The Hawkweed Prophecy

by Irena Brignull

  Sorrel concentrated her mind and breathed slow and deep. As she exhaled, a breeze flurried around her. She sent it to the boy and it whipped around him, trying to pull the letter from his hands. The boy held it tightly, and when the wind tugged the paper from his grasp, he reached up and grabbed it with both hands. The gust gathered force and snatched the letter away, carrying it up and around so the boy was on his feet, running after it, turning and jumping for it. Sorrel smiled at this little jig and then, when she’d tired of seeing the boy leaping this way and that so foolishly, she had the air flutter the paper open and let it land in his hands.

  The boy looked to the skies and shouted, “So you want me to read it, do you?” For a moment Sorrel felt a tinge of trepidation that he had somehow seen her, but his eyes were looking crazily up at the sky and then he cried out, “You can’t come tell me yourself?” and she knew it was the letter’s author he was berating. The boy held the letter up before his eyes. “Okay, I’m reading it. Happy now?”

  Sorrel quieted her mind and let the wind soften. The boy shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked at the words sprawled across the paper. Sorrel could see his pupils moving across the lines and she could feel it when the shock came. So strong it was that the tremors shot all the way through his body and into the ground, pulsing across the earth until she felt them for herself in the soles of her feet.

  The boy read again and again and again, as though searching for some way to understand or hoping the meaning might change. Sorrel wanted to take the offending paper away. She wanted to start over and shake his hand and introduce herself. But then the boy fell to his knees and bowed his head low until it touched the earth. The paper crumpled in his fist and smudged in the wet, dark soil. The rain came of its own accord, pattering down on the both of them. The boy stayed curled up like that for a while, and when he raised his body, he unclenched his hand and looked at the paper, now sodden and torn, the blue ink smeared and running down it in tiny rivulets, washing the words away.

  When he finally moved away, it was with purpose. His face was set hard into a single, unchanging expression. Through the town he strode, pulling open the doors to the bars and pubs, scouring the rooms intently, then slamming the doors behind him when he failed to find whom he was seeking. Sorrel watched from a distance, safe from view, as the boy never looked back, only forward, striking place after place on his hunt.

  Sorrel’s curiosity grew with every stop on the route. At first she felt a dread that it was Ember whom the boy was after. That lasted but a second. The other girl? Sorrel speculated. Had she written the letter? It was exciting, all this intrigue. As she waited in suspense for the boy to reappear, she became aware that she was enjoying herself, and with this came the realization of how rare it was for her to feel so entertained.

  Then the door opened and Sorrel almost gasped with surprise. She hadn’t seen it coming, though how obvious the boy’s objective seemed now that it was revealed. The men’s ugly features were twisted with delight at his appearance as their thick arms gripped him, pulling him and pushing him onto the pavement.

  How could I have failed to anticipate this? Sorrel scolded herself. The boy’s shock, the hurt, the need to lash out, the need for it to end. If Sorrel had been less fixated on the girls, if she had kept her mind at least ajar, she might have seen what was coming and been able to prevent it. Now she had to stay hidden in the shadows and wait until it was over. Part of her wanted to cast a spell, to magic the boy away, or armor him, or paralyze them. But the other part of her wanted to keep on viewing, appalled as she was by her own gratification. So she remained in her place, an audience watching as an evening’s drama turned to tragedy.

  Finally Sorrel could look no longer. The scene went on too long and, with it, the thrill of the fight abated. Even when the boy had stopped fighting back, even when he was broken and unconscious, still they battered him. Sorrel shut her eyes, but she could hear the ribs cracking and the thud of the back of his head on the paving stones and the voices of those pigs—that was the worst—squealing their excitement. She shrunk away and felt the brick of a building against her back. Wrapping her cloak around her, she hung her head in mortification.

