The Hawkweed Prophecy (5 page)

Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,

Wandering companionless

Among the stars that have a different birth,

And ever-changing, like a joyless eye . . .

Poppy finished the rest for her, knowing the words by heart. “
That finds no object worth its constancy?
”

“Is it a spell?” asked Ember.

Poppy looked at her. “You're even stranger than me, you know that?”

And Ember smiled.

Later Poppy gave her some chocolate. It was so sweet that it clogged in Ember's throat and she had to gulp down water to flush it away. In return she shared the dried fruit and seeds she always kept in her pockets. As Poppy nibbled on the seeds, Ember looked around the dell and wondered why anyone would want to escape a home that was filled with all these incredible, life-enhancing things. Then it occurred to her that she could ask, and she said, “What is it you're trying to escape?”

Poppy looked surprised but answered with a shrug, “Just my life. My family. I don't know. Myself!” Ember leaned her shoulder against Poppy's in recognition. Poppy didn't shift but let her rest there. “What about you?”

“It's hard feeling like a failure all the time. So I come here. Just to have some respite for a while.”

“And then you go back?”

“Where else would I go?”

“I'm glad I met you, Ember from yonder.”

“Me too.”

Before she reached the camp, Ember stopped to remove the blue from her nails. It was stuck there. She scratched and gnawed but it wouldn't come off. So she kept her fingers tucked into her palms, or behind her back, or deep in her pockets so no one would see. But Raven had eyes in the back of her head.

“Ember Hawkweed!” Her aunt's voice was low but had a force to it that made Ember stop in her tracks. She looked around and saw no one. Then, suddenly, her aunt was there before her. “What are you carrying, niece?”

Ember gulped. “Nothing,” she replied, praying that the truth of this might spare her any further investigation.

Ember wasn't sure whether it was in disappointment or irritation, but Raven slowly shook her head. “Come hither.”

Ember took two steps forward so that their feet almost met. Then Raven took Ember's clenched fist and uncurled it, holding the fingernails right up to her face as she peered at them.

“It's paint,” explained Ember in a small voice.

“I know what it is, kitten.”

Ember felt a chill down her back. “I found it . . . in the forest,” she said hurriedly. Under Raven's scrutiny, she felt her cheeks blush at the fib she had told.

“An interesting shade,” Raven added. She never smiled, but Ember could tell from her eyes she was joking. Ember felt a rush of relief. Her aunt wasn't angry after all. As if to confirm this, Raven asked, “Do you want to leave it on or shall I vanish it for you?”

Ember shifted from one foot to the other in indecision.

“One more night?” Raven conspired.

“Oh, thank you, Aunt,” Ember gasped.

“It'll be our little secret,” Raven whispered, and Ember nodded gladly.

When she woke the next morning, Ember's nails were clean. The paint had gone, and even the bottle was nowhere to be found.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

T
hat evening Poppy and her father sat eating Vietnamese food out of cartons. They ordered takeout a lot. Whenever they moved, Poppy would collect the flyers that came in the mail, and her father would order from each one until they narrowed them down to their favorite few. Poppy had eaten a lot of dodgy curries, stodgy pizzas, and gloopy stir-fries in her time. Tonight was a soupy noodle dish that slipped down your throat before you had a chance to bite at it. Sauce trickled down her father's chin as he slurped the noodles into his mouth. Poppy giggled. The sound surprised her as much as it did her father. He instantly glanced up at her.

“What?” Poppy challenged.

Her dad shrugged and, as he did so, a noodle that had been resting on his shirt fell into his lap.

Poppy giggled again.

Her father tried to wipe it off but it clung to his trousers. “God!”

Poppy laughed, actually laughed out loud. She laughed so hard that her mouthful of noodles came tumbling from her lips.

Her father looked up at her in astonishment. “Poppy! That's revolting!” But that just made Poppy laugh some more. He shook his head and smiled. “Haven't I taught you any manners?”

“No!” Tears were falling from her eyes, she was laughing so hard.

Poppy went into the kitchen and got her father a dish towel. He watched her warily but took it from her with a thank you and started wiping gingerly at the stubborn noodle.

“I can wash them if you want.”

Her father looked surprised. “I'll have to order from”—he picked up the menu and read—“Little Saigon again.”

