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.
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.
