The Lost Soul

by Ceci Giltenan

  Nyada nodded. “Very well. And ye said ye’ve never killed anyone.”

  “I haven’t,” answered Margaret.

  “It’s true ye’ve never actually ended someone’s life, but words sometimes cause more damage than weapons. Words can break spirits. They can crush hope. Have ye always used yer words wisely and avoided these things?”

  Margaret was silent for a long time. She wanted to say she had but as she opened her mouth to speak, she was flooded with memories of all the times she’d been unkind and spiteful.

  The woman pressed her. “In fact, can ye think of one single instance when ye chose to be kind and supportive?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “Then tell me,” said the woman gently.

  “I…” Words wouldn’t come. The fact was, although she wracked her brain, she couldn’t think of anything. Finally she said feebly, “I thank my father when he gives me things.”

  “Do ye? And is it heartfelt appreciation ye show him?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Margaret said honestly. “It was good manners.”

  “Aye, lass, it was. But good manners without conviction, lack substance. Furthermore, have ye ever shown good manners, or even the smallest kindness, to anyone but yer father? Anyone who ye considered in a lower station?”

  “I…don’t know. I can’t remember every conversation I’ve ever had,” she said, defensively.

  “Let me help. I could show them all to ye, but that would be more than ye could bear. Let’s just think about Freya.”

  “Freya? Who’s Freya?”

  “The lass assigned to serve ye at Castle Carr. Ye do remember her, don’t ye?” Nyada’s voice was laced with weariness.

  “Oh her. Aye.”

  “I’m going to give ye a rare gift. For the next few moments, ye’ll remember everything ye’ve ever said to her, only ye’ll hear it as she did. For the first time ever, ye’ll feel the impact of yer words.”

  And suddenly, Margaret’s brain was filled with her own cutting voice—complaining, criticizing, demeaning. She couldn’t block it out. As each word sliced into her she was unable to stop the tears from coursing down her cheeks. She had only been at Castle Carr for about three weeks, but her harping voice went on and on. She hadn’t really said all of those things in that short period of time. She couldn’t have.

  But even as she tried to deny it, she knew she had.

  “Please stop,” she begged.

  Instantly, the painful discourse ended.

  “So, Margaret, while Freya still has her life, ye did yer very best to kill her spirit.” Nyada’s voice was gentle, even if the message was damning.

  “I’m sorry,” Margaret sobbed.

  There was a long silence, during which Margaret tried unsuccessfully to regain control of her emotions.

  Finally, Nyada nodded slowly. “Ye know, I think ye might be.”

  “I am, I swear I am.”

  “But, my dear, what ye felt was the damage ye did to one person and that was only in the last few weeks. Do ye realize how much more ye’ve done?”

  Margaret wanted to say yes, but the untruth wouldn’t cross her lips. Finally she said, “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  Nyada reached out and touched her shoulder. When she did Margaret was flooded with a different emotion. A good one. It felt wonderful. She could only describe it as…freeing. “What is that?” she asked, knowing the woman would understand what she was asking.

  “That, sweetling, is my compassion.”

  Margaret took a deep breath, as if by doing so, she could take the delightful feeling deep inside her.

  Nyada laughed - the sound like tinkling silver bells. “Oh, precious child, I know ye want to hold onto it, but ye can’t. The only way ye’ll feel this again, is to learn how to give it to others.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. If I give it away, I won’t have it.”

  “But ye will. Ye’ll have it tenfold. Compassion, and its kin Love and Kindness, are not like food or currency. The only way ye can feel them fully is not to hoard them, but rather to give them away.”

  Margaret wasn’t sure she understood, but she said, “All right. I’ll try.”

  Nyada smiled. “Maybe ye will.” But her tone suggested she didn’t believe it.

  “I promise I will if ye give me another chance at life.”

  “Is that what ye want? Another chance?”

  “Aye. It is.”

  “Well, I do have the power to give that to ye, but it isn’t without cost.”

