The Hawkweed Prophecy

by Irena Brignull

  “I don’t believe in that stuff,” Leo went on. “But I like the idea, I guess.”

  “I like it too,” said Poppy softly. She offered it back to him, but he shook his head.

  “It’s for you.” He smiled shyly.

  Poppy felt the tears prick unexpectedly in the back of her eyes. “I can’t take this—she gave it to you to show how much she loved you.”

  Leo nodded. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m giving it to you.”

  They kissed before she left, long and hard and urgent. Poppy tried to dismiss the idea, but it felt like good-bye and she knew Leo felt it too by the way he held her, not wanting to let her go.

  “Come back to me,” he whispered.

  The hint of panic in his voice was there more unmistakably in his eyes. Poppy wondered how she was ever going to leave—and then it began to snow.

  The flakes weren’t fleecy or soft. They hardly seemed made of snow, more like cut glass. Spiky symmetrical perfect patterns that caught in Poppy’s hair like elaborate decorations and sparkled on Leo’s lashes. Leo gazed up at them, and Poppy saw the panic in his eyes had gone, replaced only by wonder.

  Poppy found her way to the coven by instinct, letting her feet carry her where they willed. She had no idea of the route she was taking or how she’d get home. It felt like she had walked in circles, covering the same ground, yet traveling deep into the forest where the terrain was harsh and inhospitable. The snowfall hadn’t lasted long enough to settle, but Poppy’s boots were wet and muddy from crossing brooks and squelching through burping bogs. Her clothes were ripped by bushes so thorny that she’d left threads dangling from them. She realized early on that it was impossible for anyone to reach the coven without leaving some trace of themselves. Her footprints were everywhere, as was her trail of snapped twigs and broken ferns. Poppy hoped these clues might guide her way back.

  The camp was hidden behind boulders that towered above Poppy’s head like misshapen totems. Poppy gazed up at them and wondered at the age of their existence. It felt like they had been there since the beginning of time. She knew the coven must lie beyond them, so she walked around and around until an opening became clear to her.

  Once inside, the low, dim light of the forest seemed to brighten. From behind a tree Poppy peered at the scene before her. There were caravans scattered about here and there with no sense of planning or geography. They blended into the surroundings, their wood matching the bark of the trees, strands of ivy wending their way across them. These homes seemed to have sprouted from the ground just like the plants that grew wild around them.

  Closer to Poppy were wooden barrels, some full of water, others heavy with compost. Further off she noted a collection of beehives, and in another area stood a large brick oven with fire pits dug into the ground close by and grated with metal spits. Chicken and geese moved about freely, clucking and honking in constant conversation. A horse trotted through them, unharnessed and wild, and a bell jingled from a goat that was tethered to a tree. It was being milked by a woman—a witch, Poppy reminded herself. Poppy could only see the back of her, but she could just make out the faces of others who were walking about the camp, all busy with a job to do—carrying pails, or heaps of clothes, or bundles of kindling. Their clothes were much like Ember’s, but that was the only likeness. Their hair was dark, and even at a distance they appeared stronger and coarser. It was no wonder Ember had felt an outsider, Poppy thought to herself, and her eyes scanned the camp again for any sight of her friend.

  Suddenly a donkey brayed and Poppy jumped. Then an arm pulled at Poppy’s elbow, dragging her back behind a boulder, and she looked up to see Charlock’s disapproving face. Poppy angrily shook her arm free. Neither of them uttered a sound and, as the seconds ticked past, Poppy felt her temper easing. When it had subsided altogether, Charlock finally spoke.

  “Don’t tell her,” was all she said.

  Poppy felt the surprise streak through her. “Why not?” was all she replied.

  Charlock shut her eyes as though deciding on something difficult. “He cannot be yours.”

  Poppy recoiled from the truth she saw in Charlock’s eyes. She shook her head and tried to speak. “No,” was all the objection she could manage.

  Charlock stood as still as the silvery stone beside her and watched. Poppy’s mind started to crack with fear. Desperately she tried to fill the holes with something concrete. When she was stable enough, she raised her chin and looked Charlock in the eye.

