Z.

It was spring. Z had finished making a cup of tea and had stepped out to her back yard.

It was a cool afternoon. Sunshine oscillated through the clouds and tempered an occasional breeze. She took a deep breath, the lingering scent of freshly cut grass tickled the back of her throat. Trees swayed in the air, the rustling leaves harmonized with the chirping songbirds. 

She sighed. Yesterday she had spent the whole afternoon consoling the parents of a child who had died on the ward. She was emotionally spent and was relieved it was the weekend. She wrapped her hands around the mug of tea, sipping in the warmth as she felt her shoulders start to relax. 

A few minutes later, she could hear the characteristic sound of her husband's footsteps as he joined her outside. He was holding his old, black acoustic guitar in his left hand, and a shawl in the right. He draped the shawl around her shoulders and winked at her, smiling.

"You ok?" he said, adjusting the shawl with his hand. 

"Yes darling" she replied with a smile. She had a dimple on the right of her face which fleetingly appeared as she looked at him. She knew he could tell she was tired - his eyes seemed to glisten and say "You know I'm here for you" as he stared intently at her. 

Z stayed where she was as her husband gave her a kiss on the cheek and skipped onto the grass where he sat with his guitar. She watched him as he started playing, a clumsy interpretation of Jeff Buckley's 'Hallelujah' was always his favourite to practice. He seemed lost in the sound as he picked on the strings. The notes were carried across the garden in the breeze, and it almost seemed like the music painted the scene with deeper, brighter colours. 

Z sipped at her tea, the events of the day before replayed themselves multiple times in her mind. She felt she could have done more, that she could have done better. She hated the fact she felt this way, that this was just more proof of her weakness and mediocrity. She could feel the demons of anxiety and self-doubt tickling her brain.

Her thoughts were interrupted when another pair of footsteps became audible. These were lighter, much more hurried and poorly coordinated. She smiled - she could identify who this was with a heartbeat.

Z's daughter leaped to her mother's side. She was wearing unmatched socks and Disney pyjamas. Her tawny hair was tangled and wild - it was impossible to control. She was nearly 8 years old.

Z smiled at her daughter who was her typical boisterous self. She was cute, taking her looks from her mother and her temperament from her father. From a parenting point of view this was a disaster - she got away with virtually anything and knew she could.

She looked up at her mother and made a silly face with her hands cupped behind her ears, and stuck her tongue out. She then quickly ran to join her father on the grass. He stopped playing, balanced his guitar on his knee as he jostled her hair playfully with both hands and then gave her forehead a kiss. He then propped the guitar on her lap and began her daily lesson. She had made significant progress, and Z could hear the makings of an A minor chord come together.

Z watched the two most important people in her life as they sat laughing on the grass. She began to reminisce, her memories slowly patching together a timeline of the last few years. The more she recollected, the more serene she began to feel as the happy scenes filtered through. She laughed to herself as she remembered her engagement period and felt content by the fact that despite many years passing, the fire burned stronger than ever. The only difference now was they were no longer hapless teenagers completely enamored with each other, but experienced adults hopelessly in love with each other. 

She saw herself finally get a job as a doctor. She saw the struggles of working in the NHS, the steep learning curve accompanied by a fear of failure. It was odd - despite the fact this should have been a bad memory it didn't feel that way. Instead she smiled as she remembered why. Her partner was still her fiancee at that point, but he may as well have been her husband. They were extremely close, their understanding of each other surpassed that of each other's mind, body and soul. He was completely devoted to her during this time, and it was his overwhelming doting, support and encouragement that now dominated that memory. It made her smile to herself - she was now a senior registrar in Paediatrics and thoroughly enjoying her job. Although she had to rely on him less, she knew he was still there for her.

The next memory was the birth of her daughter. This still gave her a profound joy. She could still relive the first time her daughter was placed against her skin. It gave her chills. This bundle of flesh completely engrossed her, her sudden overwhelming love for it started a chain reaction of motherly instinct and care. She thought she was a good mother, her husband at least definitely thought so. The next few years were a delightful blur - bringing up their daughter gave Z so much unabashed pride in her motherhood. She had managed to do all this alongside her medical training and alongside her blossoming relationship with her husband. She was worried having a child would dampen their love, but the opposite was true. Her husband would often tell her that seeing Z with his daughter was the most attractive thing he ever witnessed.

She was at peace just following this train of thought, but winced as she began to remember a time before, where things weren't this happy. She began to shudder at the memories that began to show as she looked up at her husband and daughter on the grass.

She didn't know exactly when the realisation hit her, but she was staring at her family at the time. She felt like she was in a trance just watching them. It all suddenly made sense. Her entire life had geared itself to this moment. This few seconds of heaven in her own backyard. She realised that this is what she had dreamed of throughout her life. This is what she hungered for, cried for and was convinced would never happen. Yet here she was, the very manifestation of her deepest desires right around her. 

It made all that distant suffering tolerable. It gave it a meaning, a context which she desperately tried to seek at the time. This gave her solace, it wasn't all in vain. It was all part of her journey through life. She realised that the future could change the present - that believing the future will be better can give the present a different colour. 