  Margaret looked down at her ethereal body. “I don’t have anything to give ye. Perhaps my father could—”

  “Nay, lass. The price is far more precious than gold. Ye must give me something ye've never offered to anyone before.”

  “Like what?”

  “Remorse?” Nyada suggested.

  “I just gave ye that.”

  Nyada laughed mirthlessly. “Ye gave me the tiniest amount—just enough to prove ye’re capable of it. But ye’ll never miss the bit ye’ve given me and it will be far too easy to forget about it.”

  “Then what must I do?”

  “Ye must spend the night here and remember more of the pain ye’ve caused.”

  “But ye said remembering it all would be more than I could bear.”

  “That’s not exactly what I said. I actually said if I had shown ye everything, it would have been more than ye could bear. But if ye choose to remember it yerself, and more importantly, make the effort to understand the harm ye’ve done, that might be enough.”

  Margaret nodded enthusiastically. “Then I’ll do it.” She wanted her life back and she’d do whatever it took.

  “What I’m asking ye to do is more difficult than words can capture. Still, the only way to know is to try.”

  “I want to do it. I want to try.”

  “That is very brave of ye. So I’ll leave ye to it. I’ll be back in the morning unless ye call for me to end the ordeal.” With that she turned and started to walk away. It was only then that Margaret realized what she’d thought was a silver and gold cloak was actually a pair of delicate wings.

  “Ye have wings,” Margaret blurted out. “Are ye an angel then?”

  Nyada turned back to her, an indulgent smile on her face. “Humans do insist on naming things. I’m an immortal spirit.”

  “Then ye are an angel?”

  She shook her head. “All human languages are imprecise, but I prefer the name fairy.”

  ~ * ~

  Nyada had referred to Margaret’s coming experience as an “ordeal” and while human language may be imprecise, that summed it up perfectly. It was nothing short of agony and it felt as if it lasted an eternity rather than a few hours. She nearly called out for release many times. But she didn’t. She kept going. And yet as difficult as it was, she was dogged with the fear that it wouldn’t be enough.

  However, when the pink light of dawn illuminated the sky the next morning, it brought with it peace and hope. Margaret believed she had done what she could. She just hoped it was enough.

  Finally, when the sun shone fully above the horizon, and a gentle breeze blew away the morning mist, Nyada appeared again, her face alight with a warm smile. “Well done, Margaret. Ye have given me what I asked for and now ye must continue to earn your second chance.”

  “So I’m going back to my body?”

  Nyada shook her head. “Before I give ye a corporeal body, it is absolutely vital that ye understand the work ye still have to do.”

  “Work?” Tears filled Margaret’s eyes. She couldn’t face another night like the one she just had.

  “Don’t look so distressed. What ye must do now is learn the feel of compassion.”

  “But I felt that yesterday.”

  “That was my compassion for you. Now you must feel it for yerself by showing it to others.”

  “Is that all? I’m certain I can do that.”

  “Don’t underestimate how difficult it will be. “I fear ye
’ll find it equally challenging. Now ye must learn the power of kindness, love and compassion. This often means setting aside yer own wants and desires and to consider others first. Only then will ye truly live.”

  Margaret frowned. “I know how—”

  Nyada put a hand up to stop her. “Nay, ye don’t. I can see yer heart and yer history.”

  Margaret’s temper rose. “If I’m such a terrible person, why give me a second chance at all?”

  Nyada didn’t answer the question, instead asking one of her own. “If I asked ye to bake a loaf of bread, could ye?”

  Margaret shook her head. “Nay.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know how. I’ve never had to do it before.”

  “Exactly.”

  Margaret frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Ye can’t bake a loaf of bread because ye’ve never been taught how. It hasn’t been expected of ye. Kindness, compassion and even love must be learned—just like baking bread.”

  “But there are people who loved me and showed me kindnesses.”

  “Of course there were. Just as there have been people who baked bread for ye. Of course yer father loved ye. But he wasn’t particularly skilled at these things either. Sadly, he showed his love by giving ye things. The servants who cared for ye didn’t think it was their place. The great pity is that yer mother was brimming with love and compassion. Ye’d have learned well at her hand.”