  “I love him,” she pronounced rebelliously.

  Charlock gave a weary sigh. “What about Ember?”

  “I don’t want to hurt her.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “She needs to know.”

  “She needs nothing of the sort.”

  Poppy felt the tears rising behind her lids. “I’m your daughter too,” she cried.

  Charlock took Poppy’s hands in hers and Poppy stared at them—one pair older, browner, the other paler, younger, but the same hands.

  “I know,” Charlock said softly, like she cared. “Which is why I’m trying to help you.”

  So tender were the words that Poppy looked up into Charlock’s eyes willingly, even hopefully.

  But the words that followed were sharp, like razors cutting at her wrists.

  “You are to be queen.”

  Metal on flesh.

  “It is prophesied.”

  The blade pressing down.

  “A queen can never mate. The chaff will die.”

  Slash.

  “Their hearts break. The boy you love. It’s already started. The arteries hardening, closing.”

  Slash.

  “The longer you stay with him, the faster it will go. If you do not leave him, he will die.”

  Poppy tried to shake her head but it was her legs that shook. She tried not to believe, to walk away, but her legs would not carry her.

  “I’m not a queen,” she whispered.

  “Not yet. But you will be soon,” said Charlock.

  “I won’t do it then. I won’t. You can’t make me,” Poppy argued, her voice raising uncontrollably.

  “It’s not a choice,” Charlock stated firmly.

  Poppy’s head was shaking now, along with the rest of her, wanting to rid herself of Charlock’s words. But more were to come.

  “You’ll kill him,” Charlock repeated.

  And with that, the last of Poppy’s hopefulness bled away.

  She couldn’t remember much of what followed in the moments after that. She knew she had vomited because she could still taste the sour sickness in her mouth. Charlock had been talking, touching, guiding her, but Poppy couldn’t recall the words or the feeling. Here she was now, on the fringes of the forest, her feet firmly on the path home, Charlock pointing the way. Poppy’s face burned as she remembered her night with Leo—how she’d wanted to go further and how he’d resisted.

  “You don’t have to protect my honor, you know,” she had whispered with a smile.

  “I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret,” he’d said.

  Poppy gave a loud sob and felt the bile rise up again from inside of her. Charlock swept her fingers gently across Poppy’s forehead. It was soothing as Poppy always imagined a mother’s touch should be. Poppy closed her eyes in despair.

  “Tell no one who you are, that we’ve met. Not a word. And don’t come looking for me,” she heard Charlock say, and Poppy squeezed her eyes tighter shut so the tears wouldn’t spill. “It isn’t safe.”

  “How long have you known about me?” Poppy croaked.

  “I’ve always known about Ember. Even when she was a baby, I felt it, that she wasn’t my flesh and blood.” Poppy’s eyes opened and she looked at Charlock to verify the truth, though she already knew she was not lying. “I’m no fool,” Charlock continued. “Despite what others may think. I love Ember, though, as my own.”

  Poppy searched Charlock’s face for some clue to her affections, but her features were unre
adable. If there was any love for Poppy within her, even the mildest sympathy, it was tightly kept in check.

  “What about me?” Poppy wailed, and now the tears came gushing. “You’re my mother. You’re supposed to love me.”

  “I’m supposed to keep you safe,” Charlock replied quickly, her voice harsh and dry. “The first day you came to the dell . . . so close, I could have seen you, talked to you, I could have told you everything . . . but then there would be no hiding you and they would come for you and they would destroy you.”

  “Who?” Poppy asked, the fear rippling through her as she remembered Minx and the unseen enemy who had inflicted all those injuries upon her.

  “The ones who took you from me.”

  Poppy blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “The prophecy. ‘In three hundred and three years hence, the Hawkweed sisters will yield a daughter who will govern all her kind.’ So it is told. You are to be queen. Your enemies are manifold. And you are untaught and unpracticed, despite your power. The time will come to reveal yourself, but it is not now. Not yet.”

