The Hawkweed Prophecy

by Irena Brignull

  “That was different.”

  “Was it?” Ember asked, his nerves flitting across to her like fleas. “I don’t think I understand.”

  Leo opened his mouth to explain and then seemed to think better of it as he came over and laid down. He made sure not to touch her, and the gap between them felt so wide that Ember had to bridge it. She didn’t allow herself to hesitate, just moved her head quickly and surely onto his shoulder. A second later his arm came underneath her back and around her waist to hold her. Ember could feel Leo’s heart tick-tocking in his chest.

  “We have to look after each other,” she whispered. And then, finally, in the comfort of the dark, she let herself speak of the one they loved who wasn’t there yet lay between them. “It’s what she wanted.”

  Poppy sat bolt upright, eyes open. She had been sleeping in Melanie’s room on the chair in the corner and she felt the crick in her neck as she turned her head to look around. The hairs on her arms and the back of her head were bristling. All her senses were on high alert. Poppy checked Melanie first but she was sleeping soundly. Then she went to the window and the door but she could see nothing amiss. But something was wrong. Of that she was sure. She wouldn’t make the mistake of ignoring her instincts again. Something was terribly wrong.

  “Help me,” came the voice, entering Ember’s dreams. “Help me, please.” Ember shifted in her sleep, not wanting to wake.

  “Ember,” the voice came again. “You have to help me.”

  Poppy, thought Ember, through the blanket of her slumber. Her body moved of its own volition, lifting itself so lightly from the sofa and treading so carefully to the door as though careful not to wake her mind. For still Ember slept, even though her eyes were open and her legs were carrying her across the room. Like a ghost, she drifted up the street. It was snowing, but her bare feet didn’t seem to feel the cold. They left a line of meandering footprints in the white powder, proof that she was no apparition.

  “Ember,” called Poppy’s voice plaintively. Ember followed it, all the way out of town and into the hills. The sky turned from black to white, matching the snow-covered earth. The sun must have risen but it never showed itself. Still the snow fell, up to Ember’s knees in places. The trees in the forest seem to strain under the burden of their new load, and occasionally a thump would sound as clumps fell and landed. But Ember slept on.

  After hours of walking, she reached the furthest edge of the forest. She had never come this far before. It was the end of the country, where land met sea. The ocean flashed like steel before her, like she could walk upon it. Ember moved to the very edge of the cliff, her toes touching air. She felt a sudden urge to fly, to swoop down and skim the sea with her skirts.

  “Poppy?” she called out at the empty horizon. No response came. “Poppy?” she questioned again, unsure which way to go.

  “Ember?” sounded Poppy’s voice again.

  Ember turned with a start and nearly fell as the snow beneath her feet dislodged, then toppled down and down before being gobbled by the hungry sea.

  “Mind your step,” came the same voice again as Ember straightened and peered into the mist, her eyes still glazed.

  She stared and stared but could not make sense of what she saw. It was not her friend she found across the moor, standing tall and dark as the trees behind. Instead, Poppy’s voice came from another’s body.

  “Aunt?” Ember questioned. “What are you doing here?”

  “The same as you, child,” answered Raven, this time in her own voice, her lips a shocking red scar upon her pale face. “I am waiting for her to arrive.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  When Leo awoke, he was alone. It didn’t come as a surprise, though he felt the disappointment dropping down into the depths of him. He knew Ember was gone, but he checked the bathroom and the street outside anyway. He felt no hope of finding her in either place, but he looked just because he felt he should. He had slept restlessly, haunted by images of Poppy, a ghostly figure that kept slipping like a shadow through his hands so that, in the end, he turned to Ember, curled up next to him, for her warmth and solidity.

  His body was healing but his head, thick with painful thoughts, still hurt him. Ember had been a salve to that—her optimism and constancy. He didn’t question why she had left. It seemed to him to be a part of life, his life anyway. His mother, then Jocelyn, next Poppy, now Ember. All these women were connected, but when he tried to work out how, the answer eluded him.

  The person he wanted to ask, Jocelyn, was dead.

  The other, his real mother, he had never known. Not a picture, nor a belonging. He had no clues of her existence. Only himself, his features, his expressions, his character.