Her thoughts were interrupted. Her husband was now behind her, and he had hugged her tight and kissed her on the neck. He must have moved whilst she was deep in daydream. She loved that feeling - the love he gave her palpable in his physical presence, and in the words he began whispering in her ear. Her whole body responded with delight, and she couldn't help but laugh with glee.

Saying she was happy was an understatement - she reveled in her joy as she turned to face her husband. She looked into his eyes, and saw herself in them infinitely reflected. The future no longer scared her, the present no longer trapped her.

She knew this because her future and present were in her arms in that moment - and she couldn't help but feel safe.

MacLeod - Part 6

Part 1       Part 2       Part 3       Part 4       Part 5

Sixth Era - Release

Something had changed in MacLeod since Kaoru died. He couldn't explain why - but he couldn't heal as well or regenerate anymore. He first discovered this whilst using a band-saw. It snapped, the runaway blade sliced through the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. Usually his fingers would grow back over a period of days. This time, all that was left was some throbbing stumps.

He knew he was now sitting in life's waiting room. The anticipation that death was finally a reality gave MacLeod immense comfort. All he had to do was coast through the remaining days, weeks, months or even years.

As per habit he rubbed his finger stumps to ease the pain. They always seemed to ache when he came back to Chicago. He could feel the coarsely healed tips swell with numbness. As this sensation settled he knew it was time to go. He gave Kaoru's tombstone a sentimental nod, and then walked off towards the city. It was starting to get dark, the orange marmalade sky had started to turn black. Street lights came on, the shadows dancing around him as he walked.

He was eventually alongside the metal fencing of a park. The metalwork was old, brittle and rusty and it extended well into the darkness ahead of him. For a split second it seemed infinite, and he almost felt like he was walking along a never ending conveyor of fence. The metal posts were at least two meters high, imposing like the bars of a large prison. MacLeod smirked to himself as he wondered - if a prison was big enough, would you ever know if you were on the inside... or the outside? It reminded him of something Kaoru said when they discussed creativity; that the mind is infinite until it remembers it is trapped inside a skull.

His loss in thought was interrupted by the sound of a whimpering dog. He stopped and looked into the park. Under a flickering street lamp cowered a stray dog. It was difficult to place its diluted breed; it looked like any other Chicago stray. It was nursing an injury to a leg. Circled around it was a group of unruly teenagers. They were holding sharpened sticks and knives.

MacLeod had a sense of déjà vu.

He quickened his pace, turning into the park when he got to the gate. As he approached the mob and its canine victim he became aware of a terrible sense of foreboding in his chest. This insidious, sickly darkness was almost paralyzing. His heart fluttered, the back of his throat became as dry as sandpaper and his knees were struggling not to buckle. Not once had he felt this since that fateful day in the saloon where it all began. He barely recognised the syndrome he was suffering from - Fear. Was this how people felt in the face of danger? It reminded him of all the terrified people he had killed. He shook his head - He was empathising hundreds of years too late.

"Who the hell are you then?" shouted one of them as they noticed him approaching. He was leaning to one side, his arm floppy by his side holding a long blade. They were young, none older than sixteen. This district was 'Outfit' territory, and he was well aware this was the incubating next generation of gangsters. He pitied the inevitability of their rise (or fall) into a life of crime and the lack of insight which accompanied youth.

MacLeod paused before he answered, surveying the scene in front of him. Now that he was closer, he could see that the dog had a nasty cut to his left hind leg. It was bleeding and he was licking it pitifully, struggling to stem the ooze. One of the boys stood a couple of paces away from the dog, his machete bloodied. They fidgeted as they stood, swinging their weapons - his presence made them uneasy.

"Leave the dog alone" said MacLeod gruffly.

"It's none of yer business" seethed the boy. "I'd turn around if I was you"

"I said, leave the dog alone". MacLeod planted his feet firmly in the ground. It felt like a game of chess. MacLeod smirked at the thought of the analogy - a king had to be taken for the game to end. Was this his checkmate?

"What you smiling about eh" blurted the boy, "This ain't funny!" and he reached into his pocket and jerkily pulled out a pistol.

The rest of the boys reacted with surprise. MacLeod could tell none of them had seen this gun before, there was a mixture of fear and shock on their faces.

"Wher'd you get that Gordon?!" shouted one of them. "It better not be yer Father's!"

Gordon didn't respond. It was obvious he had never held a gun before. His hands slipped over each other as they trembled trying to hold the gun still, pointing it in MacLeod's direction. MacLeod saw a boy struggling to justify his place in his own life. The insecurities of a boy crushed by the shadow of his father manifested in the shaking hands and squirming face. MacLeod continued to smile - he saw his own youth in the boy in front of him - There comes a moment in every man’s life that defines his existence. It is no more than a split second. The days leading to it are all in preparation... and the days that follow are remnants of its glory.

"WHAT ARE YOU SMILI-" began Gordon, but he was interrupted by his own fingers pulling the trigger.

There were no cliches and there was no slow motion. The gunshot's sonic-boom echoed into the night. The bullet tore through MacLeod's chest. It pierced through his chest wall, burrowed through his heart and pulverised the lung on its way out of his back, shattering a rib.

This was it - thought MacLeod.

