The Hawkweed Prophecy (34 page)

“I'm sorry, sister. I didn't know the potion was so strong. My only want was to hurt you as you would me.” The words gushed forth in a flood of sorrow. “Forgive me,” Charlock lamented.

“If only the past were so easily mended,” cawed Raven.

Charlock sobbed. Her face, usually so flat and still, creased and crumpled with emotion. “The prophecy!” she cried as if by explanation.

Raven's eyes flickered up and what she saw there made them close. “Don't cry,” she said softly. “You are a Hawkweed. You are the mother of a queen.”

Charlock took in a sudden gasp of breath just as Raven exhaled her last. “My sister,” she wept as Raven's hands slipped out of hers and into the cold, wet snow.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-F
IVE

E
verything about her was pale like clouds. Her hair was so fair, it was almost white. Her eyebrows and lashes too. Her eyes were a faded denim blue, same as the veins running like streams beneath her bleached skin. Leo wondered how a woman so light and airy could have produced a daughter as dark and fiery as Poppy. The two of them seemed to belong to different species.

They were in a hospital room, and Mr. Hooper had been questioning his wife, Melanie, about Poppy and she had answered openly and clearly. She was sitting upright in a chair by the window. A book lay open on the small table next to her and her eyes seemed bright and alert, not at all what Leo had been expecting. Mr. Hooper commented on how well she looked. There was a faint tremor in his voice, and Leo noted that Poppy's father seemed nervous.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Hooper replied graciously. “I'm feeling much better.”

Poppy had been to visit her, she told them. She had seemed fine but she hadn't said where she was going or when she might come by again. Mr. Hooper looked disappointed.

“Don't worry,” Poppy's mother advised calmly. “She's a strong girl. She knows what she's doing.”

Mr. Hooper actually stuttered on his next few words. He was going to ask around, he said. Take a look in town, and if there was no sight of her, he would head home. “At least if she returns, I'll be there waiting,” he shrugged.

Looking a little lost, he waited for some acknowledgement, but Mrs. Hooper just nodded serenely, and this seemed to make him feel even more unsettled as he turned and tripped over a chair and then had to pick it up and reposition it by the bedside.

It was then that Leo saw the clock.

“Could I stay?” he asked suddenly, and they both turned to stare at him. “Just for a bit longer?” he added.

Mr. Hooper looked at Mrs. Hooper, and she said kindly, “Well, that would be lovely.”

After that, Mr. Hooper was in a hurry to leave, but he tried to give Leo some money before he went. Leo refused, but not taking no for an answer, Mr. Hooper thrust it into the pocket of Leo's jacket along with his card.

“To get you started,” he said gruffly. “You hear anything . . .”

“I'll call you.”

When he left, Leo picked up the clock.

“You like it?” asked Mrs. Hooper. “It was a gift.”

“Poppy gave it to you,” Leo said.

Mrs. Hooper looked around furtively, then whispered, “She did, but it's not from her. It's from my baby girl. I'm getting well so I can be with her.”

Leo looked at Mrs. Hooper, so pale and fair, then looked at the clock. “Ember,” he said.

Mrs. Hooper's eyes lit up and she leaned toward him. “Do you know her?”

“Mrs. Hooper, will you tell me about Poppy? Tell me everything?”

There was blood in the panthers' mouths. Poppy could see their fangs, yellow like their eyes, oversized like their giant, panting tongues. They had pushed her back to the cliff's edge. She could go no further. Only Charlock had tried to defend her, but she had been quickly overcome. The rest of the Northern clan were no help, despite Charlock's rallying cries. They had lost all spirit and nerve after Raven's death and had shrunk back in shock, allowing Poppy to be surrounded. Now they could hardly bear to look at her. Their backs were stooped with defeat, their eyes lowered as if searching for their feet within the snow. Only Kyra met Poppy's gaze, but the message she sent her was full of remorse.

“So you are to be queen?” came a witch's voice.

“No clan,” came another.

“No schooling.”

“No knowledge.”

“No experience.”

“Why should we have you?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

The voices stabbed at Poppy like knives. The panthers growled and snapped their jaws at her. Their saliva hit her arms. She felt
the sea air on her back and tasted the salt of it on her tongue. How easy to let go, to run away for good.

“Are you sure she's yours, Charlock?” cackled a witch. “She doesn't seem a Hawkweed.”

Hooper or Hawkweed?
Poppy wanted neither.

Another witch spoke out, this time addressing the leader of the cats. “You said she was the one we had to fear. She's nothing but a chaff!” she cried scathingly.

The panther turned its head toward the witch, and as it did so, Poppy saw the blackened, clotted socket from where its eye had fallen and almost gagged.