Poppy wrinkled her nose.

“No, not a keeper?”

“Throw it away.”

Her dad crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it toward the wastepaper basket. It landed right inside. “Yes!” Her dad pumped his arm in victory, then looked at Poppy with a grin. “How's the new school?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Okay?! Really?!” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Don't tell me you made a friend?”

“I did, actually,” she replied. “Don't look so surprised. I am capable of it.”

“I'm not surprised, just impressed. I know you didn't want to move all this way.”

Poppy felt herself blush and she looked away. Sensing her discomfort, her dad moved the conversation on.

“What's this school like?”

He hadn't asked her that in years.

“Oh, you know. It's school.” Her dad seemed disappointed, and Poppy sensed their chat would be over pretty quickly unless she said something. “How's the new job?”

“Fine.”

“You don't sound too sure.”

Her dad half-smiled. “It's a job.”

And there it was. A moment of connection that came and went but, for Poppy, that made two in one day. Later, as she lay curled up in her bed with Minx, she realized she had walked out into the hills alone but had returned having made a friend. Her first. Maybe it was the headache or the hare that made her act so out of character, but she had achieved a proper conversation with another girl. It had been so easy with Ember, as though she were not human but, like the hare, another wild creature from the woods. There had been no glint of criticism in Ember's eyes, no hint of artifice or hostility in her voice, and now Poppy found herself wondering, if she went back to the dell tomorrow, whether Ember might appear again. Then immediately she felt silly for thinking such a thing and determined not to go.

Sorrel tripped up the steps and banged her ankle on the door-frame as her mother pulled her inside. She knew well not to complain. Raven's eyes were burning, fire within the black. Her lips were twitching, chanting soundless words. She started pacing back and forth, lost in frantic thought. Only Sorrel got to see such
scenes of her mother's private self. In front of the coven Raven maintained constant calm and control.

“The real magic is to make it look effortless,” she always told Sorrel when it was just the two of them, after lessons and away from the other girls.

“Mother?” Sorrel prompted, and Raven snapped her neck around so she faced her. “You wanted to talk with me?”

Raven's eyes focused and the fire dimmed. “Follow your cousin.”

Sorrel groaned inwardly but her mother heard it—nothing escaped Raven.

“I mean it. I want your eyes on her. Something doesn't bode well.”

“It's Ember. Nothing ever bodes well,” replied Sorrel.

“She's happy. Listen to her step—it's lighter. Look at her eyes—they're brighter. Her heart is beating faster. She's straighter, taller. Use your senses, Sorrel. All of them.”

Sorrel nodded. Her mother was always right. “Why is she so happy?”

“That's what you must find out. See if she ventures into the town. Check she isn't talking to any chaffs. Who knows what the simpleton might say.”

Sorrel nodded, though she could scarcely believe her timid cousin capable of such rebellion. Every decade or so there was a witch who would be seduced by the outside world. They would disappear into the dead of night, covering their tracks to avoid all detection. Then the inevitable betrayal would begin. They'd confess their past and admit to witchcraft, telling of the coven out in
the forest, forsaking all they had once sworn to protect. Usually they'd leave for love . . . or so they said. But then they'd come back weeping and begging to come home.

It never worked—a witch and a chaff. However learned or open-minded, the people of the outside world lived smaller lives. They saw only what was visible and believed only what could be proven or what was preached. They were missing a sense and were so handicapped without it that the witches almost pitied them. For a witch would rather lose their sight or hearing than the sixth and most precious of senses.

The males were the worst. For centuries they had owned their womenfolk as though they were mere belongings, not beings like them with an independent mind and voice and a right to determine their own lives. Sorrel's ancestors had sought another way to live, but they had been persecuted for it. Men rode across the land, taking bits of idle gossip and jealous sniping and using it to put any woman they feared on trial, relishing their screams as they burned at the stake, the flesh melting from their bones. In the years after, many of these women had gathered, forming sisterhoods and covens, living separate from the rest of society and practicing their craft in hidden safety. They swore never to forget those who had been slaughtered so mercilessly. Men, they decided, were to be shunned. They needed them for daughters, but nothing more. Just one of their kind would weaken the bonds of loyalty and trust between the witches. It had been proved time and time again. Even Sorrel, in her short life, had heard one such renegade witch weeping over her broken heart, regretting her betrayal and grieving for the loss of her clan. To watch her helpless, heaving sorrow had been horrifying, and Sorrel had hidden
behind her mother's skirts until Raven had pulled her away and left her. For Raven had to work through the night to mop up the damage, cleaning the chaffs' minds of what they'd heard, wiping away all evidence of this witch's existence.