A few seconds elapsed before MacLeod fell to the ground. In that time, the boys shared a look of absolute horror. Gordon froze in position, the momentum of his first murder evident on his face. "It was an accident" was what he was trying to say, but his gaping mouth made no movements. He dropped the gun, his hands remained afloat ahead of him. It was only until MacLeod, whose hand was gripped tight against his chest, crumpled onto his back that the boys ran off, dragging Gordon with them.

Silence ensued. It was interrupted by the occasional chirping cricket. The air was still and it began to feel cold. MacLeod stared into the abyss above him, the infinite blackness of the sky was peppered with stars. He knew he was dying, but he also knew it was going to be slow. His body wasn't going to shake off all those years lightly.

"What a way to die!" thought MacLeod. Living for centuries as a walking miracle only to die trying to protect a stray dog. The dog in question had now come over to him, hobbling and whimpering. It licked his face before settling down next to him, resting his head on MacLeod's shoulder. MacLeod was grateful that the dog was giving him company in his final hours. At that moment, in the context of the universe and its oppressive infinity... its stampeding inevitability, they were equals.

"Equals" he whispered - the word echoed in his brain. Why had MacLeod sacrificed himself for the stray? Was it that he thought the stray's life was worth more than his?

MacLeod struggled to find an answer. "Man's arrogance is in his sense of entitlement - in his belief that he is worthy of more" thought MacLeod aloud, "...that he deserves something. If only we all put that to one side and realised we are not worthy at all - and instead that the people around us are worth it all!"

MacLeod concluded that the only reason he existed to begin with, the only reason he lived so long (too long in fact) was so that the stray could be saved. It didn't feel demeaning or anticlimactic - it felt just right. It gave him solace, that his life wasn't an endless maze of purposelessness. He sighed, and then coughed as he could feel the blood pooling in his airways. It felt warm at the back of his throat.

The realisation he had just come to was accompanied by a Great Wave of emotion and deep feeling, followed by a cooling serenity. All those years of anguish, guilt and self-torment were washed away with a forgiveness he didn't know he had. He had carried that weight, and for the first time he carried it no more.

His breathing was becoming shallow, his heart irregular. He felt a sudden chill and shuddered. The stray noticed this and shuffled in closer to MacLeod. They stayed like this - in silence, for hours.

"It would be any moment now" thought MacLeod. His vacuous eyes gazed at the sky above as he tried his hardest to picture Kaoru's face within the blackness.

MacLeod's body was found the next morning by a man walking to work. A dog was found by his side - it was taken away to be put down on account of an injury to its leg. They say it wouldn't leave until beaten viciously. MacLeod was cremated - his identity was never determined and his killer never found. His ashes were thrown into a plastic box with other nameless ashes. A conscientious man who worked in the crematorium would take these unwanted ashes every week to the Chicago River where he would scatter them whilst whispering a short prayer. The day MacLeod's ashes were scattered was a clear, cool day. The river was docile, and the ashes quickly disappeared within it. The man turned to walk back to the crematorium like he normally did - oblivious to the weight of history behind the ashes he just released.

"Because ten billion years' time is so fragile, so ephemeral... it arouses such a bittersweet, almost heartbreaking fondness." - Now and Then, Here and There (2000)

MacLeod - Part 5

Part 1       Part 2       Part 3       Part 4      Part 6

Fifth Era - Redemption

387 years and 42 days old.

MacLeod was standing by Kaoru’s grave. It stood out not because there was anything special about it, but because hers was the only one in that block which was tended to. It was lined with chrysanthemums instead of weeds and the granite tombstone, although worn and cracked, was clean of any moss or graffiti. Her neighbours were also over a century old but fared less well. 

It was a cool summer afternoon. Clouds had dissipated and the sky was a hollow blue. A light breeze flowed around MacLeod as he lit a cigarette and breathed it in. The smoke he exhaled was dense, silky and sweet - the tobacco tasted of the Chinese village it came from. As he smoked he could hear the cigarette rustle as it burned, the cemetery completely silent save for the occasional chirping bird. 

His eyes rested on the silhouette of the smouldering city beyond the cemetery walls. He never liked Chicago but Kaoru was there, so he was. They moved from rural Japan when they couldn’t explain to the villagers why he wasn’t ageing. They lived there until Kaoru’s death - it was a good life...

MacLeod chuckled to himself. This happened each time he came back here - the inevitable trip down memory lane. The difference with each successive year was it grew into a lonelier, longer journey. When Kaoru died she left behind a hole deeper than the one before they met. She was half of his mind; the answer to his doubts, a vessel to his thoughts and a shelter for his beliefs. 

At times like this it felt like his mind was forever wandering on an infinite moor. In its never ending journey it would brave rain, wind and snow alone. It suffered and endured without complaint - but it was the loneliness, the craving for companionship during the ordeal that was really palpable. There was something so fulfilling about reciprocated understanding - he missed it.

MacLeod remembered how, at the beginning of their relationship, he agonised over the fact he was her father’s killer. He would watch her as she worked on the vegetable patch, imagining all the different ways she would react when he would tell her the truth. He was certain she would disown him, but he was set on telling her despite this. 