Chaff or witch?
She thought of the fire and the rats, of the broken glass and the books in the library. She remembered Mrs. Silva's baby and Minx and Margaret Bryant's eyes. She saw Melanie and Charlock, Ember and Leo. It had to be for something.

The panthers stepped closer. Poppy was on the very edge of everything. She reached inside her pockets, feeling, needing, hoping. Her hands grasped the smooth, glossy curve of the chestnut Ember had given her. Poppy brought it out and looked at it, glimpsing her reflection in its shine. Then, in one swift move, she threw it down before the witches.

As soon as it hit the earth, great trees rose and spread around her, forcing the enemy back and shielding her from them with their thick branches and lush greenery. Poppy's legs gave way with relief and she sat in the snow, feeling lucky to be alive. But the fire came fast and furious, blasting the trees, devouring their leaves and turning their wood to cinder. Poppy hung her head in dismay.

“Poppy!” she heard Charlock cry. “Again!”

Quickly Poppy delved into her pocket once more, and this time she found a piece of paper. She pulled it out and her spirits sank when she saw that it was Melanie's photograph. She couldn't see how this could ever come to her aid, but she tossed it toward them and waited. Nothing happened for a moment, and Poppy felt ridiculous for even trying. But then the paper folded and tucked and folded again until it became a paper boat, and beneath it the snow melted into a pool and the pool became a lake, spreading its bank wider and wider, pushing the witches further and further away. The witches started to murmur to one another and their voices grew louder. Poppy could see the consternation spreading from face to face.

“Is that magic enough?” she shouted to them. “What other tricks do I have to perform?”

The leader of the cats roared and the water began to evaporate into rain that disappeared into the clouds above until the ship sank into the puddle that remained.

“Is that all you've got, girl? You are but a pretender to our throne. A fraud, a fake! That is all you are!”

Poppy felt the familiar stirrings of resentment and injustice within her. She got to her feet and stood tall and proud. “And yet you have all left your homes and traveled so far because of me. If I'm a fake, what, tell me, does that make you?” She could feel the wave of anger rippling among the witches, and they stepped toward her threateningly. Poppy's eyes gleamed as she reached inside her pocket, praying for one last chance.

“Give up, child,” scorned the panther. “There's nothing you can build that I can't destroy.”

Poppy's fingertips touched something cool as glass. She groaned inside. Not that. Of all things, not that. The witches were staring, waiting, and so she clasped it and held it up high. The heart stone.
Unconditional love
, those had been Leo's words.

“This,” she cried. “This is everlasting.”

Released from her hand, the crystal spun through the air, flickering rainbows of pinks and mauves and magentas on the snow. It landed like the tiniest iceberg in a sea of white. Then it grew, more monumental and magnificent by the second. The witches gasped in awe, and even the cats moved back to stand and watch until they were lost from Poppy's view as the ridge of rose-tinted crystal mountains towered higher and higher into the sky. They sparkled and shimmered in the light, and as Poppy marveled at them, one thought was in her mind.
Leo.

And then she started to climb.

Her hands and feet gripped the jagged clefts and crevasses as she pulled herself higher and higher away from the hurt and the loss, away from her past. It was all she could do just to put one hand and foot before the other, dragging herself upward. The sun burned through the white of the clouds and the crystals glittered all the more, Poppy but a tiny spot of dust upon them. Finally she reached the peak. To one side the tops of the trees spread out for miles, uphill and down. To the other draped the ocean, with all its blues and greens and its promise of other shores too far for her to see but, with her magic, Poppy could make them out in her mind—the beaches, the meadows, the spires and rooftops, the mountains, cities, deserts, jungles. On it went, and with it the endless possibilities of new experiences and fresh encounters.

Poppy looked down at the witches and their battle, so small and feeble beneath her.
The world is so much bigger than this
, she thought to herself.

From her summit she addressed them all. “I am both witch and chaff. Both Hooper and Hawkweed. This is who I am and this is what I can do.” She stretched her hands out wide.

The Northern clan knelt and, directly, other clans followed. One by one, they bowed before her. Only the panthers refused, growling their dissent, scratching at the snow in protest. Poppy lowered her gaze upon them and muttered a simple spell, and mewing kittens they became. Soft and fluffy and harmless.

Charlock stepped forward until she reached the leader of the pack, distinguishable by its single blinking baby eye. Charlock picked it up and it fitted in her palm. She stroked its head and scratched its chin, and despite itself, it began to purr.

“Go back to the East,” Charlock said. “And leave my daughter be.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-S
IX

P
oppy only felt the magnitude of what had happened when Ember hugged her. Her mind and her muscles had been wound so tight for so long now she felt she might snap. But in her friend's embrace, finally she could soften.

