Whill of Agora: Book 1 by Michael Ploof (early reader books txt) 📖

said he would stay behind to speak with Hagus and reminded them of some of the items they would need. Together, Whill and Tarren left the inn.

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They spent most of the afternoon gathering supplies for the following day’s journey. At the blacksmith’s they purchased four dozen arrows and, to Tarren’s delight, a small knife that could be hung from the boy’s belt. From the town store they bought bread and cheeses; meat, Whill explained, would be acquired in the wild.

As they ventured up the main street, Whill took in the pleasant sea air once again. It was a beautiful late afternoon. Faint white clouds hung in the sky, seemingly unmoving, as the sun bathed the world with warmth. They passed many log homes, a few with stone walls. People were busy with the day’s chores but still had time to offer a “good day” or a “heya” as they passed. A butcher was busy preparing a hog for sale, while a young lad sat on the porch of the butcher shop, plucking a headless chicken. On the opposite side of the street a woman swept dirt from a doorway. She gave Tarren a wink as she hummed a jubilant tune.

They headed towards the healer’s house on the outskirts of town. As the buildings thinned and the forest trail came into view, a woman ran past with two soldiers following. They went straight to the healer’s house and were greeted by urgent voices which Whill could not decipher. He began to jog toward the home and Tarren followed suit. As they neared the building, Whill began to make out the urgent words emanating from the open windows and doors. A woman was screaming in a way that made him cringe.

“No! No! My baby, my baby! Do something, please! Can’t you? Why won’t she breathe, why won’t she breathe? Let me see her, damn you, she won’t—” Her voice trailed off into a deep, breathless sob.

Whill and Tarren reached the door, the room was bright, but the scene was a dark one. A woman lay on a blood-soiled bed, being comforted and held down by three older women. One, who Whill sensed was her mother, held her tight and cried hard into the young woman’s shoulder. A man of about twenty stood with a dead stare—and watering eyes—aimed at a bundle on the foot of the bed. An elderly man and woman, whom Whill suspected to be the town healers, huddled over the dying infant, trying urgently to revive it. Whill could hear nothing but his own heart. It pounded in his ears steadily, faint hues of red flashing before his eyes with every beat.

There is no injury, he thought. I can do this. She only needs enough to start her heart.

Whill faintly realized that all were now watching him as he advanced into the room toward the infant. He wondered why they did not try to hold him back. Then he saw what they saw; from the palm to each fingertip of his outstretched hand, blue tendrils of light convulsed and danced. The mother had stopped sobbing and stared in wonder. The healers made way for Whill and stepped to the sides, never taking their eyes off him. The infant laid upon the blanket—small, weak, unmoving—a blue hue to its skin. The look on her face was that of great discomfort, not peace. She wants to come back, he thought.

As Whill bent and put his hand upon the baby’s head, he instantly felt her presence. Her faint spirit stumbled into his as a blind man might do, lost in an unknown place. The tendrils from Whill’s hand spread across the limp infant’s body, becoming ever brighter. Her spirit clung strongly to Whill as he tried desperately to monitor the transfer of energy. Then suddenly he felt a great urgency, a desperate struggle to hold on to life as it slipped away. He felt the baby’s simple emotions—the need for what he gave her. Before he could break contact, a sudden jolt surged through his body, dropping him to his knees. He stiffened as her desperate spirit drained from him all the energy it could. Whill was no longer in control. Unable to stop, and fighting hard to break contact, he saw now that the baby had lost her blue color. Through the energy bond, he felt the baby’s heart begin to beat. It pounded faster and faster, stronger with every beat. Her spirit devoured the energy pulsing from him. He mustered his strength and told her spirit kindly to let go.

Suddenly he felt a sense of recognition and understanding, and then great knowledge and a vast intellect, within the spirit’s consciousness. A wisdom of countless years resided within; memories, like waves, crashed into him. He saw strange lands and strange people; oceans, forests, and streams where he had never ventured. Mountain ranges, foreign to him, loomed before his mind’s eye and disappeared. He watched as an entire life played out before him. There was a flash of light, and another set of memories, faces, and feelings began. It ran its course and ended in another flash. Again and again—faster and faster—the cycle repeated until the lives of this ancient spirit poured into him like an avalanche. Then, suddenly, it stopped. Now a landscape he recognized spread out before him. The Ky’Dren Mountains, Lake Eardon, and Drakkar Island flashed before him. He saw the Castle of Del’ Oradon, and felt great love. Now oblivious of his physical surroundings, he had no conscious link to the world around him. There was only this spirit, and its memories. He was not afraid; rather, he felt great comfort and trust. As he watched the life memories of the spirit unfold, something caught his eye. It had only been for an instant, but he asked to see it again. The spirit obliged and he saw in greater detail the form he sought. It was Abram, and he was a young man in his mid-twenties.