  Why have I come here? she questioned herself. A queen come for a boy? She was about to go when the attackers pulled back and left him there, splayed out on the ground, his body twisted and his face no longer his own. Even then Sorrel thought of leaving, knowing that no part of him was for any part of her. The show was over. Now that she saw the boy in pieces, she could hardly picture him whole. As she stepped closer toward him, she wondered how and why she could ever have held him in such thrall. Pleasure rippled through her, such was the relief she felt to be free of him. For with him went the jealousy, the insecurity too. She thought of Ember’s beauty and found she no longer cared.

  Then she thought of being queen, and for the first time, her fear had gone. Testing out her newfound liberty, she stooped down beside the boy and looked closely at the wreckage. His face was swollen and bumps bulged from his skin. Bruises were blossoming darkly, patterning his body. His nose was dented and a thick gash streaked his eyebrow. Sorrel searched for signs of his old looks but found none. Suddenly pity sprung up inside of her. She took his hand, limp and cold, in hers and shook it.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Sorrel.”

  He did not stir. Sorrel sighed and opened the satchel at her side. From it she produced a cloth and lotion with which to clean his wounds. When she touched him, it was like touching any other. Just skin and flesh and skeleton. She lifted a tiny vial to the boy’s mouth and let the tonic seep between his cut lips. It must have stung, for he stirred. That was a good sign, she thought, and she spoke to him again to try to keep him awake.

  “It’s for the pain. It will help, you’ll see.”

  The boy tried to open his eyes, but they were swollen shut. “Who are you?” His voice came croaked and cracked.

  Sorrel looked down on him, so mangled and mutilated. “It’s Ember,” she said, because she knew she could.

  “Poppy?” he murmured softly.

  Sorrel felt her face tighten.

  “Poppy?” he moaned, writhing as he became more aware of his injuries.

  Sorrel poured the last few drops from the vial onto his lips. “It’s me,” she told him comfortingly, touching his brow. “I’m taking care of you.”

  His eyelids strained to open and he squinted up at her. “Poppy,” he whispered. “Don’t ever leave me,” he sighed before sinking back into senseless sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The girl hadn’t gone yet, but Raven hadn’t given up hope she would heed her words. The girl’s powers seemed to have diminished in the last few hours. Raven could feel it, all the way from the camp, like the child was giving up on herself and letting the magic ebb away. For any witch, it took effort to stay strong. The girl had slumped into some kind of inertia that made Raven wish she had confronted her sooner. She had never guessed her words would have such a devastating effect.

  Nonetheless, Raven prepared the potion. The accounts of the queen’s fading had been confirmed, and Raven had returned to camp and immediately set to work. The other sisters had tried to speak with her about her niece but Raven had brushed them away irritably, demanding no interruptions. She had locked herself in the storeroom without even passing by her caravan to greet her own daughter. She had work to do and her mind was set upon it. She could not see or think of anything else. If the girl was not gone by daybreak, Raven would destroy her. As yet, the secret of this child’s identity was still tied only to her, but Raven could feel the truth unknotting itself further with every minute that passed. She had done everything in her power not to resort to murdering her own kin, but the queen’s death was drawing near and nothing could be allowed to get in the way of Sorrel’s coronation.

  It was an evil brew and smelled as such. Raven’s eyes burned and her nostrils ran as the steam hit her face. Once ingested, the dark liquid would
not stop the heart but slow it, so there would be no awakening from the coma. Still, Raven was determined to avoid the blunt instrument of murder. This poison required the most skilled sleight of hand and an exhaustive knowledge of the craft. Lobelia formed the base. Then hellebore, bloodroot, and apple seed. Added to that, the tiniest fraction of hemlock, juniper, mistletoe, and nutmeg. Only one ingredient was missing. Sap from a fig tree. There was one such tree that stood in the furthest corner of the orchard, pining for sunnier climes, a sickly slip of a sapling that shivered so from the winter’s chill that even summer’s rays could not revive it. It had never borne much fruit. Now, thought Raven, finally it will serve some use. Before she left, she bent over her potion and whispered to it a wish, a spell, a curse—all three in one.