  And one other fact. She had left him with a woman who had loved him as her own. She had chosen well but, other than that, she was nothing to him. The mother who loved him, who had held him and fed him and taught him, had been cremated. All that was left of her was a jar of ashes and an ache in his heart.

  Leo plumped up the cushions on the sofa just as Jocelyn used to, then did some lifting and carrying for Mr. Bryce by way of a thank you. When he stepped out onto the street corner, he looked both ways. He could turn right, go back to town and pick up where he left off, sitting in the same doorways and benches, scouring the same trash cans for food like nothing had happened, like his life hadn’t been spun around and he wasn’t sick with dizziness from it. He chose the other direction. This time it was his turn to leave.

  Ember was shivering so much that her teeth were chattering. She wasn’t sure if she was asleep or awake, so when she saw Poppy arrive she wondered if she was dreaming. But then Poppy was next to her, cradling her and rubbing her hands over her body, trying to warm her.

  Ember tried to speak, just one word, but her jaw wouldn’t stop shaking.

  Go, she tried to tell her friend.

  Go, she yelled inside.

  But Poppy was muttering spells and rocking her and breathing her warmth onto her neck.

  Go.

  “Just in time.” Poppy turned and saw the witch, Raven Hawkweed, standing before the trees. “She wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

  “I had left,” Poppy shouted. “Just like you wanted. I was gone.”

  “I know.” Raven opened her arms at the futility of Poppy’s actions, and her black cloak flapped in the wind, threatening to carry her high into the air.

  “Then why?” Poppy cried. “Why did you bring me back here?”

  Raven didn’t answer. Her eyes had caught sight of something behind Poppy and she was staring intently at it. Poppy turned to look and saw Charlock approaching on a horse.

  “Sister,” said Charlock, dismounting. The horse had no bridle or saddle, and Charlock kept a hold of its mane as it tossed its head and stamped its foot.

  “Take her,” spat Raven. “She’s served her purpose.”

  Charlock looked to Ember, then to Poppy.

  Poppy knew what was being asked of her. She scooped Ember up and stumbled over to Charlock, who lifted Ember easily and lay her on the horse’s back like a sack. With a flick of her hand, Charlock slapped the horse’s rump, then again two more times, following it until she was sure that the animal was heading away, gingerly picking its feet across the icy snow as it went.

  Charlock made her way back to Poppy. Raven’s eyebrows drew together like curtains to become one.

  “Be gone, Charlock. This is no more business of yours.”

  Charlock stood beside Poppy, facing Raven. “But she is the one I came for.”

  Poppy saw the thoughts race across Raven’s eyes like clouds on a windy sky. “How long have you known?”

  “Since I gave birth and another’s baby was put into my arms. Since she came to town and I felt her near. Since always.” Charlock’s words were crisp and cold as the snow beneath them.

  Raven shrank back for a moment. Then she straightened. “I spared her then. I won’t again.”

  Poppy wanted to leap behind Cha
rlock and shield herself, but she kept her feet rooted and her body still. She saw Charlock’s hands clasp together as if to stop them from lashing out.

  “I knew Ember wasn’t mine, but I never thought, not for a moment, that you were responsible. I presumed it was one of the other clans who hurt me so. Never you. Never my own sister. Perhaps I am the fool you take me for.”

  “A secretive fool,” spat Raven.

  “And then you visited her. You went to the chaff’s house and you threatened her.”

  Poppy’s head snapped around to look at Charlock. “You were there?” she gasped.

  “You called for me,” Charlock explained. “I came too late. I’m sorry. But I saw Raven watching you, waiting for you to leave. And then I knew it all. Motherhood—it makes us mad.”

  Into the virgin snow appeared lines, slicing the white frosting. The lines touched and connected until they spelled two words.

  THE PROPHECY

  Now Poppy did move behind Charlock. This magic, out here, in the open, before her very eyes—it made her feel small, a pretender. Charlock’s eyes bore into the words and a line began and crossed through all the letters, chopping them in half.

  “Your daughter cannot be queen, so no Hawkweed can. Is that it, Raven? This one is your niece. She is your flesh and blood.”

