’re overprotective,” she said, and Ogata found the statement ironic. She was the one holding a gun, standing over her daughters like a bear ready to pounce at the slightest of threats. “Let them see. They’ll be gentle. They’ve handled the baby chickens.”
Ogata wanted to spit out a retort, to say that a human child was much more important than yellow lumps of feathers. Reluctantly, though, he kneeled down to let the children see Naoki in all of his tired, weak, resplendent glory. If the girls were wary of Ogata, it did not show. Their desire to feel and whisper compliments to Naoki was much greater. “You’re adorable,” they said, along with, “I wish we had a little brother.”
A bowl of some unknown food sat on a nearby table amongst two more empty bowls. It became clear to Ogata that Yelena had gotten up in a hurry when she had spotted them in the distance, saving no time to start her breakfast. Vasily explained that the dish was buckwheat porridge mixed with butter, and it was then that Ogata realized how hungry he was. On cue, his stomach let out an embarrassingly loud growl that made Yelena raise an eyebrow. She shouldered her weapon and held out her arms to Ogata. “Give me him,” she said, leaving no room for debate. “And sit.”
In a brief moment of uncertainty, Ogata worried that Yelena would whisk the child away upon deeming them unfit parents. She could hold Naoki tight in her arms before forcing them out the door with the barrel of a rifle at their backs. The anxious thought was not entirely irrational; it made sense for the malnourished child to be taken from him out of fear of mistreatment or neglect. Nonetheless, Ogata forced himself to trust Yelena, that she would take good care of Naoki while they were apart. He handed Naoki over quickly before his mind had the chance to become trapped in a spiral of anxiety. Then, Yelena withdrew to some other part of the small house, leaving Vasily and Ogata alone together for the first time since their encounter in that dark, snow-filled forest over a month ago.
Ogata sat at the wooden table, his chair scraping against the cold floor as he pulled it out. With a small thud, he let his head rest against the wall beside him, the chill from the brisk, outdoor air seeping into his temple and preventing him from dozing off. Oddly enough, Vasily took the seat directly beside Ogata rather than sitting across from him. Ogata looked at him with a raised brow and wondered what prompted the strange man to constantly invade his space. “Do you still not want to leave him?” Vasily asked, gesturing around the snug home like picture-perfectness was any indication of actual happiness that dug below the surface level.
“I don’t know,” Ogata answered honestly. He had never known. Before, he had been acting on impulse and evading the cruel shadow of reason, but now, in the company of calmness, Ogata allowed himself to doubt. He did not know what was best.
When Yelena returned, the eldest daughter was the one carrying Naoki in tow, cradling the child’s head like he was a delicate porcelain doll. He had been outfitted in an infant-sized nightgown, complete with a small bow at his neck. Wool socks now adorned his tiny feet which he kicked happily, likely embracing the newfound warmth that enveloped him. “I saved clothes from the girls in case I ever had another child,” Yelena remarked with mild detachment, her eyes never landing on either Ogata or Vasily. She chose to focus her attention on Naoki instead. “You need to feed him much more often. And the horse blanket that you stole from us won’t do. You need something thicker. It’s a miracle he doesn’t have a cough.”
Yelena gave this lecture as she set two bowls of porridge in front of Vasily and Ogata, the thick substance nearly sloshing over the side as she slammed it to the table. As Ogata held himself back from completely devouring the meal in minutes, Yelena next set a glass jug of milk on the table, accompanied by cream. “Heat it up,” she said, gesturing to the milk. “And mix it with some cream, so it’s sweeter. If you don’t have milk, give him broth, and if you don’t have broth, sell your guns to get some. And spoon-feed him. If you keep using a cup, he could choke. Mix in cod liver oil if he seems weak, like he does right now. In about two months, start feeding him solid food along with the milk. Why aren’t you writing this down?”
Ogata blinked and looked down at the table as if that would make a notepad suddenly appear in front of him. “I’ll remember,” he said.
“Me too,” Vasily said, raising his hand like he was sitting in a classroom. “But what if he won’t eat.”
“Then something’s wrong,” Yelena said. “You would have to take him to a doctor, which you should do anyway.”
Ogata felt empowered to ask a question of his own. “Is it normal for him to keep trying to put things in his mouth?”
At that, Yelena finally smiled. “Yes.”
“Shouldn’t he know not to eat dirt?”
Yelena seemed to be holding back a laugh, much to Ogata’s dismay. “He’s a baby. He doesn’t know anything. You have to teach him.”