  Sleep a century’s sleep

  Slumber silent deep

  No disturbance wake

  Or spell ever break

  Sleep a century’s sleep.

  Then she gathered her skirts and hurried from the caravan, shutting the door behind her, searching through the darkness for that sad and lonely tree.

  Sorrel knew there had to be trouble awaiting her. Raven would have returned by now and discovered her absence. Her fury would be mounting by the moment. Sorrel wasn’t sure whether to hurry to stem the tide of her mother’s anger or to slow down and delay being drenched by her wrath. For Sorrel had stayed longer in the town than she had meant to. She had dragged the boy to an alleyway and hidden him in the shadows there, patching him up as best she could and only leaving when she felt he would survive. When she departed, she knew she would not be seeing him again.

  She took one last look, then headed out of town.

  Suddenly Sorrel heard a rustling in the grass. Footsteps, she presumed. It must be her mother coming to track her down. Who else would be so far from home at this time of night? Her heart sank but she called out in greeting, “Mother?” Her voice sung clear on the silky air. “Is that you?”

  There was no reply, just the echoes of her words against the hills. Perhaps her ears had deceived her.

  Then Sorrel saw them—a pair of bright yellow eyes, gleaming fierce with ill intent. The fear she felt was shockingly quick and violent. She started to run. She could hear panting behind her. She could feel breath on her back.

  Mother! she thought desperately. I need you!

  The blow was hard to her back, knocking her to the ground. She hadn’t time to brace her fall and she landed face-first. Her teeth cracked as they hit a stone and she felt them shatter to grit in her mouth. She turned around and found those searing eyes were pinned upon her. Others were appearing like searchlights glowing through the night, catching her in their beams.

  Cats, they were, but like none that Sorrel had ever seen before. They looked like panthers, only larger, their faces wide and strong, their teeth like tusks. Every one of them was black, so their eyes shone out all the more. Their limbs were heavy with muscle and their paws were the size of Sorrel’s hand. Sniffing the air, noses twitching, they closed in on her. Sorrel’s hand went to her head. It was bleeding.

  “What do you want with me?” she asked defiantly.

  The first of them, her pursuer, put its nose to her neck. It felt warm and soft, nuzzling her, inhaling her scent. When the creature pulled back, Sorrel could see the flecks of gold in its eyes. Then it lunged, quick as a flash, and bit into her bicep. Sorrel screamed with the agony of it and clutched her arm. The creature seemed to be savoring the taste on its tongue, licking its lips. It turned to the others and addressed them. Sorrel felt no surprise when she heard its voice was that of a woman’s.

  “She is not the one,” the creature said.

  “Can you be sure?” another spoke.

  “Taste for yourself.”

  Sorrel sprang back. “Please, no.”

  The second creature padded toward her as Sorrel tried to scramble backward, her arm unable to hold her. The cat pushed its nose into her clothes.

  “I smell a male upon her,” it announced. “She is no queen.”

  “To be sure. Look how she quakes with fear,” came a voice from the pack.

  “It must be the other child,” said their leader, but there followed voices of dissent. That girl was weak, hardly more than a chaff.

  Sorrel’s mind was grappling, reaching for understanding when the leader interrupted the pack. “The other may seem weak, but perhaps that is a guise to put us off the scent.”

  “Who are you?” Sorrel whispered. The leader raised a paw and flexed its claws. Sorrel mustered the courage to continue. “The Eastern clan? Is that who you are? Name yourselves.”

  The creature lifted the paw to Sorrel’s cheek. Sorrel felt a sudden sharpness pierce her skin and hang there like a trapped thorn.

  “We have traveled far to find you. Tell your mother we are here and we are not alone. The clans are gathering. The prophecy is naught. No Hawkweed will be queen, not now or ever.”

  The rip was audible, like the tearing of cloth. So fast it was that Sorrel took a moment to register the pain. Then her hand flew to her face to try to stem the intensity of it, and she felt the warmth of her blood pouring through her fingers. The leader turned to the others.

