The Hawkweed Prophecy

by Irena Brignull

  The pins and needles had started in Poppy’s feet, then crept up her legs until her body had become anaesthetized and stopped hurting altogether. She felt like she couldn’t move, even if she wanted to. The spiders had been watching her for a while now. They had appeared as if from nowhere, gathering like dark clouds upon the ceiling. Then they began spinning. So swiftly the webs took their spiral shape, lacing the air above. Then slowly the spiders lowered themselves like spies on silken threads to take a closer look at her. Poppy studied them back and thought how ludicrously long and thin their legs were, like they’d been sketched in pencil.

  Poppy was at Donna’s house, where she knew Leo couldn’t find her. Donna had given her a look of disappointment when she answered the door but had asked no questions and invited her in. She’d spent the night on the sofa again, unable to sleep, though she felt crippled with exhaustion. In the morning she’d told Donna she felt unwell.

  “You do look pale,” Donna had said and told her to go and lie down in Logan’s room.

  All day Poppy had stayed there, hiding from what must come next. Hour after hour she had laid on Logan’s little bed, her legs hanging over the end. She’d watched the light change through the thin curtain as the day passed. She’d felt the temperature slightly rise over the course of the morning and then fall back again as dusk drew near.

  Logan was back from school now. Poppy could hear him downstairs watching television. Part of her hoped neither he nor Donna would come in and see the infestation of spiders. Part of her just didn’t care. She had no one anymore. Not Melanie, nor Charlock, not her dad, nor Ember—and most of all, not Leo. With him, she could have managed without the rest of them, but now he was lost to her too. And he didn’t even know it yet.

  The spiders glided back up to the ceiling and began a new and more frenzied piece of sculpture. Working together, each one sewed a section of this new embroidery. Poppy waited as they worked so studiously and silently. When they finished, they swung to the moldings to reveal their masterpiece.

  Poppy stared. It was a bird. An ugly, evil-looking bird. So detailed was its image that it seemed to be in flight across the room, its wide wings outstretched, its sharp beak open, ready to swoop in for the kill. The adrenalin was automatic and acute. For the bird was unmistakably a predator and Poppy its victim. Poppy blinked once, twice, three times, then jumped to her feet.

  She was waiting downstairs, a hunched, crooked woman with a beaky nose and a long, thin braid that slid down her back like a snake. Poppy couldn’t tell how old the woman was, only how strong. The power radiated off her despite her slight and feeble frame.

  “Take a seat, child,” the woman told her. “Donna here is kindly making me a cup of tea.”

  “This is Mrs. Hawkweed, Poppy,” said Donna brightly.

  Poppy’s throat narrowed and she had to swallow to be able to breathe again. This woman that she couldn’t look at, that sent fear teeming through her, was her aunt. Ember had spoken of her with such awe. Raven, the most powerful witch in the clan.

  “Miss,” Raven corrected Donna.

  “I’m sorry,” Donna apologized and turned back to Poppy. “Miss Hawkweed found Logan outside on the street. He’d slipped right out from under my nose.”

  “The little minx,” Raven added, and Donna laughed.

  Poppy’s heart jumped in her chest, and before she had a chance to stop them, her eyes darted to her aunt’s and the look she encountered made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

  “It’s a dangerous world out there,” Raven said. “Don’t you agree, Poppy?”

  Poppy said nothing, but the fear hit her bladder so hard she had to clench it tight before she peed her pants.

  “Oh, yes,” said Donna, oblivious. “He could have been killed, perish the thought.” She put the tea down in front of Raven on the table. “We’re ever so grateful.”

  “Oh, it was the least I could do,” Raven said, but it was only Poppy who seemed to glean the menace in those words, for Donna was offering up a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. Raven shook her head and continued, “Children are the most precious of gifts, are they not?”

  “Oh, do you have children of your own, Miss Hawkweed?” asked Donna, taking a cookie for herself.

  “A daughter, much like Poppy here.”

  Poppy saw Donna’s cheeks flush. “Oh, I’m not Poppy’s mother,” she said hurriedly. “She’s from down south. Not been well.”