“You're safe,” whispered Ember. “We're both safe now.”

The wounded were being treated, and Raven was not the only sister to be lost that day. Yet still the coven, fired up by their victory, wanted to celebrate.

“All in good time,” Charlock said, her face and demeanor having returned to their inscrutable placidity.

The color was restored to Ember's cheeks and her hand felt warm in Poppy's as she led her to the camp's table. They sat there for a while, sipping broth from large spoons.

“Already they're looking at me differently,” Ember said quietly from behind her hand so only Poppy could hear. “I've heard them whispering.”

Never before had a chaff been allowed within the coven's circle, and Poppy could tell the witches were wary about Ember's
presence. They didn't dare speak of it, though, not to Charlock and least of all to her. So Ember stayed another week to ensure her full recovery, sleeping in the caravan in which she had spent her life so far, but this time with Poppy lying next to her.

The winter days were short, night creeping into the afternoons, curling around the camp and coaxing the coven to their caravans. More time was spent in bed than out, more sleeping than arising, and so the time passed quickly, too quickly for Poppy's liking, until it was already Ember's last night. That evening neither girl could sleep. Instead, they talked long into the darkness, speaking of what had happened but also of what might come.

“Never in all my dreams did I think you would be here with me,” Ember said softly. “I'm so glad we had these days together.”

“Do you want to stay?” asked Poppy, suddenly hopeful, then wondering how she might make that happen.

“I can't.”

Ember sounded so rigid that Poppy felt the rasp of rejection. “You don't want to,” she argued in response.

“I can't,” Ember said again, this time more gently.

Charlock entered the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. They heard her undressing and slipping under the covers, neither of them shutting their eyes, both waiting for her to fall asleep. Poppy could see their breath lift like smoke on the cold night air, but the blankets were thick above and beneath her body, keeping her warm, the material scratching slightly at her skin. No light came in through the little window. There was no need for curtains; it was pitch black outside and Poppy's eyes had to work more keenly than ever before. Occasionally the clouds would allow
the moon to show itself and then she could see the little caravan with its wooden floor and painted door, the family of copper pans hanging from the ceiling, the sheepskins strewn across the chairs. But when the moon disappeared again, they were plunged back into darkness and Poppy was reminded of the poem she'd learned at school of the moon “
wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth
.”
Like me
, she thought, and then Ember whispered, “You could come with me?” and Poppy recognized the wishing in her voice.

“I don't think I belong out there,” Poppy whispered back, glancing to the other bed to check that Charlock's eyes were closed.

“And you do here?” Ember blurted, her voice rising so Poppy had to put a finger to her lips to hush her. Ember tried to speak more quietly but she couldn't keep the fervor from her words. “You don't know what it's like inside this place,” she stated.

“I know,” Poppy soothed. “Truth is, I don't know where I belong.”

Ember reached out and clutched Poppy's hand. “They'll make you queen.”

Poppy felt herself freeze, then made herself relax and thaw. “The prophecy,” she said with a small smile. “Did you ever think it could just have been a bunch of meddling women long ago who wanted to cause some trouble, make themselves feel important?”

Ember's forehead furrowed as she tried to fathom that. “It's come true, though, hasn't it? I heard what you did on the battlefield. You have the greatest power of all of them.”

“It was the most alive I've ever felt, apart from . . . ” Poppy fell silent.

She couldn't talk of Leo, not to Ember. How could she explain that her power was also her curse? For it meant she couldn't love him or feel his love in return. Poppy gave a shiver as she remembered Charlock's words about Leo's heart and how she might have harmed it. If she'd stayed with him any longer, he would have died. The thought of this made Poppy's face drop, and she felt Ember gripping her hand tightly in response.

“What are you going to do?” Ember asked desperately.

“I'm going to take you home,” Poppy replied, trying to find a confidence she didn't feel.

“And then?”

“And then we'll see.”

Poppy felt Charlock's eyelids blink in the blackness.

The next day Poppy and Ember left for town. Charlock made Ember a bag full of her old clothes, but Ember shook her head.

“Those are Poppy's things now,” she said softly.

Charlock gave a small nod, then turned her eyes to Poppy, fretfully searching for signs. Poppy kept her face still under her mother's gaze. “You will come back,” Charlock announced.

It sounded like a statement, not a question, but then Charlock waited for an answer and Poppy felt her insecurity. She didn't know what to say, so she replied with a question of her own. “Will I know it?” she asked. “When the queen dies?”

Charlock nodded. “You will feel it.” And then she said it again, this time as an order. “Come back.”