  There was such a force to Charlock’s words, but still her face betrayed none of the passion that left her lips. Poppy looked away. She wanted to laugh it off, to mock it all as silly superstition. She wanted to find Leo and curl back into his embrace and pretend that none of this had happened.

  “It is better not to know, is it not?” Charlock stated, and Poppy realized why she had kept her away and in the dark for so long. The truth was too big and brutal. It hurt to even hear it. “It is better for you. It is better for Ember. And for the boy.”

  “But he has no family.”

  “He will have Ember. They will take care of each other. This I think you understand already.”

  Poppy felt the last of her energy leave her. It took everything she had simply to stay on her feet. She leaned against a tree, feeling its rough bark against her back. How many winters had it weathered, how many storms had shaken it to its roots and it was still standing? Poppy thought of Leo, of all the hardships he’d suffered in his life and how he’d grown up so strong despite them. He was a survivor. He will survive me, Poppy thought, and somehow her back straightened and her legs moved and she started walking.

  As soon as Charlock entered the camp, she sensed the atmosphere had changed. The energy was electric, and she could feel the excitement surging through the air, touching her and tingling on her skin. Voices were ringing out, high and choral with elation. Arms and skirts were aflutter. Sisters were turning from one to another in a quick, light-footed dance. It was Ember who skipped toward her and told her the news.

  “The queen is dying!” Ember’s face shone with delight, her eyes wide and pupils large as though she were intoxicated.

  Charlock glanced around and saw others were struck with the same fever. She felt a moment of shame that the great witch’s demise could be received with such euphoria. Then Raven touched her arm. Charlock couldn’t remember the last time she and her sister shared a physical contact. In a flash it took her back to their girlhood and it made her spirits sink even further to think how times had changed them.

  “There were those who doubted. But the prophecy—it’s coming true, sister.”

  Raven spoke so evangelically that Charlock wanted to wince. She stopped herself, of course. Instead, she muzzled her mind and emptied her eyes as she always did when looking directly at Raven.

  “It is as you always said it would be,” she responded graciously. “Is Sorrel prepared?”

  “I’ve told her to go and change into her best.”

  “It’s what you’ve both been waiting for. She will be ready. Now, I myself must go and prepare for such a big occasion.”

  Having dismissed herself, Charlock hastened away. The secrets that swam soundless in her stomach were swirling and swishing, making her want to scream. She thought of Poppy and the wounds she’d inflicted on her own child. The girl had stayed so silent, so accepting. Charlock had expected argument and tears, but this had been far worse. She had underestimated her child’s feelings for the boy. She should have delivered her message with more care. She should have shown her that it came with a mother’s love.

  But her love for Poppy had been held captive for a lifetime, deep within the pit of her being, and it felt too dangerous to release it. Over the years the love had begged to be let out. It had bashed against its bars and clamored against its confinement, only for Charlock to tighten the locks and block out the cries. She couldn’t risk freeing it now. Instead, she had reported the news about the boy as calmly and clearly as she was able, knowing, all the while, it had to be done.

  The throne was Poppy’s destiny. The boy would be her downfall. He was not her fate, just a fleeting fancy that, in years to come, Poppy would be grateful to have escaped the consequences of. And yet the look on her face when she’d heard the news. Charlock had watched a part of her daughter die this day. For the throne, she reminded herself. To be queen.

  “It had to be done.” This was Charlock’s mantra, the code by which she lived. She had known for many years now the lengths a mother would go to for her child, the lines she would cross, the hurt she would endure. She had left her baby in another’s care. She had let her be raised by chaffs. She had learned of Poppy’s presence in the town, her need for a mother, for identity, and yet she had withheld herself, keeping hidden. One motive was pure—survival. The other malign and murky—ambition. Charlock felt it like a tumor inside of her, growing and thriving as the years passed, feeding on her integrity.

  As her guts tightened and twisted, Charlock hurried faster to the bathrooms. Her mind raced more quickly than her legs. What if . . . what if? . . . it asked. What if all those years before she’d spoken out? This baby is not mine, she could have said. What if Poppy had been found? What if she’d come home?