  Poppy felt the anger ignite inside of her. It gobbled up the fear like it was oxygen, and the heat made her brave. She shut her eyes and cast a rapid spell. Donna and Logan froze. Time stood still.

  “Nicely done,” Raven said.

  “It was you,” Poppy said. “You killed my cat.”

  “And I told you to go. And yet . . . ” Raven paused to pinch at the tiniest speck of a spider hanging in the air. “And yet you’re still here.” She flicked the crushed creature onto the floor. “The little spy,” she said with a thin smile that made Poppy want to recoil and look away.

  Poppy couldn’t do that, though. That would be a battle lost, so she kept her eyes fixed on Raven’s. Instead, she wished hard, as hard as she might, for Charlock. For her mother. She didn’t expect her silent cry of help to be heard or even responded to. She simply couldn’t think of anyone else to wish for.

  “The cat was a difficult catch. But these two, they’d be easy.” Raven gestured at Donna and Logan who stood there in mid-motion like strange, expressive waxworks. “The child, so young. Now, that would be a pity. As for that chaff you think you love, that boy you swoon over”—Raven made a face of disgust—“I’d enjoy hurting him.”

  Poppy gritted her teeth and dug her nails into her palms, tiny reflexes but Raven spotted them.

  “He’d suffer,” she reveled. “Oh, I’d make sure of that. Keep him conscious to the end. How he’d plead for his pitiful existence. A buck without his antlers, a cockerel without his crow.”

  Poppy was trembling now, her whole body fizzing with fear and rage. “Why?” she cried.

  Raven gave a condescending shake of her head. “Just leave. Be gone. There’s nothing here for you but trouble. Every one of them would be better off without you.”

  “You most of all,” Poppy spat. Raven’s stare was so acute that Poppy almost lost her nerve, but she rallied her voice and her words came strong and clear. “What have I ever done to you that you must come here and threaten me?”

  “Don’t test me, child. You have talent but you know little.”

  “And yet you fear me so?” Poppy challenged.

  Poppy felt the fury gather within Raven. “I should kill you now,” she threatened.

  “Why don’t you then?” said Poppy. “What’s stopping you?”

  Poppy waited to see if Raven would tell her about the blood they both shared, about the family roots that tied them. But Raven’s fury turned to ice, freezing any chance of such an admission. When she spoke, her voice was glacial.

  “I am giving you a chance. A last chance. Take it.”

  With a snap of her fingers she was gone, and Donna was biting into her cookie and Logan was watching the television again. Donna caught sight of Poppy standing there.

  “Oh, Poppy. There you are. You feeling better?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I don’t love you.

  Charlock said to write it like she meant it.

  I don’t love you.

  Use your magic, she said. With it, you can make him believe anything. Even this.

  I don’t love you.

  But Poppy’s hands were trembling.

  I don’t love you.

  Her head was hollow, the words bouncing off bone, echoing around her mind.

  I don’t love you.

  There was no magic to be mustered.

  I don’t love you.

  Until the ink began to weep.

  I don’t love you.

  And the sentence sizzled.

  I don’t love you.

  And each
vowel and consonant burned their shape right through the paper.

  Magic.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It was for their own good. At least that’s what Sorrel and Ember were told when they complained about their captivity. Hot on the heels of the queen’s news came reports that other clans were on the move and heading in their direction. Last night’s jubilation was quickly dampened by worry. The sisters took to their beds with a confusing mix of emotions and awoke certain of one thing: they must be vigilant. Rumors were rustling through the camp like a whispering wind sent across the seas from faraway lands. Rumors of spite and spells sent to hurt them. Rumors of other heirs to the throne, other young witches with extraordinary powers. Rumors of plans to wound and weaken the Hawkweeds before their queen was proclaimed.

  The stories grew fatter and juicier with each telling, dripping their poison into ear after ear. The elders called for calm but even they seemed uneasy. You could see it in their stance and hear it in their voices. Even the very air felt heavy with foreboding. The trees stooped with the tension. The hens weren’t laying and the goats’ milk was thin and watery.