  “It was supposed to be my baby!” shrieked Raven, her voice so pierced with pain that Poppy had to put her hands over her ears to muffle the sound.

  “Who said?” challenged Charlock, low and fearless.

  “I looked after you. I wiped your nose, I dressed you, I led you by the hand and carried you on my back. I’ve always had to look after you.”

  “That’s what you chose. And I let you. Long after I stopped needing you, I let you.”

  “I am the greater witch.”

  “You are. But your daughter is not.”

  Raven flung her arms upward in fury, her hands pointing to the sky. Angry clouds gathered at her command, and as Raven clenched and released her fists, a volley of hailstones were unleashed upon their heads. Raven stretched out wide, her head tipped up to the sky. On one side of her the sea roared with rage, and waves, cresting from the flatness, rose and fell with a crash, over and over. On the other side the wind whipped through the trees so their trunks swayed in a frenzy and their branches lashed out at one another viciously. Raven stood at the center of it all, a crazed conductress, lost in her music. From the sky came the percussion, a rumble of drums, a crack of thunderous bass and a clash of cymbals as lightning struck.

  It should be terrifying. Poppy realized that. She should want to turn and flee. Raven had summoned nature to vent her wrath. But Poppy didn’t feel the threat and she didn’t feel small anymore. Instead, the elements surged within her and she felt more alive than she had in days. She focused her mind and the tiny missiles of hail landed to either side of her, missing their target. The wind swept her hair from her face so she could see all the more clearly, and the storm made her cheeks glow, her heart race, and her hands tingle. It was exhilarating. She stepped forward and past Charlock’s arm, which had reached out to stop her.

  Above Poppy’s head the clouds parted and light shone down through the gap between them. She waited a moment longer, until the wind stilled around her and the music faded. Then she spoke, strong and clear.

  “Take your prophecy. Take your throne and your crown. Fight between yourselves, cause more misery, tell more lies. I want no part of it.” Poppy turned around and called to the sky, the sea, the snow. “I will decide who I am and who I will be!”

  The animals came first, even the hibernating creatures awoken from their winter sleep, peering out from the forest to see what had disturbed them. Hedgehogs, mice and hamsters, snakes and frogs, badgers and bears, all bleary eyed and lethargic, marking the perfect snow with their paw prints. Next, swooping down from the clouds and the treetops came the birds, hovering in the air to watch. Then the witches arrived, stepping through the forest and into the field like they too had been there all along.

  Poppy stared in amazement. There were so many of them, with different shades of skin and garments, some pale and meager, others bright and lavish, each come to see this show. They approached steadily, in no rush, neither their pace nor their demeanor giving any hint of their intentions. Then, all at once, as if rehearsed, they stopped. Every muscle in Poppy’s body tensed as the silent seconds ticked by.

  At last a voice rang out, bold and clear. It was a striking woman with inky hair falling straight and silky to her knees who spoke. Behind her stood the rest of her coven, eyes set and bodies poised for battle. More notable, though, were the two giant panthers, fur black as night like their clan, sitting to either side of their leader, still as statues. “You hear that, Raven? She does not want the crown.”

  “The Eastern clan!” Poppy heard someone mutter beneath their breath.

  But it was Charlock who answered. “It is not the girl’s decision. It is her fate. The prophecy tells that my sister or I would bear the next queen. This girl is my daughter. She is a Hawkweed.”

  Charlock looked to Raven, expecting her retort. But Raven’s head was lowered as though she were studying the ground. She seemed diminutive and frail, but Poppy could feel the electricity surging and sparking within her and wondered if the others could feel it too. When Raven looked up, staring only at the Eastern clan, her face seemed mutilated by her madness. Her voice was just as distorted and came in a savage, scarring shriek that hurt the ear.

  “You . . . poisoned . . . my . . . girl!”

  The panthers came to life, pawing the ground and hissing savagely. But it was too late. Already Raven was lifting her hand and flinging it toward their leader. From it came an electrical current that cut across the air like blue lightning and hit the witch in the chest, throwing her back against a tree.

