The Hawkweed Prophecy (3 page)

Before long, it was just the two of them.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

B
efore leaving for her new school Poppy placed food for the cats under the hedge at the side of the house. They weaved in and out of her legs, rubbing their fur on her skin in gratitude. There was a chill in the early autumn air, and Poppy relished the warmth of their touch. It had felt cold ever since she'd arrived up north to this far edge of the country, like she had left the sun behind forever. This piece of land, jutting out to sea, felt like the precipice of the world, like there was nowhere to run but into the icy waters to drown. At first Poppy had wondered how she would survive in such a desolate place, the town barren of charm or interest, the hills and their forests on one side and the bleak gray sea on the other. Then, just as she was about to despair, the cats had appeared. It had taken them seven days and several hundred miles to reach her. Her spirits had soared when she'd spotted them on the rooftop, making themselves at home.

As if sensing her thoughts, the ginger cat that Poppy called Minx gave a meow, and Poppy reached down to stroke her. Minx was the cat she felt closest to. She'd known her since she was a
tiny kitten, fitting so lightly in the palm of her hand. Minx wasn't the sleekest or the strongest of the group, but for some reason, Poppy had connected with her. A few years ago Poppy had tried to take her indoors, thinking she might persuade her father to keep Minx as a pet. But Minx had wriggled and squirmed and run back outside. She wasn't happy within the four walls of the house, and Poppy didn't persist because neither was she. Occasionally Minx would climb in her bedroom window in the dead of night and lie above her head like a fur hat, but then she'd slink away again before dawn would break.

Poppy scratched Minx's chin and heard her purr contentedly. She wished she could huddle up with the cats and spend the day in their company, away from all the people and all the stress, just as she'd done when she was small. They were her only real companions, but she had to keep them a secret if she wanted to avoid her father's suspicions. As Poppy had grown up, she'd learned to hide the things she guessed would bother her father. So for a long time now, the cats had sensed they must stay away, only coming to her when she was alone. The spiders would also scurry out of sight when John returned home, and the insects would flitter into the shadows.

In this way Poppy had managed to deceive her father into believing there was nothing mysterious or unnatural about her. And as she'd grown from a little girl into a teen, it became easy for John to blame Poppy's troubles on her mother. On the odd occasion Poppy would reason this too. She told herself her mother's breakdown had been a traumatic event, that she must be scathed by it even if she wasn't conscious of it. She lacked a female role
model, a mother's love. No wonder she had anger issues. But then something truly weird would happen—like how she knew Uncle Bob was going to die before the summer came, and how two days later he announced he was terminally ill. He died at the end of May, and the day after his funeral the sun began to shine.

After that, Poppy stopped making excuses for herself and tried very hard to accept that she was different. So much felt beyond her control or understanding, but as long as she kept her head down at school and as long as she kept covering her tracks at home, her dad would choose not to look too closely at any evidence she might have failed to hide. Denial was a powerful thing, and a part of Poppy admired her mother for not having been held under its sway. It was lonely, though, all this pretense. There was no hiding that.

Poppy looked around the classroom. On the far side, middle row, she could see one empty desk. It was next to the window. Outside stood a tree almost near enough to touch. Its branches swayed in the wind, beckoning Poppy closer. She moved quickly and quietly to the seat, her head bowed, eyes fixed ahead. She was about to sit down when she felt the hairs on her arms bristle.

“What d'you think you're doing?” The accent was harsh this far north, the vowels spiky and serrated like the thistles that spread across the fields.

Poppy straightened. “Sorry,” she mumbled without looking up.

“Find somewhere else to sit.”

Poppy glanced at the girl, taking in her angry, narrowed eyes and lips pursed in confrontation. “It's all yours,” she said in a low voice as she turned away.

“Too right!”

The other kids started to laugh. A gust of wind shook the tree and rattled the windows. Poppy glanced around her, hoping and praying for another desk.

“Got nowhere to go?” the girl taunted.

A skinny boy with long hair pulled out his chair. “She can have mine, Kelly.”

Poppy stared at the boy, trying to decide whether to trust him. Past experience told her not to. From the girls, she got dislike and aggression. But from the boys, she sensed fear. She didn't understand why. She was small, unthreatening. They were so much stronger. But she saw it now in this boy's eyes, underneath the bravado and the posturing.

“Do you want it or not?” he challenged, holding onto the back of the chair and moving it so she could sit.

Poppy felt all the eyes in the room upon her and realized that she didn't have much choice. She walked past some other girls, and the overpowering scent of perfume, gum, and Diet Coke made her want to gag.

“Thanks,” she muttered to the boy.