Ogata slumped back against his chair, the wood creaking under the weight. He took a bite of the meal in front of him and gave a satisfied sigh as the warm, savory flavor soothed his soul. As he continued eating, he soon found that there was a new weight against his shoulder. Blond hair tickled his cheek, and the sudden sensation nearly made him gasp. Carefully, Ogata craned his neck and looked upon Vasily’s dozing form. The man had finally succumbed to sleep after thoroughly evading its clutches all night, and he had chosen Ogata to be his pillow. Ogata stiffened, partly due to the strangeness of the situation but also because he felt Yelena’s eyes upon him, forming silent judgements as the tense seconds ticked by.
“He hasn’t slept,” Ogata said, immediately realizing that the statement made it sound like he had been concerned for Vasily’s well-being. The desire to assert that the two of them were strangers to one another was strong, but that would have been a lie. Ogata and Vasily knew each on a level that exceeded that of mere acquaintances – despite their lack of verbal communication, they knew how the other thought and analyzed the world around them. They were birds of a feather, and Ogata knew that this was apparent to anyone who looked upon them.
“Does he want tea?” Yelena asked, and Ogata shook his head.
“He’ll be fine.” Ogata did not know why he was responded for Vasily or why he felt so sure in his answers.
Yelena only nodded and looked back at her eldest daughter who had taken to stroking Naoki’s wispy hair which such gentleness that Ogata wondered why he had ever doubted her. It was when Naoki stirred, raising his tiny fists as he let out an impressive groan, that Ogata remembered his most important question. “How do I know why he’s crying?” he asked, and the words tumbled out with such speed that Yelena’s eyes darted around the room, wondering what the sudden rush was. Ogata simply needed to know, to absorb Yelena’s knowledge until he was an expert parent who could ensure that this innocent child led a wonderful life.
Yelena looked into his eyes, studying him with intensity and a vague curiosity. Ogata held her gaze as if the knowledge he needed was being transported to him mentally, a ribbon of parental instincts slinking in through his open eyes and wrapping itself around his brain in a perfect bow. Why was such simplicity impossible? Finally, Yelena opened her mouth to answer, to bestow her experienced wisdom onto Ogata like a famed oracle. He leaned forward, expectant and wholly open to her words.
“You just have to figure it out.”
Yelena told them of a small inn they could stay at, located only about a thirty-minutes’ walk north. It housed traders traveling long distances to reach the nearby shops and hunters who had grown weary of stalking their elusive preys. The building was two stories tall, its sturdy log walls interlocking to provide adequate protection from the chill. A few family homes had been constructed nearby, and Ogata could hear the loud crows of a rooster in the distance. Off on the horizon, Ogata could see more signs of civilization in the form of an active town. He considered having them travel there instead to buy Naoki diapers and warm blankets, but he was already becoming fussy once more. They had to feed him and allow him to rest, this time on a proper bed.
Vasily spoke to the innkeeper while Ogata busied himself with adjusting the socks the Naoki seemed intent on kicking off. Ogata was coming to learn that babies had a death wish – they pushed off blankets meant to keep them warm, spit out the food that kept them nourished, and they would certainly gulp down poison so long as it had been set in front of them. He wondered if perhaps he had been the one who had driven his mother mad. Parenthood was no easy task, and Ogata had only taken on the role for a single day.
When Vasily turned away from the innkeeper and shot Ogata a sheepish look, he immediately knew what the next words out of Vasily’s mouth would be. “She told me that they only have one bed left,” he said, right on cue. Ogata sighed. He was surprised that he didn’t actually care all that much.
“That’s fine.”
The room was small, but it was acceptable. The bed was large enough for two men laying side-by-side, and a small window in the corner let in an ample amount of light. After Naoki was full and drowsiness became apparent through his tiny yawns and drooping lids, the two of them slid out of their jackets and stared at the bed. It was Vasily who made the first move. The frame creaked as he slid out of his boots and lowered himself onto the soft, wool pillows, carrying Naoki along with him. Ogata stood off to the side and watched, wondering if he should instead sleep in the old birch rocking chair in the corner. The wood splintered along the armrests, and the rockers sat unevenly along the cold floor, but Ogata had slept in much worse conditions. He would admit, though, that continuously sleeping curled and uncomfortable was starting to do a number on his back.
Ogata looked at Naoki once more and the way that he was cuddled up in the crook of Vasily’s arm, head resting on his chest. He could not help but scoff at how simple life was for a child of this age – they had no worries aside from eating and sleeping. They did not have to stress over perceptions or traumas; they only had to exist in blissful ignorance, waiting for others to provide for them unconditionally. It was not envy that Ogata felt but rather a longing to forget the immorality and cruel detachment that he had come to know like a dear friend. What a life it must be to live happily and innocently unaware of corruption even as it surrounds you.