  After breakfast Sorrel and Ember were told they must stay within the camp’s circle. Every sister was instructed to watch that neither of them took a step beyond its protection. Since then Sorrel had worn an even sourer expression than usual, and when Ember tried to pick up their friendship from where Sorrel had left it, she found her advances rejected. Sorrel just looked straight through her and turned away.

  So Ember was back where she started—all alone. Having tasted the sweetness and spice of friendship with Poppy, Leo, and even Sorrel, her loneliness was far sharper than she remembered. She looked to her mother for comfort, but even she, always so serene, now seemed distracted and jittery. Ember could tell Charlock was only listening to her with one ear while the other strained for snatches of conversations going on throughout the rest of the camp. Charlock wasn’t looking straight at her either, her eyes wandering over Ember’s head, scanning around in constant apprehension. Later Ember heard Charlock curse as she burned herself on the stove, then again as she tripped on the path. By lunch a sty had formed in Charlock’s eye so she had to bandage a chamomile compress to it and now looked like she’d been attacked. Even to Ember, who had never mastered reading the auguries, none of this boded well.

  “Do you think the Eastern clan have put a hex on you?” she asked her mother late that afternoon as they sat, both of them with bowls of cream under one arm while the other arm whipped vigorously until the yellow butter formed.

  “Hush, child,” Charlock cautioned. “There’s still such a thing as bad luck, you know.”

  “I heard Sister Mabel say that they’d been sighted and they were traveling north.”

  “And I suppose Sister Mabel saw them with her very own eyes?”

  Ember shrugged. Her forearm was aching, the muscles in it pushing through her skin.

  “Keep whisking, Ember. This is no time for idleness.”

  “I don’t see how more butter is going to help Sorrel.”

  “Busy hands make less mischief.”

  Ember flexed her fingers, then gripped the whisk once more, bowing her head to her work. The cream was at last thickening and she longed to dip her finger into its clouds and suck on its sweetness. To stop herself, she drew her mind back to their conversation.

  “Are you scared of them? The Eastern clan?”

  “I am scared of anyone with hate in their heart.”

  “That makes a multitude.”

  “Indeed it does.”

  “Why do they hate us so?”

  “All the clans, even the ones we considered friends, turned against us when the prophecy was told. The Eastern clan is just the biggest and the strongest. And an Eastern sister has yet to be queen. It is their turn—their right, they believe—to be chosen next.”

  Ember paused before asking another question. Her mother had never been so forthcoming before, and she wasn’t sure whether to press on and capture the moment or be gentle in case she broke it.

  “Do you ever wish I could be queen?”

  “No.” Charlock’s voice rang true and certain.

  “Why not?”

  “You are made for happier things.”

  “And Sorrel isn’t?”

  Charlock tutted under her breath but didn’t answer.

  “If only this queen would hurry up and die, then everyone would know for sure about Sorrel,” Ember muttered.

  “Ember Hawkweed—that is treason!” Charlock seemed genuinely aghast.

  “I’m just saying what everyone is thinking. Just before the queen dies, Sorrel’s name will appear on the stone and all argument will cease.”

  “There may be days before that happens.”

  Ember glanced at her mother and asked what she had wanted to ask all along. “The Eastern clan—what if they think I could be queen . . . what if they don’t know Sorrel is the one and they are coming to hurt me?”

  Charlock stopped whisking and looked up from her bowl. She answered slowly but surely. “You mustn’t fret, child. It is Sorrel who is in their sights. But best be cautious nonetheless.”

  For a second the lack of threat—the lack of any interest from anyone—stung Ember, but the pain rapidly turned to relief. Then suddenly she was grinning with surprise.

  “Look!” she announced happily, holding up her bowl. “The butter’s ready.”

  Charlock smiled her praise. “Go and drain the buttermilk into the jar. Then rinse the butter well, better than last time!”

  “Is yours not ready?” Ember asked, realizing her mother was still whisking. “I’m never first to finish.”