As Poppy sat down, there was the scrape of chair legs on flooring and a heavy thump as she hit the ground. A pain shot up her spine. The kids broke into laughter, some embarrassed with their hands over their mouths, others in unfettered delight. Poppy stared at her shoes. Her voice was loud in her head, trying to
drown out the uproar—
ignore them
. . .
just ignore them
. . .
don't get angry
. . .
breathe
. . .
just breathe
. Hot tears stung her eyes as the voice tried hard to calm her. She blinked them back. She looked up at the boy, who shrugged belligerently but then blinked nervously. Poppy scanned the room, taking in all the grinning faces, monstrous in their howls of laughter.

The tree branch slapped the window and the kids flinched. The crack it left in the glass seemed small but it spread, slowly at first . . . then ripping along the windows until they shattered. The glass splintered, and tiny shards dropped like hail onto the class. The kids screamed and tried to cover themselves.

“It's in my hair!” yelled Kelly, the desk girl, her hands picking frantically at the glinting sparkles in her hair. Unbeknownst to her, a trickle of blood ran from her forehead to her ear. “What are you looking at?” she yelled at Poppy.

Without replying, Poppy got up and sat down at the boy's seat, pulling it firmly behind the desk. He stepped away from her, and she began to coolly and calmly unpack her bag. She set out her books so they lined up neatly and opened her pencil case, carefully laying out a pencil and pen. The boy just stood there, his mouth open, watching her numbly.

“Got nowhere to go?” Poppy asked pointedly. Looking spooked, he backed away further, tripping over someone's backpack as he went.

Kelly was brushing the glistening specks of glass from her skirt. “You're a freak!” she accused.

“Tell you what,” Poppy picked up the pen and clicked it open, “you stay away from me, and I'll do the same for you. How does that sound?”

Kelly raised her eyebrows challengingly.

“And you might want to wipe that blood off your face,” added Poppy in her most matter-of-fact voice.

Kelly dived for her bag and rummaged through it, grappling for the hand mirror buried in its depths. She flicked it open and shrieked when she saw the blood. Poppy shook her head. She'd encountered tough girls like Kelly before—they liked scratching and punching with words, talking a fighting talk, but anything resembling a real wound, and they crumbled. Kelly ran out of the room, clutching her head, barging past the teacher as he was walking in. He watched her go as though such scenes of hysteria were utterly to be expected, then entered the room and saw the damaged windows. At that moment the wind shook the building and surged through the remaining jagged glass so that, inside the classroom, papers rippled, skirts billowed, and hairdos ruffled.

“Mark,” the teacher yelled to the chair boy. “Don't just stand there looking foolish. Go get Mr. Harding.”

Mark, relieved to get away, sprang into action instantly. The teacher looked around.

“Okay, everyone. Settle down.” His eyes rested on Poppy. “New girl, right?” He looked down at a list on the top of his folder. “Poppy Hooper?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You picked quite a day to start. I see you found yourself a desk all right.”

Poppy gave the smallest hint of a smile. “No problem, sir.”

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

I
t took two to extract venom from a snake. Sister Ada, whose cracked, leathered skin resembled that of the adders in her basket, instructed the girls to split into pairs.

Ember glanced around at the girls sitting cross-legged under the shelter of the wide-branched ash tree in the northwest corner of the camp. All of them were now getting to their feet and making a beeline for their chosen partner. Ember sat and waited, but as always, no one picked her. It still hurt to be alone and last, even after all these times, especially since today it meant partnering with Sister Ada. She was one of the elders who, despite her respect for Charlock, found it hard to hide her deep aversion for Ember, always with a pointed word or stabbing look, crossing the camp to avoid her. Now Ember had to stand next to her at the front of the class, so close she could see the hairs on Sister Ada's chin and study the loose, reddened wattle skin hanging from her neck.

Sister Ada picked up one of the adders, holding it firmly in her hands and pointing it toward the old, glass jar on the
weather-worn table. Ember wanted to run from the lesson, but she wasn't sure of whom she was more frightened—the adder or Sister Ada.

“The fangs must pierce the membrane that covers your glass jar. This will induce the snake to bite.” In one deft move, Sister Ada had her snake in the required position, fangs inserted through the membrane.

The snake eyed Ember beadily as if blaming her for its predicament. Ember tried to stop shaking.

“Seems this feller doesn't want to cooperate.” Sister Ada looked at Ember suspiciously. “I'm sensing deep discomfort.”

Ember, who never thought she'd have something in common with a snake, felt a brief pang of sympathy for the creature. It didn't want to be here anymore than she did.

“Ember, rub your finger between its eyes. Snakes detest that. Should make him angry enough to bite.”

Ember willed her hand to move, but it wouldn't. She started to feel sick.

“Sister Ada, she's going to vomit again!”

Ember couldn't tell which of the girls had made this announcement, but there was tittering and chattering from the mass of them.

