“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.”
CHAPTER THREE
It 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.
As they walked back to the caravan, Charlock stayed silent. Ember could tell she was too enraged to talk and knew her anger wasn’t just directed at Sorrel and the others but at her also. She had let her mother down once again. Later, to try to make amends, Ember would cook the supper with the vegetables she’d dug from their patch and brew some tea with the mint she’d gathered, sweetening it with the last of the honeycomb just as she knew her mother liked it. It was far from magic and took no special skill or power, but it was the best that Ember could do.
CHAPTER FOUR
There was a bee buzzing in her brain. At least that’s what if felt like. It happened from time to time, unexpectedly and without warning, like Poppy’s frequency to the world shifted and all she could hear was static. This time was worse than ever, though. Poppy tried lying down and shutting her eyes, but that just raised the volume. Her room, this house, this town—all of them felt stifling. Her father was out. Poppy didn’t know where, only that it was the weekend and she was alone and that the empty house wasn’t empty enough. She needed to move, to breathe.
She took the quickest route out of town. She walked so fast and with such focus that she didn’t notice how the buildings were thinning out and how the pavement had become a verge, grassy and nettled. She climbed a gate into a field. Up the hillside she strode, toward the forest that rose like a giant fortress guarding whatever hid within. According to her father’s map, the ocean lay beyond these trees that stretched
high and wide for miles and miles, an uninhabitable and inhospitable expanse of land that people left well alone.
As she traveled, Poppy was tuning in and out of various sounds as if trying and failing to receive a message. All of a sudden the noise got so sharp—like nails on a blackboard—that Poppy put her hands to her ears, forgetting the sound was within not without. She crouched to the ground, making herself small as though that might minimize the pain. Rocking back and forth on her heels, Poppy made her ears search for other, better sounds. The call of the birds in the sky; the wind sweeping through the grasses, jangling the buckles on her boots; the distant lowing of the cows—as this medley came to the fore, the buzzing became a background track, and Poppy could once more raise her head and open her eyes.
Her vision was blurred at first, so she had to squint to see the animal as it approached her. Poppy rubbed her eyes in dizzy disbelief, but forward it came, and then Poppy realized it was real—a real hare: long legs, thin face, twitching nose and whiskers. The hare tipped its head to one side quizzically. Then it nodded in the direction of the forest. It took a few steps and looked back at Poppy, waiting. Poppy turned toward the town, as if to check it was still there, gray as ashes in the glossy green. The hare bounded forward in a sudden leap to recapture Poppy’s attention. Again it stopped and seemed to beckon her. Poppy stumbled to her feet and felt her head spin. The hare twitched impatiently.
“Okay, okay,” Poppy grumbled. “I’m coming.”
She followed the hare all the way to a steep dip in the forest floor. It wasn’t far into the woodland, but the dell appeared unexpectedly. Even more surprisingly, this tiny valley was not just full of trees but, in amongst them, old furniture and rusting household machinery lay cluttered and upended. Even if her head weren’t so muddled, Poppy knew this image would still look surreal.
The Hawkweed Prophecy Page 3