  “She died when I was born.”

  Nyada smiled sadly. “I know. And she has watched ye grow. ‘Twas the ache in her heart that drew ye here.”

  Margaret felt on the edge of tears and she wasn’t sure why. “Well then, if these things have to be learned and no one taught me, how can I change anything?”

  “Because you are about to become another version of yerself. One that has grown up learning the things ye didn’t as Margaret Grant.” She raised her hand, palm out and made a circular motion.

  Margaret took in a sharp breath. Whatever Nyada had done hadn’t hurt, but neither was it pleasant. Thankfully it only lasted for a second.

  “Look down,” said Nyada.

  When she did, Margaret laughed joyously. “I have my body back.”

  Not precisely. From nowhere, Nyada produced a large silvery looking glass.

  The reflection peering back at Margaret was not her own. Before, she had been delicately beautiful—fair hair, bright blue eyes and fine-boned features. The reflection looking back at her now was not beautiful, at least not in her opinion. She had long reddish hair that had been woven into a braid which hung to her waist. It was apparently very curly because the tendrils that escaped the braid were practically cork screws. Her face was extremely freckled and her eyes were a brownish green. To top it off, she was dressed in a horrible coarse, linen tunic under a plain brown linen overdress and her feet were bare. “This isn’t my body. I’m…prettier.”

  “I think ye’re very pretty. However Margaret, the Margaret you’ve become, is an absolutely lovely young woman—where it matters most. I know ye don’t understand that now, but ye will.”

  “I believe ye, thousands wouldn’t.”

  To Margaret’s surprise, Nyada laughed richly. “I cannot tell ye how many times I’ve heard that, but it is the truth nonetheless. This is another version of ye.”

  Margaret looked at her hands. Once fair and soft they were now work roughened and calloused. “I don’t understand.”

  “Yer ‘self’ is yer mind and heart, not yer body. This other version of ye is not Laird Grant’s daughter. Now ye are simply Margaret, the daughter of a crofter.”

  “A peasant?”

  “Aye.”

  Margaret furrowed her brow. “I don’t know how to be a peasant.”

  “Ye will.” Nyada waved her hand again.

  Margaret felt as if some force was rapidly coursing through her body. Again it didn’t hurt, but it felt terribly strange. As if someone else was inside her.

  Nyada said, “I have just given ye history and memories. Yer name is Margaret. Not Margaret Grant. Simply Margaret. Ye’re the only daughter of a crofter, who lived on Clan Keith lands. Both yer father and yer mother died when ye were young. Yer grandparents raised ye, but yer grandmother died last winter. Now ‘tis only ye and yer grandfather left to work the farm.”

  With each statement Margaret remembered the details surrounding them. She remembered her parents. Her mother died giving birth to a baby boy and her father died a few years later in an accident. Fresher and more acute was the pain of losing her grandmother who had died of an illness this past winter. Her heart ached for all of them. But even as her awareness of this other life grew, she couldn’t make herself believe it.

  “This isn’t possible. It can’t be. How could I have been Margaret Grant and this other Margaret at the same time?”

  Nyada sighed. “I know this is difficult to comprehend and as hard as ye try, ye may never fully understand it. The simple truth is that I can make things exist and have done that.

  Margaret frowned. “Is it magic?”

  “That is another very imprecise human word, but if it helps ye understand it, then it’s the word we’ll use.”

  “So ye’ve used magic to give me someone else’s body?”

  “Nay. Ye aren’t taking over someone else’s body—that’s Gertrude’s kind of magic. When ye leave this realm, ye will just be Margaret. While it may feel like it for a while, ye’re not two separate people. Think of ice and water. They look different, and for ice to form, it had to be exposed to different conditions. But when you combine them, eventually the ice melts and blends with the water, becoming indistinguishable from it. They become one again. Does that help?”