“Ember Hawkweed! You will touch this snake this instant,” spat Sister Ada, spraying Ember with spittle.

Ember's arm obeyed and lifted. The index finger of her right hand uncurled and pointed. Her shoulder stretched in its joint . . . her fingertip was less than an inch from the snake's brow. The snake watched, waited, then twitched.

And Ember fled.

“Ember Hawkweed! You pitiful excuse for a witch. Come back here!” shrieked Sister Ada.

But Ember kept on running—out of the camp, past the wooden caravans with their peeling, faded paint, along the vegetable patches, between the boulders that encircled everything, into the bushes, through the great forest, and out into the fresh air of the river bank. There she stopped. She always stopped there—too scared to continue but too mortified to go back.

An hour later, when the shame had receded, Ember was scooping the cold water into her palms and splashing it under her arms. She had goose bumps all over and her teeth were chattering. The bar of soap she always kept in her skirt pocket was a thin, translucent slither. It still smelled of lavender, though, she noticed with a fleeting sense of pride. For while the other girls brewed up vile medicinal stuff every day, she created soap.

It hadn't been easy. The first slabs were flaky, then mushy, before she got the ratio of oil, lye, and water just right. Since then, Ember had tried her hand at perfume too. Where the others took the roses' thorns, she took the petals. She'd dab a few drops of the fragrance on her pillow at night and bury her head in the sweet, floral scent. The camp didn't smell good. There were too many animal carcasses and fish bones. The ancient skills of witchcraft seemed to require the most hideous of ingredients. Ember worried that the rancid smells had coated her hair and become ingrained in her skin. So she slipped away to the river whenever she
could and scrubbed at her body until the soap lather foamed upon her, washing the traces of her odorous existence away.

Ember watched as the last bubbles of her soap were carried downstream by the river. She wondered, as she always did, where the river led, and wished for the umpteenth time that she was brave enough to carry on, to follow the river around the bend and onward, away from her life to a world beyond. If only she were less fearful, she would dip her toes in the water, step out into the deep, lie back in the water, and let the currents take her.

But she wasn't brave. Not one bit. She was a coward, a pathetic thing, soft and weak. Ember had been told it enough times, and she had stopped taking offense long ago. It was the truth and there was no point denying it. So many things scared her—nettles, mice, owls, spells, curses, snakes. The list was endless. She wished she was like the others. She had tried to be. But she bruised easily and tears always came to her eyes before she had a chance to blink them back. To fit in with her clan, you had to be strong and coarse like rope—but Ember's curves were plump and soft as pillows. And if you wanted to fit in with the night, your hair had to be dark. Ember's was like a lamp, lighting up her inadequacies for all to see.

Despite all this, Ember secretly cherished her looks. She knew she should want to look more like her cousin, Sorrel, but she just couldn't make herself. She'd grown up in a community of women who paid no attention to their appearance. They scorned such feeble concerns and put their minds to greater pursuits. Ember had tried so hard to follow their example, but she loved to brush her fair hair until it shone; she liked her fingernails clean, not lined with black earth; and she disliked it when the hair grew long on
her legs and sprouted from her armpits. Ember appreciated the pretty things in life, like the delicacy of a dragonfly's wings, the first burst of blossom on a fruit tree, and the sheen of the colors on a drake's neck. And she knew instinctively, though she had no way to prove it, that she was pretty too.

By all accounts, it was evident from very early on that Ember was a useless witch. It wasn't just her looks—Ember had been told that those would have been accommodated if she wasn't so squeamish and sentimental. The plain fact of it was Ember showed no predisposition for magic whatsoever. Never had there been a member of the coven so lacking in talent and skill. Over the years, the elders had waited for some gift, just one, to emerge. Most girls in the coven showed magical tendencies before they could even walk. Even the least able had a flair for one aspect or another. Some had “the sight.” Others had an aptitude for spells—they only had to concentrate and chant in their heads and something strangely magical would occur. And all had an affinity with nature. Every youngster could predict the weather by simply smelling the air and rubbing the earth between her fingers. Even babies could attract the birds so they'd flutter down and perch on their small hands and let their feathers be stroked. For so many years Ember had tried to master this one basic skill, and yet the birds still flapped away from her in fear, as though she were foe, not friend.

Ember had nothing to offer the coven. Her spell chants would end up as little songs that she would hum to everyone's annoyance. She was allergic to animal fur and would faint at the sight of blood. And she was known to puke around anything reptilian. The only lesson Ember enjoyed was history, as she loved hearing stories about the past and learning of her courageous
ancestors—independent women who were often cast out from society and many of whom sacrificed their lives to stay true to themselves and their calling. But then, at night, the nightmares evoked by these legends would be so vivid that she'd wake up screaming and have to take refuge in Charlock's bed. With her head in the crook of her mother's arm and her cheek upon her bosom, she'd listen to the rhythmic beating of Charlock's heart and be soothed back to sleep.