  The Eastern clan stepped forward, raising their hands in response, and Raven held her head back and laughed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Ember’s face knocked gently against the horse’s stomach, its hair soft and warm against her cheek. She had been awake for some time now but was too weary to lift herself up and nervous she would fall if she tried. She had been watching the world from upside down, the icy ground her sky, the billowing drifts of snow her clouds. They passed through endless pines, and Ember observed how the lowest of the branches were flopping and drooping just like her, the green needles pricking under the white weight of winter. And then, at last, Ember saw the glassy river and she knew she was nearing refuge. The rhythm of the horse’s steps had become comforting to her and she missed it as soon as it stopped. Then there were hands around her, reaching for her and pulling her down. Ember looked up to see Sister Ada’s baggy features hanging over her.

  “Child, what has happened to you?”

  Sister Morgan elbowed her way in. “Get her warm first, sister,” and a cup was being lifted to Ember’s lips and hot liquid was slipping down her throat.

  “Where are Sisters Raven and Charlock? Have you come from them?” Sister Ada persisted.

  Ember tried to speak but couldn’t think what to say.

  “What do you remember?”

  “Poppy?” she said. The sisters looked at one another confused. Then she suddenly remembered and spoke again. “The sea.”

  “What were you doing there?” Ember heard another voice ask.

  “Were Raven and Charlock with you?” questioned Sister Morgan gently.

  The horse snorted and stamped its foot impatiently, answering on Ember’s behalf.

  “We must go,” said Sister Bethany.

  “Quickly,” ordered Sister Ada. “Gather the clan.”

  Leo’s arm was aching from holding out his thumb. Not a single vehicle had stopped. He must look even worse than he felt. His jeans were stuck to his legs from the slushy spray of speeding wheels and his skin was raw from the cold. The next car to approach was smart and clean, a suited man at the wheel, no passengers. Leo didn’t even bother tryin
g to signal. The car passed him like all the others but then it slowed to a stop. Leo peered at it in astonishment. Suddenly it revved into reverse and leveled with him. Leo thought of the soft seat, the heat, the stereo. The window rolled down.

  It was Poppy’s father. “Get in,” he barked.

  Leo thought of the warmth, then looked at the man’s face and thought again.

  “Get in,” Poppy’s father commanded.

  Leo opened the door and sat down. It was as plush and comfortable as he had predicted.

  “I know you, don’t I? You’re Poppy’s friend.” Leo nodded. “Do you know where she is?” Leo shook his head. “Do you speak?” Leo nodded again. Poppy’s father gripped the steering wheel with frustration. Leo could see his knuckles turning white. “Look, you’re the only kid I’ve ever seen her with. Ever. I’ve no idea why she picked you, but now she’s gone and I need to find her.”

  Leo looked up in surprise and his eyes met Poppy’s father’s for the first time.

  “You didn’t know? Terrific.” Poppy’s father hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “I’ve given that girl so many chances and this is what I get for it.”

  Leo reached for the door handle.

  “Wait,” said Poppy’s father, his voice softening slightly. “Where are you heading?”

  “Away.” Leo shrugged.

  Poppy’s father shook his head like he was wrestling with an idea. “I’m going to see her mother. Figured Poppy might have gone there. If she has, maybe you can talk some sense into her?”

  Leo’s hand rested on the door handle, waiting for his brain to send the signal for what to do next. Poppy. He was supposed to be running away. He should open the door. He wanted to open the door. But his fingers released, his hand moved back to his lap, and the car started moving.

  Bats and birds filled the sky above the cliffs. From their view up on high, the battle looked breathtaking. Bolts of fire, flashes of light, crackles and sparks of electricity streaking across the air like a fireworks display. Beneath that, crimson patterns were brightening the white snow like art. But down low and up close, it was an ugly picture. Trees had been felled, their stumps sizzling. Witches too lay twisted on the ground, missing limbs. The crimson was their blood, trickling from their wounds, their eyes, their noses, seeping into the snow. Many witches fought on, despite their injuries. Boils and pustules bubbled and burst on some unlucky faces. Others had lost hair, from their heads, their eyebrows, and lashes. Spells whizzed like bullets, often hitting at random. The sound of chants and curses came like a chorus so it was impossible to distinguish one from the other.