“Kaoru - I have to tell you something” he said one day. They were sat by short cliff edge, fishing. She looked up at him and saw the seriousness etched on his face. She turned towards the sea and her lips slowly traced a smile. 

“My father was killed in the war when I was only a baby. They say he was killed by ‘The White Blade’, a ferocious beast of a man. Some said he was 8 feet tall and had fire for hair. Some said he had never lost a battle, that he couldn’t be killed. To some he was a God, and to others he was the angel of death sent by God.”

Kaoru paused. MacLeod dared not move a muscle. She took a slow, deep breath and continued.

“My father’s death at the hands of such a monster was celebrated in our village as the worthiest way to die. He was fêted as a hero, as a martyr. As a child growing up with all this I didn’t see anything heroic about martyrdom. All I saw was my mother’s sadness and all I felt was hunger. I vowed to to find ‘The White Blade’ and get my revenge. I fantasised about how I would do it when I found him, it kept me going as we wandered across the country in search of a future. We suffered unimaginable things. We tolerated more than any human could have. It was years of this misery before we made it to the Ryuku islands... and there he was.”

Kaoru turned to face MacLeod. Her eyes were alight with a restrained excitement, glistening as though they had a story of their own.

“Kaoru...” he said, reaching a hand out towards her.

“He wasn’t the fiery giant the legends described” interrupted Kaoru,”Or anywhere near as old as he should’ve been, but I recognised him nonetheless. I first saw him trading with the blacksmith - I was distracted enough to burn my hand on the metal.” 

She gestured towards him with her hand, a line of discoloured burn visible across her palm. She smiled at him as she did this, not helping the uneasiness brewing within MacLeod.

“I followed him to his cabin. I would often spy on him after that, plotting how I was going to kill him. It didn’t bother me that this man was clearly supernatural - he clearly hadn’t aged and the scars on his body were too many to be sustained by any mortal. He owed me my life and I was there to collect.

Except the more I saw of him, the less of The White Blade I could trace. This was a man who lived in persistent anguish. Everything he did, whether it was meditation or painting, was laden with despair. It was almost like he had lost something he never had, spending his days searching. The White Blade was already dead and I was too late. All that was left was the hollow shell of a broken, self loathing man.

It made me wonder whether there really was such a thing as Redemption. Whether the consequence, the permanence of evil could be cleansed by Time. Whether the Man inside could change into a totally different beast to the scarred, war machine on the outside. Does forgiveness expire like its recipients? Does it get discarded along with forgotten memories? 

I could never forget, and who was I to forgive?

One day I saw him sitting outside, painting. He was copying an old photograph. I didn’t have to see the original to know who was in it. I thought I would be disgusted, or even just angry at how he was trivialising my family and his deed.

Yet there was no ill feeling. 

He applied the paint with grace, his brush glided across the canvas like it had a mind of its own. It was obvious from his expression that this was no ordinary painting, that he had immense respect for the people forming on the canvas. Despite accurately copying them, my parents appeared pure, almost holy. Maybe it was how he contrasted the colours, or how their imperfections - scars, blemishes and marks- somehow helped bring together a portrait of goodness, of perfection. Of what could have been, or should have been. I suddenly became nostalgic for a life I never had.”

MacLeod could see she was getting more animated, more excited as she spoke. Her hands were waving in front of her. Her voice at times trembled, her tone varied unpredictability. The soliloquy was sounding more like a symphony. 

“This deification, this painting - Was it an attempt at seeking forgiveness? Was he cleansing his guilt with each brush? It seemed to be working. With each stroke I could feel my urge for vengeance dissolve into another feeling altogether. One I refused to acknowledge until much later. It triggered immense shame and disgust in myself. It lingered in my heart and lurched each time I saw him, radiating warmth.

I knew he knew who I was. I could see it in his eyes when we met, and felt his guilt echo as he spoke. I saw it in the painting he gave the blacksmith - looking at it was like gazing into a mirror of my own soul. He had read me like a book...”

Kaoru sighed. She tugged lightly on her fishing rod. A light breeze caused her hair to ripple across her face. She didn’t make any effort to put it back.

“You know how the rest of this story goes. I will say one thing though - he owed me my life and he gave it back to me... and more. He is still seeking forgiveness - but it isn’t mine to give anymore. The only person that can forgive him is himself... I hope he finds it one day.”

Kaoru’s eyes rested on the horizon in front of her. MacLeod turned to look across the sea, a small fishing boat hovered silently on the still water. Enough words had been said, and both sat in a silence tempered by the sea air.

MacLeod - Part 4

Part 1       Part 2       Part 3       Part 5       Part 6

Fourth Era - Meaning

MacLeod found he was at the blacksmith’s more often. There was never an opportunity to speak to Kaoru again - the blacksmith kept her busy with the furnace. Instead, he would have to settle for exchanging the occasional glance or smile with her. He would catch her looking his way and she would immediately look away, flustered. She may well have blushed, but he couldn’t tell as her face already glowed crimson behind the flames.

It wasn’t for another three months until he could tell her the obvious; that he was hopelessly in love with her. It was evening, the sun lazily tracing its way to the horizon. He was walking down a path on the outskirts of the village when he thought he heard Kaoru’s voice. It was laden in indignation. She was shouting at someone to leave her alone. He didn't change pace, making his way towards her voice.