  They both peered into Charlock’s bowl and then, before their eyes, the cream turned dark as charcoal.

  Ember screamed as Charlock stared, struck dumb with shock. “Mother!” Ember cried. “Mother! What is it?”

  Charlock got to her feet and grabbed her shawl. “Throw this away. Don’t let anyone see.”

  “Where are you going?” Ember asked, the fear crawling across her skin.

  “You are safe here but I must hurry.” Charlock’s hand was on the door when she turned around, “Tell no one, Ember. Promise me.”

  Ember nodded, then glanced down at the black bowl, wondering how she was ever going to touch something so vile. When she looked up, her mother was gone.

  Sorrel knew where Ember was going when she alerted the others. It was immensely pleasurable to see her cousin stopped in her tracks as she was hurrying off to meet the boy. Sister Ada had Ember’s ear between her bony fingers and Ember was wincing from the pain. Her cheeks were smarting too from the shame of it, being dragged through the camp and sat on the tree stump where usually the little ones were sent for punishment. The sisters had all gathered around Ember, their voices shrill with anger as they demanded to know what she’d been thinking and where she was off to and hadn’t she heard the morning’s instructions and did she think nothing of her safety.

  Sorrel knew this was her chance and she took it stealthily. With all eyes on the humiliated Ember, Sorrel crept from the crowd, backing away to the edge of the camp. No one spied her and called the alarm, no voice shouted her name, no arm came out to seize her. It felt all too easy. As she stepped through the boulders and beyond the circle, Sorrel expected the crows to caw and the foxes to bark their hideous cry. But the forest seemed oblivious to her presence and off she ran, looking for the softest places to tread, moving as swiftly and silently as she could. She knew how fortunate she was that her mother was away scouting for news of the Eastern clan. And her aunt seemed to have disappeared also, perhaps to barter or comb for those supplies that the coven couldn’t produce themselves. In any event, it was a rare day to have both of them absent at the same hour.

  Charlock would not be happy to hear about Ember’s exploits, Sorrel thought gleefully to herself, feeling the wind on her back, urging her forward. She almost laughed out loud with the thrill of her escape, revel
ing in the notion that it would be she, and not her cousin, who would find the boy. Perhaps this time she might show herself and say a word. She might shake his hand as she’d seen the chaffs do. She might tell him her name and hear his in return.

  A queen could never do such a thing. A queen could never even contemplate it. If there were a last chance for a moment of freedom, this was it.

  Sorrel wove her way through the trees, marveling at how fast she could travel when there was strong reason to. The hills soon stretched before her and there, nestling in their breast, were the sparkling lights of the town, beckoning her closer.

  It took her some time to find him. The night air stung with cold, and the homeless were huddled in shelters and not at their usual street-side posts. It was when Sorrel was passing the church that she sensed him. The wind was whistling through the graveyard and Sorrel stopped to hear it. Led by its gusts, she passed among the headstones, each as varied as their inhabitants once were—old and crumbling, young and gleaming, tall and short, light and dark. But below they were all the same now. Bone and skull. Row upon row of skeletons lining up for the afterlife.

  Even in death, the chaffs must attempt order, thought Sorrel. She came to the wall and waited, wondering if she had followed the wrong lead. Then she looked up at the dark cloud swirling against the cobalt sky. Coming to her aid, the moon appeared for an instant and a blast of wind caused a sudden bang. Sorrel turned and saw the garden door illuminated and knocking gently against its frame.

  The boy was sitting before a tiny makeshift grave. Sorrel tried but couldn’t sense the person buried there. She puzzled at who might be laid within that the boy might visit on such an unforgiving night as this. Then, in his hand, she saw a letter. The boy held it up and looked at it, feeling the folded paper under his fingers, turning it in his hands. Just one light sheet but so heavy with significance. The boy feared its contents, that much was clear. Once read, the words could never be unread. Open it, thought Sorrel impatiently. But still the boy just sat there, postponing the moment. Open it, Sorrel urged, longing to say the words out loud, to scream them. But he didn’t dare.