  Margaret nodded, “Aye, a bit.” Margaret decided it didn’t matter if she understood it or not. As long as she had the chance to get her life back, she’d accept it for what it was.

  “Good. Now there are a few things ye need to know before ye leave my realm. Last night ye learned the awesome power of words. But even as they can rend and destroy, they can also nurture and uplift. Remember this as ye go into the world to learn kindness and compassion. Ye must control yer tongue.”

  Margaret nodded. “I think I can do it.”

  “I have given ye one gift that will help—guilt.”

  “What? Isn’t that what last night was for?”

  “Aye, ye certainly were flooded with guilt last night. But until then, ye’d rarely—if ever—felt it before. Now it will be a part of ye. It will help ye guard yer words. And if yer sharp tongue causes pain, ye’ll feel it too.”

  Margaret huffed. “Ye’re not making this easy.”

  “But I am. Ye’ll be surprised at how much harder it will be to say hateful things. And that is the first step to learning compassion.”

  Still not sure this was a good thing, Margaret just nodded silently.

  “Also, ye must not tell anyone about this realm and the gift ye’ve been given. They will not believe ye and will think ye addled. I cannot stress this enough. Yer second chance will be over if ye utter a word of this to anyone. Do ye understand?”

  “Aye, but there’s no need to worry. I’m not sure I believe it and it’s happening to me.”

  Nyada chuckled. “Good. Finally, a few months have passed since ye were last in the Earthly realm. It’s now late August.”

  Although this surprised Margaret, it was minor compared to everything else. There was no point in asking about it.

  Nyada continued. “Now it’s time for ye to be going. I will just remind ye that, like all humans, ye have free will. Yer choices are yer own. Make them well. Use what ye’ve learned here.”

  “I will,” said Margaret with more conviction than she felt.

  “Then I’ll say farewell. But I’ll warn ye one last time, if ye fail to learn from all of this, yer second chance will be gone. Therefore, I must ask, are ye certain ye still want this?”

  Margaret nodded resolutely. “Aye, I am.”

 
Chapter 2

  No sooner had Margaret said the word than she found herself on a milking stool beside a cow. An empty bucket was on the ground under the cow waiting to be filled. For a moment she panicked. She had no clue how to milk a cow.

  Yes ye do, said a small voice within her. She reached forward, took a teat in each hand and immediately began milking the cow—as if she had been doing it her whole life. Well I probably have been. Oddly enough, as soon as that thought occurred to her, she knew this wasn’t actually her normal routine. Her grandda hadn’t awakened yet, which was extremely unusual. She’d decided to let him rest and had milked the cow to help him.

  The cow also knew this wasn’t the normal way of things. She fidgeted, twisting her back end away and nearly kicking over the bucket.

  “Wheesht now, easy, Honey.” She smiled. The cow’s name was Honey. Milk and Honey—cute. “Grandda needs a little extra rest this morning and we’re going to give it to him, so ye need to behave yerself.”

  As if she understood, Honey settled down and let Margaret finish milking her.

  When no more milk came, Margaret stood, picked up the pail of milk and patted Honey on the flank. “Well done, lass.”

  By rote, she moved the milking stool to a spot in the corner of the byre. But now what was she supposed to do?

  Put the cow in the paddock, put the milk away, then return to the cottage and prepare something for breakfast. The voice in her head was very clear. Still, Margaret had a moment of panic—she didn’t know the first thing about making cows move, what to do with fresh milk or how to cook.

  Then the memories of this life supplanted her fears. She knew exactly what to do. She sat the bucket of milk on the stool and guided Honey out of the byre.

  The scene that met her was both long-cherished and brand new at the same time. The sun hadn’t yet reached the horizon and everything was bathed in the soft pink light of morning. A little cottage stood a hundred paces away or so. It was where she lived. Nay, it was more than that—it was home.

  A little farther past the house stood a small building. Beside it was a pool of water that fed a small stream.

  Ah, they had a spring. The little stone structure that stood over it, the springhouse, was there to keep debris out of the water.