From a distance he could see Kaoru. She was in her work clothes, some tools tied together by cloth were slung over her shoulder. She was surrounded by six men, none of whom MacLeod had seen before. They were armed - two with short swords and the others with wooden spears. A potbellied, nauseating looking man was clearly their leader - he shifted himself around Kauro, his bloodshot eyes seeking satiety somewhere in Kaoru's figure.

MacLeod could sense the hibernating beast inside him stir. That familiar taste of blood tickled the back of his throat, his muscles twitching in nostalgic anticipation. His expression remained placid, hiding the firestorm of fury that exploded in his chest as the bandit leader took a step towards Kaoru.

MacLeod was just about to make his move when a cloud engulfed the sun, plunging the scene in front of him into grayscale. The air became still, and it was almost like Time had slowed to watch the events unfolding too. He saw Kaoru's face. There was no fear in those burning eyes, her cheeks belied no anger. Instead, all MacLeod could sense from Kaoru was a defiant purity, a sort of tried and tired innocence. Despite the threat she remained resolute in her character, her small frame steadfast in front of her larger opponent. Seeing this had a profound effect on MacLeod - any thirst for blood was immediately extinguished and replaced with a different hunger altogether. He knew what needed to be done. He ceased to matter because she was all that mattered.

The bandits noticed him gliding towards them. He wasn't in any hurry. One lunged at him with a spear. MacLeod could've dodged it quite easily, but instead let it pierce his chest. He felt it slide through, dissecting tissue, an artery and heard a faint pop as it went into lung. He barely missed a step and continued walking towards Kaoru. The bandits were visibly shaken by the large, bloodied silhouette approaching them. All rushed towards MacLeod with their weapons. He didn't seem to mind the spears perforating his bowels, and he didn't flinch when the swords sliced into his arms. MacLeod stopped walking and stood, wet in his own blood and impaled in the chest and abdomen. The bandits shuffled together and looked at each other uneasily. The fear that now gripped them was like nothing they could have ever imagined, and one of the bandits couldn't help but whimper as he saw MacLeod look up and smile.

This standoff didn't last long. He was unarmed and outnumbered, but within seconds he had them either unconscious or crippled. If ever regret had a sound, the cries of the bandits as they lay in the mud was it.

MacLeod sighed, and then slowly reached for each spear and pulled them out. He took his time with each one, a mixture of blood and bile would initially gush out and quickly subside as his wounds rapidly healed. For the first time, he was happy that the blood on his hands was only his own, and that no one died at his expense.

He turned towards Kaoru. The expression on her face was not what MacLeod was expecting. Despite the gore and blood, despite his ghastly inability to die, she was not frightened or upset. Instead, her eyes pooled with pity, her brow creased with grief. She dropped her tools and reached for her head, untying a white bandana. Her ebony hair swayed free behind her as she ran towards him.

MacLeod didn't stop her as she grabbed his hands and carefully wiped them with her bandana. Neither said a word as she worked her way from the hands to his neck and then face, the bandana now soiled in deep crimson. The tender touch of her hands, the gentle friction of the cloth ignited nauseating shame within MacLeod, and he felt a pain much worse than any spear or sword could've given him.

When the bandana could take no more blood, she paused and looked up at him. She was in tears. Their eyes met, and in her glistening pupils he saw his own sad reflection. It was swallowed up by the infinite darkness within them and for a second he thought he could feel all that was in her heart. He dared not blink as he saw the answer to the question he wanted to ask all these months.

"Kaoru - will you marry me?" said MacLeod.

The sun came out from behind the cloud. It blinded him for a only couple of seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Before his eyes could adjust, he felt Kaoru had wrapped her arms around him, and when he looked down she was hugging him. Her head was buried in his chest and she was sobbing. He felt her warmth through his blood soaked shirt, and rested his hand on her head.

“Yes! Always yes!” exclaimed Kaoru, her voice muffled through his chest.

MacLeod felt her words reverberate inside him. For the first time he felt the emptiness begin to fill and he held her tightly against him.

The future no longer felt inevitable, and within his arms he enveloped it all.

MacLeod - Part 3

Part 1       Part 2       Part 4       Part 5      Part 6

Third Era - Persistence

Some years passed. MacLeod had learned through villagers he traded with that the widow and her daughter had moved to the village only a decade after the war. They lived with the blacksmith- a relative, and helped with his business. The daughter; Kaoru, was responsible for keeping the furnace burning whilst her mother Yuri kept the premises tidy.

MacLeod once paid the blacksmith a visit for supplies. He watched as Kaoru worked behind the furnace. She piled in the firewood, her delicate arms yielding a heavy poker to stoke the flames. Bursts of convection roared into her face, which beamed orange in the glowing heat. Through the blurry mirage above the furnace, MacLeod thought he could see her smile. She obviously enjoyed her work, and was clearly good at it. She would pause occasionally to wipe the sweat off her brow and to fan herself. Her work clothes were torn, charred, her face flushed in warmth and sweat and her hair coiled into a bun under a sootened bandana - to MacLeod she couldn’t have been any more perfect. What he experienced then was a yearning most of us recognise - the hunger for contentment. The dream of being useful to those around you- especially to those who aren’t used to it. To finally reconcile ego with the simplicity of existence, and to forgive the self you had once forsaken.