Sorrel tried to imagine Ember in such a state. The more she strived to picture it, the more unlikely it seemed. But Raven had charged Sorrel with a task and she must complete it. Besides, Sorrel liked having a mission. It made her feel important. She liked having a chance to prove her worth. It quieted the nagging voice in her head that told her she wasn't good enough, not to be queen anyway.

What Raven didn't tell Sorrel was that the owl from the western oak had circled three times around the camp and then settled on the roof of Charlock's caravan. A cloud shaped like a wolf had passed the moon, and the soot from the fire had formed seven peaks before a northeast wind had swept them away. All these omens would have incited too many questions from her daughter, and she didn't want Sorrel knowing too much. Raven longed to investigate herself, but her sister was so attentive to Ember, so sensitive to her frailties, that Raven's presence or any spell she cast might easily arouse Charlock's suspicions. Sorrel, however, was often in Ember's vicinity and Charlock was used to her meddling. Raven must, for now, be prudent and let Sorrel do the work.

That night Raven dreamt that the great yew tree yanked itself from the ground and walked with earthy, fibrous limbs to warn that her life would be uprooted too. In Raven's nightmare, she saw
all her buried secrets come trailing out like worms and centipedes, exposed in all their ugliness by the light of the sun, defenseless against the pecking beaks of hungry birds.

The next morning she found the great yew toppled, its ancient branches crushed. Its needles were scattered far around, and its trunk that had survived a thousand years was now lying prone like a giant corpse, its roots like entrails spilling out and dangling helplessly into the gaping, empty grave that once had been its home. The women and girls of the coven were gathering around and falling to their knees in grief at such a dreadful sight. They had thought this tree would outlive them all, as it had done for countless generations before them. They stroked its bark and gathered its needles, the ululating song of the eldest of the sisters a harrowing funereal dirge.

Later the whisperings began. It was their enemy of old again, the witches of the East.

“They wouldn't dare,” claimed one sister.

Another suspected the Southerners. She had heard they'd suffered a rot that attacked the heart of their trees and killed whole thickets in days. Perhaps they'd sent it here. Two of them went and inspected the center of the yew but reported back that it was healthy.

“It is an omen. An omen of disaster and ruin,” the blind one said.

The others hushed. They all looked to Raven. She held a piece of bark in one hand and the needles in the other and appeared to be divining a truth of great significance. Her eyes shut and her arms stretched out in supplication. The sisters waited silently. Then Raven spoke.

“It is the Eastern mountain clan. They struck the great tree to make us fear such an omen. For our future is golden. We have the next queen among us. And they mean to tarnish that.”

Sharp as a sword were the words, steely as truth. It was, Raven told herself, the most likely conclusion.

“We must have retribution,” a younger sister cried.

The voices rose around Raven and the talk turned to plots and schemes of reprisal against their bitter rivals. The Eastern sisters had fought with the Northern since long before the Hawkweed prophecy was first foretold, but the battles had escalated in more recent times. Three hundred and three years hence, the prophecy claimed. The day was drawing ever closer, and the enmity of other witches had heightened as they readied their own challengers to the throne.

Since Sorrel was a baby Raven had cloaked her daughter in protection. Much of her energy went into creating a barrier around Sorrel that magic couldn't penetrate. It took such focus and discipline that Raven had partitioned a corner of her mind to deal only with this. Such was the connection with Sorrel that Raven could sense and feel potential danger to her. This invisible shield made Sorrel seem and feel far stronger than she actually was while making Raven more tired and older than her actual years. The effort was so vast and relentless that it had sapped Raven's youth, drying and wrinkling her skin, hollowing her cheeks and stiffening her joints. But it had to be done. For even though there were those who scoffed and scorned at the prophecy, Raven knew that there were plenty who would kill to gain the throne for themselves.