A few of the sisters gathered to see Ember leave, but most, especially the young ones, went about their business, wishing to avoid any awkward good-byes. They had wanted Charlock and Poppy to make Ember forget.
For her own benefit as much as ours
, they had said. But Poppy refused to let Ember go lost into the world, not knowing her past, not understanding herself. And though the witches shook their heads, they didn't challenge her. Surprisingly, Sister Ada was among the few to see Ember off. When she approached, Ember's eyes automatically widened anxiously. But the old witch took Ember's chin between her bony fingers and spoke with what came close to affection.

“You take good care out there.”

“I will,” promised Ember.

The two girls stayed at John Hooper's house for a while. There was a For Sale sign outside and he had already moved most of his belongings to Donna's. He still looked a little sheepish when he talked about her and Logan, but knowing that Melanie had come out of the hospital and that he had both her and Poppy's blessing had freed him to begin his life again. It suited him, this new life. He seemed relaxed, softer in the shoulders, with the weight of all his worries having lifted from them. And he smiled more, deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth but looking younger for it.

Poppy introduced Ember as her friend, and Ember's eyes welled up and she hugged John, clasping him tight, even though she and Poppy had agreed she would try to stay calm. Neither of
them could imagine telling John the truth—or him believing it. Poppy knew it would be too much for him to comprehend and he would only feel hurt and bewildered by it. For Ember's part, she worried that John would think her crazy, just as he had her mother. The coven had taught her that most couldn't and shouldn't turn their minds to the irrational and extraordinary. For her, it was enough simply to spend some time with him—her father . . .

“Poppy's told me so much about you,” she said as her hands held onto John's back.

John gave Poppy a look of surprise over Ember's shoulder. “Not all bad, I hope,” he joked awkwardly.

“Oh no,” said Ember so sincerely that her eyes shone. “Only the best.”

As for Poppy, she wasn't sure she would ever stop thinking of John as her father, especially when he was so relieved to see her and got so mad at her for worrying him like that. She explained that she'd be going to live with her mom for a while. It was as close to the truth as she could get, and he nodded, then kept on nodding while he rubbed his eye and cleared his throat.

“You're a good daughter, Poppy,” he said, and it was her turn to hold back the tears at these words she thought she'd never hear. “I don't like to think of your mother alone,” he added, and Poppy wished she could tell him about Ember and Melanie just to comfort him. But then he was standing up and phoning his work and her school and arranging for them to spend their last few days together.

One morning he took the girls shopping, and Ember asked to have her hair cut.

“Not too short,” she told the hairdresser firmly. “Just different.”

She sat in the chair and let her head hang back into the sink and seemed to relish the feeling of the shampoo upon her scalp and the bubbles in her hair. Then it was dried by what Ember whispered looked like a weapon that shot hot air at her head but made her hair bob and float upon her shoulders.

Afterward, dressed in jeans and boots with a heel, with color in her clothes, makeup on her face, and layers in her hair, Ember looked like someone new. She walked and talked differently too. Poppy had seen her studying the other girls in town and on the television, but she still was surprised at how fast Ember took to her new part in life. Then, when they traveled on the train a few days later, Ember behaved as though she had done the journey a hundred times before.

It was Poppy who didn't fit in, who never would.

Melanie had moved out of the hospital and into a small house in a village nearby. It had a garden in front and behind, Ember noted, and the door was purple like violets. Ember had expected to run into her mother's arms, but when the door opened and she saw Melanie standing there, she found her legs wouldn't move. Poppy had to shove her inside and pull her into the kitchen. Melanie seemed just as dumbstruck and would hardly look in Ember's direction. Instead, she busied herself by making the tea, but her hand shook so much as she poured it into the china cups that Poppy took over the task, chatting all the while, trying to bridge the silence. Ember felt like weeping.

Then Melanie got out the cake she had made. Her cheeks flushing with embarrassment and her voice shaking with nerves, she presented it on a little stand. Upon it was written Ember's name. Ember stared at the cake. It was white and pink and perfect, and when Melanie cut into it, Ember nearly cried out for the shame of spoiling it. They sat on sofas, balancing tiny plates awkwardly on their knees.

“It's delicious,” said Poppy, urging Ember with her eyes to speak. “Don't you think so, Ember?”

Melanie glanced up and Ember nodded, and then Melanie looked away again.

After they'd cleared the plates, Poppy suggested firmly that Melanie show Ember the house. While Poppy waited in the living room, Ember walked up the stairs, following her mother. She stared freely at Melanie's back, observing how her hair fell on her shoulders, how her cardigan hung at her waist, how her ankles flexed on the steps and her feet fitted into her small, cream shoes.