Could it be that she really was happy?

MacLeod didn’t dare answer the question - it was just another selfish attempt to rid him of guilt. Despite this, he remembered her smile and felt the inertia lighten as he walked back home with his supplies.

Life resumed its familiar consistency. Months passed, but to MacLeod it felt like days. The blacksmith had asked for a painting in exchange for the supplies and he had nearly completed it.

He was brushing on the last touches when Kaoru walked in to his cabin. She hadn’t knocked, and her sudden presence surprised MacLeod. They paused as they noticed each other, their eyes taking in the person in front of them. A light breeze tempered the silence as it whistled through the open door. Both could feel an inexplicable charge in the air, like there was a palpable significance to the encounter. What they couldn’t tell was whether this feeling was reflected in the other.

Kaoru broke the silence, “Sorry for interrupting. I’ve come to collect the blacksmith’s painting”

She spoke hurriedly, her voice quivered. MacLeod sensed she was apprehensive. He cursed the blacksmith under his breath - how could he send her all alone to the cabin of a recluse, isolated in the woods? She stood by the open door, her hands clasped on her chest.

“Come in, I don’t bite. It’s nearly done. Help yourself to some fruit”. He turned his eyes back to the easel and continued painting.

From the corner of his eye he could see Kaoru hesitate, then walk slowly across the cabin to the bowl of berries in the corner. She didn’t made a sound, her bare feet glided effortlessly on the hardwood floor.

She stood there for some time. MacLeod refused to look away from the painting, trying to finish it as quickly as possible. He zoned out and only realised she was still there when she materialised behind him. She was leaning over his shoulder. He could feel her warmth radiating against his face, and heard her exhale slowly. She smelt of flowers.

“It’s beautiful - who is that supposed to be?” she whispered.

Kaoru was talking about the woman featured in the fore of the painting. It was vaguely impressionist, except for the woman in question who was painted with a crisp, renaissance feel. The contrast in style meant the woman stood out as though in focus, as if she didn’t belong in the scenery painted around her. She was dressed in a floral kimono, standing in a field of yellow rapeseed. Behind her was a cottage typical of rural Japan. It’s roof glared orange in the light of the setting sun as though on fire. She was facing MacLeod and Kaoru, her eyes intently looking at them.

“Not anyone important” replied MacLeod. He realised he was being a little abrupt. Her sudden familiarity with him had made him suspicious.

“She’s someone special, I’m sure of it. Look at how happy you’ve painted her!” insisted Kaoru.

She was right. The woman in the painting seemed at such ease with herself despite the contrasting surroundings. Her posture defined confidence. She was full bodied and emanated life. Her expression belied contentment, her smile cradling her rosy cheeks and doughy, sparkling eyes.

MacLeod turned towards Kaoru, his eyes narrowing. He wanted her to leave, but a smouldering part of him hungered for her to stay. He couldn’t explain why this conflict had erupted inside him, or why his heart skipped the occasional beat as he noticed the curve of her neck, or the mole on her right cheek. He became aware of his own shabbiness - his hair was wild, his beard unkempt and his clothing filthy. Why did his appearance matter all of a sudden? His question was answered by a deep shame which flooded his chest as Kaoru turned to look at him.

Their eyes met, both instantly looked away. She blushed and quickly stood upright, walking briskly across the room to look at The Great Wave. MacLeod quickly dipped his brush into black ink, dabbing a tiny mole onto the cheek of the woman in the painting whilst Kaoru wasn't looking.

He didn’t know why he did this.

“It’s finished” said MacLeod.

Kaoru didn’t answer at first. She was still looking at The Great Wave. She turned around slowly, her hands behind her back. She had a playful glare in her eyes.

“Has your Great Wave happened yet?” she asked.

MacLeod paused. “Not yet. It’s on the horizon. It’ll catch up the day I stop running from it”

“What a cliche!” she laughed. “A hermit living in denial! - fancy that”

MacLeod couldn’t help but laugh too. She was right. His decades-long marathon of denial seemed so pathetic all of a sudden. It felt liberating - laughing at his situation finally helped dampen the grandiosity he gifted it.

Silence followed their laughter. Kaoru glanced out of the window - it was getting late. MacLeod stood up, lifted the canvas and gestured to Kaoru to pick it up. As he handed it to her, he blurted out “When will I see you again?”

Where did that came from?! What was happening to him?

She smiled. “Your gate needs new hinges” she said suggestively as she took the painting.

He watched her as she disappeared into the trees. He became aware he was smiling. MacLeod was well over a hundred years old, but at that point in time he felt like he was 12 again. It was an unfamiliar warmth, but one he was happy to discover again.

He walked over to his gate to inspect the hinges.

They didn’t need replacing. 

MacLeod - Part 2

Part 1      Part 3       Part 4       Part 5       Part 6

Second Era - Seclusion

MacLeod found a quiet, secluded area of forest in one of the Ryukyu islands where he built a small log cabin. His seclusion was therapeutic; it forced him into uninterrupted introspection. He finally challenged his raison d’etre, expressing his angst through carving, writing and painting.

