Book ideas come from many sources. News items, comments overheard in public places, stories remembered from childhood, the little bits and fragments of information we absorb daily... But the idea that eventually led me to write "Whale Whisperers of Ensorclea" came from a very vivid dream I had over twenty years ago. The road from a dream that probably was only worth a short story to my first fiction novel was, as they say in the movies, complicated. But the dream itself was short, simple, and perhaps a little romantic if not out and out sappy.
So for the first time publically, I intend to retell the dream as I remembered it all those years ago:
It takes place in some fictional colonial land where the indigenous people remain in poverty while the mineral value of their land is exploited by an occupying force. It centers around a young local who is a wise elder and his young apprentise. The healing arts of these people are basically what we would call shamanistic. I felt the boy was quite young, perhaps not yet an adolescent, but close to coming of age.
Now it so happened that the King from the occupying nation was visiting the boy's country and touring the countryside near the young man's village in the company of a small group which included his young daughter. His daughter, a fair-haired beautiful princess, fell seriously ill with a mysterious illness.
Her sudden illness progressed to a fever and coma while the King's personal physician was completely at a loss to explain her condition. All his efforts to revive her failed utterly. It was then that the local people told the King about a great and wise healer living nearby. The King summoned the shaman, who arrived within a day with his young apprentice. After examining the young princess, the shaman explained that the illness was well known amongst his people and that his apprentice would be the best to minister to her. He would leave his charge to perform cleansing ceremonies, prayers and administer herbs to the princess, and he would return in a few days to oversee her recovery.
The boy was at first frightened by the enormity of the responsibility the old man had placed upon his shoulders, but he bravely drew upon all the knowledge the old many had bestowed on him over the years.
For the next 24 hours, the young boy gathered herbs, made poultices, and performed prayers for the girl. He watched her intently, looking for all the signs he had been taught to monitor. Monitored her breathing, and at times simply stared at this completely alien and yet beautiful young woman. He had never seen anyone so pale and fragile. He became completely committed to her recovery, pouring all his heart in soul into waking. And he began to feel strong feelings he didn't understand for her. He had fallen in love with this girl and, in doing so, felt a profound sense of responsibility and protectiveness.
Then it happened! She began to stir and then slowly open her eyes. When she could focus her vision, she saw a dark-skinned smiling boy near her, and she was instantly terrified. She shrieked and called for her guards to remove the boy. The guards came quickly and removed him rather roughly. Crushed, the boy returned home to tell his teacher who was pleased with the job he had done.
He wept for days, but the old man patiently waited for him to reach the place where he was ready to receive the teaching he had to offer. "You are an excellent healer and have done everything for your patient. You gave her the only thing you had that could revive her. You gave her your heart."
The boy, still distraught, said, "but she hates me!"
The old man smiled patiently, "No, she doesn't know you. She's never known anyone like her. But this has nothing to do with your love, which is pure and need not be returned. Her good health and long life are your rewards. You will be loved in your life. What you did for her, it will be someday and every day after returned you."
Did I mention it was a little sappy? Nonetheless, this little story eventually, at time painfully, grew into the three-book Whale Whisperers Saga.
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