  Charlock knew the answers all too well, and yet the questions hounded her still. She never knew which enemy had taken her baby from her, only that there were too many to choose from. Too many threatened clans. Too many jealous witches. Too many heirs apparent.

  So many times she had thought of confiding in Raven. Raven could fix anything. But the sense was too strong, too nagging to ignore. Bring your daughter home and you will lose her again, it said. Those who took her will come after her once more. Think of Ember, it reminded. The clan will expel her if they know the truth, and for such a sweet but feeble child, that would be a death sentence.

  With a grimace, Charlock squatted down low over the hole in the slatted ground and let her bowels spill and splutter. She breathed deeply, calming her nerves, telling herself to be patient—just a little while longer. Both girls were safe for now. The pain eased as Charlock’s innards emptied, releasing with the waste all the fear that had been bubbling there. As she straightened and pulled down her skirts, she could hear the ovation as Sorrel made her appearance.

  The cheers roused Charlock. Let them think what they will, she thought to herself. She knew better. It was her daughter who was taken. Not Raven’s. It was Poppy who was feared. Not Sorrel. Charlock knew it to be true, just as she knew the earth lay beneath her feet and the sky above her head—it was she who had produced the chosen one.

  Sorrel was chewing the side of her mouth jagged when she caught her mother’s eye and immediately stopped. She’d received that very same look all through her childhood when she used to chew the ends of her braid. She’d nearly died from the ball of hair that had amassed and lodged in her throat. She remembered the sensation of choking, of gasping for breath. She felt a little like that now—that something was blocking her airways, that however hard she tried, she couldn’t get enough air inside her lungs.

  Sorrel looked around at the crowd flocking to her. All the sisters were there, young and old, even the infirm leaning on their sticks and the infants being held up to catch sight of her. Sorrel caught her Aunt Charlock’s eye, her face tranquil as usual, as though nothing could ever trouble her too badly. Charlock smiled in encourag
ement, and Sorrel felt instant gratitude. But then she saw Ember there beside her, so beautiful in her happiness that Sorrel’s teeth gnawed at her cheek once more.

  “Look at the new queen,” she heard a voice utter so reverently, as if the crown were already on her head.

  A hand reached out to touch her skirt. Then another. It’s only me, Sorrel wished she could remind them. But she kept silent, putting one foot in front of the other, moving forward to the designated spot, a circle scorched into the earth in preparation for this day.

  The sisters joined hands to form a ring around her, behind them another band, and another that Sorrel was too short to see. They bowed their heads and hummed. One note, so soft at first, but then increasing in volume until it sounded like a giant whirring insect was in their midst. Sorrel felt the vibrations in the fabric of her clothes, in the hairs on her body that began to rise, and in her bones that suddenly felt light and hollow.

  Ever so slowly, she ascended. Sorrel had heard of levitation but never dreamed she would experience it. Raised up by their voices, she lifted higher and higher into the air, until she hovered high above their heads among the trees. She stretched her arms out into the tangerine sky. Silhouetted against the sunset, she stayed suspended there, all the sisters so far below, their upturned faces gazing at her in awe.

  Sorrel looked out over the trees and thought of the ancient queen across the waters lying on her deathbed of drying flowers. She would have had a day like this among her clan. She was a young woman once, heralded and raised up so high. That was over a hundred years ago. Sorrel’s clan had waited so long for this day to come. Her own life had been mere incubation for now. In a matter of days she would be queen. This was her true beginning, Sorrel realized with a rush that seemed to elevate her further.

  She shut her eyes and let herself breathe freely.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Poppy let the spider crawl across her face. In her numbed state, she was vaguely curious to experience what it felt like. Yet even as the tiny feet tickled across her cheek and over her nose, tiptoeing onto her eyelid and through her brow, Poppy felt so detached from her body that it could have been someone else’s face the spider was touching. She was supposed to write Leo a letter but hadn’t found the energy either to fetch the paper or to pick up a pen. Charlock had given her strict instructions, but the longer Poppy procrastinated, the longer it wasn’t over, the longer Leo could be happy and she could pretend. So she had laid down and waited, with absolutely no idea what she was waiting for.