He would go to the nearest village once a month to trade, where he was known as the hermit ‘Zossima’. Instantly recognisable by his light, flowing white beard, youthful looks and tattered garments, he would trade in an impressive array of wooden carvings, sculptures and paintings (all phenomenal in artistic merit, and most in European style) for a bag of rice and some cloth. The villagers made an extortionate profit once they sold on his works, none of which was given to him. They saw MacLeod as an obvious simpleton, whose naivety was a result of hermitage.

He may have been alone, but he was never lonely. In the absence of distraction, MacLeod had learned to live alongside himself. It was as though he had taken a step outside his body, only to watch and judge as it carried on with life.

At first he couldn’t bare his own company. He found plenty about himself that was either grotesque or loathsome. He disliked how his body had moulded itself over the years; a muscular testament to war and destruction. His scars formed a library of his previous transgressions, reminders tattooed all over his torso. It angered him, that the Past had branded itself so permanently onto the rest of his life.

What infuriated him more was the person underneath the scars. Before immortality MacLeod was a coward, and he found himself hundreds of years later still a coward. He didn’t know what to make of his immortality and this terrified him. He had lived over a century and had nothing to show for it except depravity. He felt he was a hostage to his ineptitude, that he would never live up to himself, and the youthful imposter he saw in the mirror was a daily reminder of his failings.

He started to express his frustrations through the artwork which he made and sold to the village. On his cabin wall he had a fading woodblock print by an artist he met in the 1830’s called Hokusai. He had broken into Hokusai’s home during a binge, only to find the old man in the middle of engraving. Minutes later they were sat on the floor sharing sake. As a parting gesture, Hokusai gifted MacLeod his latest print.

It gave MacLeod solace. A charging, deep blue wave overshadowed the men cowering underneath it in fishing boats. In the distance was Mount Fuji, its majesty intentionally undermined by The Great Wave cresting above. To him, it showed that although you can’t control the seas, you could learn to ride the waves. So he floated through the next fewer decades, taking whatever life threw at him one lesson at a time. There were no deadlines and there was no rush for answers.

As Time passed his artwork improved. The colours slowly morphed from dark, bleak tones into more lively hues. Painting on new canvas was an opportunity for reflection and with each work of art he began to forgive himself a little more. He stopped fearing his irrelevance and stopped trying to contextualise it in terms of time and space. The futility of life no longer troubled him- after all, what could he do about it?

He was invited one summer to the village. The harvest that season was generous and the villagers were celebrating with a fete. They felt obliged to include MacLeod, whose artwork had doubled the village’s profits. They secretly hoped he wouldn’t accept the invitation.

He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to go. He patched up his best cloth and trimmed his beard for the first time in months. He laughed at himself; the last time he was this nervous was when he kissed Sally Leahy as a teenager behind the barn. He didn’t need a mirror to know how awkward he looked. Despite his efforts, his clothes were frayed and fit poorly. He didn’t have sandals and had to go barefooted. He picked some tomatoes from his garden as a gift.

It was evening when he arrived. Fireflies danced in the cold, humid air around him, scattering as he made his way to the centre of the village. He walked briskly towards the sounds of laughter, his feet leaving crisp prints in the mud. He could smell the food before he saw it - a long table had been set up outside with the villagers all sat eating. They were merry, their cheeks already red with sake, their eyes glistening in the fiery light of the torches lit around them.

MacLeod couldn’t take another step. He had just recognised one of the villagers. She was sat at the end of the table. There was no doubt- it was the lady from that photograph. Thirty years had passed since that day. Time had contoured her face in wrinkles and dyed her hair in shades of grey. She was wearing the exact same kimono as in the photograph, the flowers now a deep turquoise shining in the torchlight.

Sitting next to her was a younger woman. MacLeod knew who this was. She was beautiful. Her hair was long and flowed nonchalantly over her shoulders. Her kimono was a plain lilac, much less elaborate than her mother’s. Although she was laughing, MacLeod could see in her face an underlying lethargy. An indolent sadness smouldered in her eyes. She looked almost transparent, her silhouette dancing in the instability of the torchlight.

There was an empty seat next to her. For a moment he imagined the figure of the man he had killed sitting there. He saw him smiling, enjoying the moment. He saw him look towards his wife and daughter with longing. The man now seemed to notice MacLeod and turned towards him. His eyes pierced as he stared at MacLeod. This paralysed him, his heart fluttered as if suffocating. A scar slowly appeared on the phantom’s neck and was now oozing blood.

MacLeod dropped his tomatoes and slowly walked away. He tried to take the guilt, blame and despair in his stride. Pain never stimulated him... but this time he sustained it in all its anger. He made up his mind - it was time for change. He would have to resurrect atonement through persistence.

MacLeod - Part 1

Part 2       Part 3       Part 4       Part 5       Part 6

First Era - Depravity

387 years and 42 days old.

MacLeod knew he couldn't die when he was stabbed in the chest aged 20. He was left to fester in his own pig sty, the knife hilt deep in a maceration of lung and heart.