Another vision flashed before him—a long corridor hung with great banners. Through the spirit’s memories, Whill watched as the view turned to face a grand mirror. In the reflection he saw a stunningly beautiful woman. She seemed to be in her late twenties, with long black hair and a flawless face. Whill knew then, for the first and last time in his life, he was looking upon his mother. She gazed at herself and then at her large belly. She gave it a few loving strokes before continuing down the hall. Whill urgently tried to make her turn, but the vision faded. Now all was black—but he was not alone. The spirit, that had at one time been his mother, coddled him as if he were the infant. Without words, she told him that she loved him and was very proud, as was his father. She made him understand that the baby he had saved was a new life and would have no memory of him. She told him not to be sad, but thankful that they had shared this rare experience.

Whill knew it was time to go, but protested. She reassured him once again, with great love and pride, and was gone. He knelt at the foot of the bed, his eyes burning with hot tears. He could hear the infant wailing loudly and smiled to himself as he passed out.

Chapter 11 The Road to the Mountain

Whill was again in the state he had been after healing Tarren. His body ached, his head pounded, and he floated in and out of strange, feverish dreams of his parents, the mountain, and of places and people he had never known. He awoke briefly to find an old woman wiping his brow with a cool cloth. He attempted to ask of the infant, but his head swooned with pain and he fell once again into a deep sleep.

Again the elf woman came to Whill and, with her soothing touch and warm smile, took away all pain. Her beauty surpassed that of any mortal he had ever seen, and he was sure he would be content to stare into her eyes forever. Her face radiated with great compassion, but Whill could sense an urgency born of fear. As she soothed his many pains with her own healing energy, she spoke.

“Whill, he can sense you. You must not use your powers again until you are among us. He knows where you are. You must go now.”

Whill awoke abruptly and sat up. Abram jumped, his eyes heavy. Whill surveyed his surroundings. He knew where he was—the house of healing. The old man and woman now tended to him, and they seemed as shocked as Abram. Even Tarren stared in wide wonder as Whill attempted to get out of the bed.

“Abram, we must go, we have to leave now!”

Abram gave Whill a look of concern. “Whoa, whoa there, friend, relax. Give yourself a minute. Are you alright?”

Whill found his clothes and hurriedly put them on. Tarren retrieved his boots. “Thank you,” he said. “Abram, the elf woman from before told me we should leave— just now, before I awoke.”

Abram’s face turned to a hard scowl. “What else did she say?”

Whill tied his boots quickly. “She said something like ‘he can sense you,’ though I don’t know who she was talking about.”

Abram paced the room for a moment as if in deep thought. “You’re right, we must go, and we must go now. Tarren, go and tell Hagus we are leaving.”

The boy ran from the room without a word, and the old man peered out the window with a scowl. “I don’t know how easily you will escape the crowd, good sir.”

“What crowd?”

“That crowd, there.” The old man pointed.

Whill went to the window. “They have been outside for four days now, awaiting a glimpse of the great healer; he being you of course, sir.”

He was not surprised at being unconscious for days, but he was by the crowd. More than fifty people were camped outside of the small home. A man noticed Whill and cried, “There he is, there he is!”

Whill quickly ducked away from the window as the people began to cheer. The old man smiled at him. “That was a wonderful thing you did for the child; though, I know not how you did it. You have a great gift, son—an elven gift, if I may. Tell me, are you part elf?”

“Uh, no, I am not. I do not understand my...abilities, either. How is the child, anyway?”

The old woman smiled as she poured Whill some tea. “She is doing excellently, thanks to you. You know, upon learning your name, the mother named the baby Whilliana in your honor. She is most grateful and has come every day to see how you are. The town has been in an uproar; the sick have even begun coming from surrounding towns to ask to be healed by you.”

She handed Whill the tea and he thanked her. Abram peered out the window, wearing the same scowl. “Not all of them are admirers, mind you,” he warned. “Just last night a band of fools arrived carrying torches, demanding to have the sorcerer handed over. The soldiers would not let them pass, of course, but they came nonetheless. Word of this will soon spread throughout Agora, Whill. Our troubles have only just begun.”

Whill could sense that he had much more to say on the issue but was holding his tongue for now. Outside,