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.
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