Hours earlier MacLeod had taunted a man about his wife. "She has tried us all" he sneered, his syllables dancing to the tune of whiskey. The man slowly unveiled a rusty blade, his pride replaced by rage. The other men saw this and decided they wanted no part in it, carrying on with their cards and booze as the man placed the knife in MacLeod's chest. No one flinched as the man dragged MacLeod's lifeless body out of the saloon, and no one stopped him as he lugged the corpse down the street to leave him in the MacLeod pig sty.

It was sundown when MacLeod woke. Reality seemed to have changed since he was last alive. The filth he lay in smelt of raw clay, the air feeling thin as he inhaled through his blood-crusted nostrils. Above him, dusk had washed the sky in hues of red and orange, the clouds soaking in the flame as they floated by. There was no pain, no discomfort as he sat himself up. The dagger was still in his chest, rising and falling with every breath. He got up, dusted himself down and walked back to the saloon, leaving boot prints in the trail he had exsanguinated earlier.

The local paper ran a story on what happened next, the headline sounding something like this: "MACLEOD KILLS HIS OWN KILLER -  REMAINS AT LARGE". Rumours spread about how a dead man with a knife in his heart walked into the saloon. He had quietly approached Mr. Gordon Black, politely saying 'Sorry sir, I believe this is yours'. Accounts differed on what happened next, but apparently the dead man then pulled out the knife embedded in his chest, and swiftly stabbed it into Mr. Black's windpipe. Mr. Black fell to the floor, choking on his own blood. The man sat at the bar and sipped Mr. Black's whisky. No one dared interrupt the man. He only stood up when Mr. Black stopped gurgling, his crunching footsteps echoing in the silence he left behind.

Centuries had passed since his death. MacLeod wandered the Earth. His body was a tapestry of scars; a timeline of swords, bullets, claws and fire. His hands were coarse from centuries of manual labour, but the same calloused palms had written, played and painted masterpieces. Time was his only constant, it's unrelenting advance lay teasingly out of reach. There was no suggestion he had aged; there were no wrinkles to contour his wispy beard, or creases in the tanned skin above his vacuous eyes. He had ceased to have a name, his identity worn out by his sheer existence.

Five lifetimes of living and yet he couldn't feel more empty of life. The futility of it all was nauseating. Every person he had known had lived only for Time to archive their short stint into the landfill of history, alongside billions of others. The individual was just so irrelevant, so dispensable.

MacLeod’s initial response to this was to reject society and embrace depravity. He killed thousands in the wars he took part in. He never cared what or who he fought for, and quite often switched sides mid battle on account of being bored. He raped, pillaged, sacked and burned all in his path whilst almost always completely inebriated. There were no more boundaries - dying on a daily basis was the only way he could challenge his existence. His primal urges were all that remained to define him.

It was during the Japanese Boshin War that MacLeod abandoned warmongering. It was 1868 and he was fighting for the Imperialists. They were battling to overthrow a government which was increasingly lenient to Western powers. The contradiction in a Caucasian man fighting against his own roots troubled the Imperialists, but they were too terrified of him to do anything about it. He stood tall in battle; his tattered samurai garb was held together with a fraying cord. Tethered to it was a sheathed katana. His technique was flawless, his approach methodical, earning him the title ‘White Blade’. This wasn’t because of his ethnicity; it was said the last thing his opponents would see before death was the white flash of light reflecting off his katana as he unsheathed it.

He was challenged by a young foot soldier who was clearly in his first battle. He held a sword as opposed to the rifles rationed to those with experience. His eyes were alight with terror, his sword oscillating as his hands trembled. MacLeod didn’t hesitate to cut him down; he was just another kill. Nothing matters when you're immortal, so nobody mattered to MacLeod. In the absence of an expiry date his life was one without consequence, or so he thought.

The man didn’t die immediately. Despite his severed carotid, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a grainy daguerreotype. He touched it, his fingers smearing it with blood as his arm dropped with his last breath. MacLeod was curious. He picked up the stained photograph.

It was a family portrait. Standing was the dead man. He was in an oversized western style suit. Sat on a wicker chair to his left was a young woman. His hand was perched on her right shoulder. She was dressed in an elaborate kimono, its silk lazily encased her tiny frame, the flowers decorating it were fuzzy in monochrome. On her lap was a chubby infant in a white frock.

It had been centuries since he was last moved by anything, and this image had shaken him like no war ever had. He was fixated on the woman. Each facet of her face (whether it was her eyes, brow, mouth or cheeks) when taken on its own, was bland. Put together, MacLeod saw a snapshot of pure bliss. She emanated a happiness he had never experienced, and one he secretly craved in all his years. It unleashed a new terror inside of him, one that he felt rippling through his veins.

He had just murdered a husband and father, and with that the very happiness he didn’t know he was seeking. She would be joyous no more and it was his fault. It had now dawned on him- the thousands of deaths he was responsible for had now extended to grieving relatives. They never mattered before, but now meant it all.

MacLeod dropped his katana and slowly walked away. He took every gunshot, stabbing and cut in his stride. Pain never stimulated him... but this time he relished, welcomed and internalised it. He had made up his mind - it was time for change. He would have to resurrect happiness through atonement.