Vasily’s outstretched arm pulled him from his thoughts as if he had cast out a fishing line and hooked Ogata in one fluid movement. He stared at that arm, that invitation, beckoning him closer with such openness that Ogata had to blink slowly and look upon the scene with a fresh gaze, making sure that he had not misinterpreted the motion. Still, Vasily waved for him to indulge in a warm embrace, his expression patiently neutral. “You look cold,” was the explanation that Vasily offered, masking the tenderness of the gesture with the pretense of necessity just as Ogata would have done. Before he could become consumed with doubt and resign himself to that torturous rocking chair, Ogata slumped down beside Vasily with feigned annoyance present in his long, abrupt sigh. Like Naoki, he rested his head against Vasily’s warm chest and heard the man’s heartbeat race, strong and incessant. Ogata was sure that his own heartbeat sounded the same, but he was lucky that Vasily was not in a position to observe it – Ogata could continue wearing a mask of indifference with the occasional sigh mixed in for good measure.
It was when Vasily wrapped his arm around Ogata, resting it along his back, that Ogata held his breath entirely. Every sound became amplified. The gurgle of Naoki’s stomach, the puffs of air escaping Vasily’s nostrils, his excess saliva being swallowed in a large gulp, it all sounded loud as the echoing snap of pine tree being felled. Ogata could not bear it. “Why?” he asked in a near whisper so as not to tug Naoki from his slumber. “Why are you helping me?”
“Weak and pathetic wasn’t a good look on you.”
The answer was so blunt that Ogata had to check Vasily’s face for signs of seriousness. He wore a smile, though, saving himself from being on the receiving end of a threatening glare. “Ha. You just want to continue our little cat and mouse game,” Ogata said. “That’s all this is.” The tone was not as accusatory as he had meant for it to be – rather, it sounded like he was trying to reassure himself of this simple fact. Violence was familiar. Fondness found in the gentle touch of an enemy was not.
There was silence. Ogata looked upon the contemplative expression that had overtaken Vasily’s features, like he wasn’t sure now if he wanted to renew the rivalry between them. The look was terrifying, for he had seen it in the faces of men contemplating morality in the midst of duels when they believed that they had gotten the upper hand, when they had the power to bestow mercy. Vasily had viewed the humanity in him – Ogata was no longer a nameless figure who existed as a challenge to his skills. Distance, the most valuable asset of a sniper, had been lost, and now killing would be harder. Ogata wasn’t sure if Vasily’s new mindset was a bad thing in this instance. Not only was it one fewer obstacle for Ogata to overcome, but he had long since lost interest in shooting Vasily, in besting him once more. He had already proven himself once. Defeating Vasily a second time was redundant and would only serve to prove to Vasily once and for all that he was better, a fact that Ogata already knew. Ogata would gain nothing from the altercation.
Vasily ran his fingertips along Ogata’s back, up and down like the constant flow of the tide. Ogata wanted to demand that he stop, to shoot up from the bed and retreat to solitude. It was then, though, that he realized how truly tired he was, feverishly tired. He balanced on the precipice of falling into a sleep that he knew would last throughout the night and long into the following morning. Despite the awkwardness and the overwhelming unfamiliarity of this strange domesticity, Ogata’s body was perfectly comfortable, betraying him with its weariness. Before he knew it, before he could even protest, sleep had claimed him and Ogata dreamt with such vividness that all other visions and nightmares dulled in comparison.
In the dream, he stood in a home. His home. It was quaint, nestled amongst large pines and just far enough away from the bustling town to maintain stillness and tranquility. From his spot near the firewood stove, Ogata heard the trickling of a nearby stream outside of the window, the soothing sound placing him in a meditative trance. He took a deep breath, allowing fresh air to enter him until his lungs were filled. The breath exited him in one huge huff just as the door behind him banged open and the sound of tiny footsteps approached.
“Dad, look.”
The voice was small yet overflowing with delight. He turned to find a small boy, a head shorter than the small rifle that was strung to his back. Shaggy hair shot out in every direction, reminding Ogata of a dark lion’s mane. Outstretched in front of him, gripped in a tiny hand, was a small, brown-feathered duck that had met its unlucky demise. The bloody bullet-hole sat at the duck’s breast, and droplets of red trickled down until they dripped onto the wood floor. Ogata hurried over and cupped a hand under the wound to save the floors from further mess, but no frustration formed within him. Rather, immense pride welled up inside of him at the success, for this was an accumulation of his teachings and his love, mutual love, manifesting beautifully and with a flood of fulfillment.
“Come here,” Ogata said to Naoki who had grown wonderfully and blessedly. “Let me show you how to prepare it.”
Naoki smiled and it was then that Ogata felt a feather-light kiss against his brow, stirring him from the dream ever so slightly. Scarred lips pressed against him but retreated just as quickly, allowing Ogata to further indulge in the joy of instructing Naoki with careful hands. The sensation lingered, though, phantom-like and endearing in its uncertainty, propelling Ogata further into the pleasantness of his dreams.