  “Sisters,” she cried. “Shall we?” And together they turned and leaped away into the darkness.

  The sap oozed slowly from the hole in the trunk. It had taken a long while coming. Raven had penetrated through the bark and the cambium, stopping well before she reached the heartwood. But the frail, leafless tree had nothing to offer. Sucking her teeth with irritation, Raven had moved lower down and tried her luck again. Finally the sap began to rise. Raven watched it drip slowly into the cup that she held to the bark. Drop by drop, how languidly it emerged, as though reluctant to leave its home. Shining and unctuous it seeped, glistening amber. Raven knew it would serve her purpose well.

  Sorrel tore through branches and ripped through brambles to get home. Her hair was matted, her face covered with blood that camouflaged the multitude of scratches. Her clothes were torn and her feet were bare. She had lost her shoes a way back now. The soles of her feet were cut and bleeding, but onward Sorrel ran, desperate to reach home. It was only when she crossed the camp’s threshold that she felt safe enough to collapse. Then she felt all of it, like a tidal wave crashing down upon her. Her chest, her face, her arm, her feet—her mind couldn’t unscramble the signals fast enough, and Sorrel was unable to tell which pain came from where, only that she hurt like she’d never done before.

  “Mother!” she cried with all her might, but her voice was cowering in her throat and only a faint squeak rose from her mouth. “Mother!” she tried again, but the sound was even tinier this time, no more than a flutter of a moth or the patter of a field mouse.

  Sorrel’s eyes wanted to close but she wouldn’t let them. She wanted the pain to stop but she didn’t want to die. She wasn’t ready. It was too soon. I am still a girl, she tried to whimper. The pain was good, she told herself. The pain meant life. Garnering the very last of her strength, Sorrel crawled on her knees to the steps of a caravan. When the door opened, it was her cousin standing there, a white light, radiant and ethereal. She is magical after all, thought Sorrel. She sparkles with fairy dust, as pretty as a princess. Perhaps the creatures were right and Ember will be queen. Perhaps it was a disguise. A trick.

  And then came Charlock, her aunt, so kind and capable, crouching at her side, instructing Ember to help, carrying her inside, laying her down, giving her water, medicine that trickled down her throat and soothed her so. She was safe. Sorrel felt the relief ease her tired, afflicted limbs.

  I am safe, she thought, as she allowed her eyes to close.

  The scream lacerated the night air. Savage and terrifying it was. It came from Raven’s mouth without her intending it. The potion was gone. Her mind galloping, Raven frantically retraced her steps. She saw herself casting the spell, placing the potion down on the table before leaving for the orchard. She had been as fastidious as always,
utterly precise, even carrying the sap so carefully from the tree, so mindful not to trip. Stepping back along the side of the orchard and around the back of the storeroom, she had reached the door and taken care to open it quietly without a creak so as not to disturb any of the sisters. Crossing the threshold, she had hurried to the workbench, eager to finish the task at hand. She had looked to where she had left the potion and seen it wasn’t there. The shock of it had made her howl.

  Now Raven’s hands were moving to her head as if trying to squeeze an explanation from it. Not trusting her eyes, she looked again. Not trusting her memory, she searched around in other places. Had she left it in some other spot? On the bench, on the floor, on the shelves? Her hands felt for the container like a blind person, in case her eyes deceived her. But she found nothing. All the while her heart was pounding, faster and faster and faster.

  The potion was gone.

  Raven opened her mouth and screamed again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Leo felt like he was walking on air. Above him the stars appeared as a map that only his eyes could read. One by one they flickered just for him, lighting up the way. Dimly, in the farthest reaches of his mind, Leo wondered if he’d died. If so, he didn’t care. He felt like he was blessed, that the universe was wrapping itself around him and welcoming him in. Out of the blackness of the night sky came a swirling light display of blues and greens and purples, but in shades that he had never witnessed before. These were nocturnal, iridescent, alien hues sent from space.