Ember turned from the river and all that it promised and headed home. Her mother would be waiting. She would have heard about the snake incident and guessed where Ember had run to. Charlock knew Ember's habits and tolerated them, covering for her with the others. Since Ember was a baby Charlock had spent most of her time overcompensating for her daughter's deficiencies and protecting her from criticism. Ember felt her mother's love like a quilt, its warmth keeping the chill of scorn from icing her heart.

Her aunt, too, was her defender, and no one dared question Raven. The elders of the clan had chosen Raven to sit at the head of the table, a position never given before to one as young as she. For Ember's aunt was the most powerful witch in the north and not to be crossed unless you wished to suffer the consequences. She produced spells no one had heard of before, let alone believed were possible. Her reputation echoed across lands far and wide, and Ember's cousin, Sorrel, loved to gloat about it, basking in her mother's glory.

Charlock kept a lower profile. She was sister to the great witch but never drew attention to the fact. Perhaps she thought she would suffer in comparison, but Ember didn't think that was the reason. Her mother was simply humble and uninterested in the
notoriety of the family name. She was a talented healer, but while her knowledge of plants and cures was extensive, her witchcraft and sorcery were limited. The family prophecy that Raven so zealously promoted, Charlock shied away from. She was happy for Raven and Sorrel to be the chosen ones. And Ember was just as relieved not to be a contender. Either she or Sorrel would be the next queen, or so the prophecy said, and everyone knew it would never be Ember.

As Ember wandered back into camp, she saw her cousin, Sorrel, with some other young witches and quickly ducked behind a washing line to avoid them.

“Too late, Em!” shouted Sorrel.

Ember felt a familiar stomach churning.

“We can see your legs,” declared another.

“Heard about you and Sister Ada, Em. You can't hide forever.” That was Sorrel's voice again.

Ember considered making a run for it, but Charlock had made her promise to stand up for herself. So Ember stepped out from behind the washing and stood. The girls advanced.

“Doesn't she smell sweet?” Kyra, Sorrel's chief cohort, taunted.

Sorrel bent her head and sniffed. Her nose twitched and then she sneezed. The girls burst out laughing, and Ember couldn't help joining them. As a reprisal, Sorrel gave a lock of Ember's hair a sudden tug.

“Ouch. That hurt!” cried Ember.

“Oh, poor little Em. Shall I make it better?” Sorrel said, imitating Ember's higher-pitched voice.

“No,” Ember pleaded, trying to lower her tone. “Please, Sorrel . . . ”

Ember tried to stop herself from shaking, but the panic was setting in. Usually Sorrel's offers of help ended in further injury for Ember. She had the scars, pockmarks, and burns to prove it. Sorrel's whole face narrowed to a point as she concentrated on her spell. Ember shut her eyes and shielded her face with her arms. She didn't know why she still had the instinct to do this, as her arms offered no protection. It wasn't a physical blow that Sorrel was conjuring up but something more virulent. Still, Ember braced herself for whatever was coming her way.

“Sorrel Hawkweed. No mischief make for mischief's sake.” It was Charlock's voice, loud and clear with authority.

Ember's eyelids flicked open to see Sorrel's face contort with irritation before putting on a fake smile and turning toward Charlock.

“Of course, Aunt. Never our power abuse, never the craft misuse.”

Ember glanced at her mother and saw that her head was cocked to one side and her eyebrows raised. She wasn't fooled. But when Charlock turned to look at Ember, her eyes were guarded. “Come along now, Ember,” she chided. “Stop dawdling. There's work to be done.”

Ember scuttled past the girls, hurrying to her mother's side. Her skirts swept Sorrel's as she passed, and she heard her cousin murmur, “You're an embarrassment,” and Ember glanced at her almost apologetically.

Ember always forgave her cousin's bullying, for she knew how hard it was on Sorrel having a relative like her. When they were little, Sorrel had treated her like a pet, and Ember would follow her cousin around, looking up at her adoringly. But then it had
dawned on Sorrel how inept Ember was, and she had tried to distance herself from Ember's failures. Now, to save face, she would tease Ember and hurt her before anyone else could, and in that respect, Sorrel was doing her a favor. Ember could take Sorrel's punishments, curbed as they were by family connection, over what the others might inflict instead.

It was hard on her mother too. Charlock never told her so, but Ember could feel it. The only member of Ember's family who didn't make her feel like a burden was Raven. She seemed to accept Ember for who she was—she had neither expectation, nor disappointment. Her mother had plenty of both; she just kept them stored inside.