Poppy was defending, dodging, and blocking, with no time for any attack of her own. Every sense she had was magnified a thousand-fold. Her reflexes worked faster than she had ever believed possible, her limbs moving before she even had a chance to think, her body one step ahead of her brain. The magic that was usually such a silken, slippery thing now felt solid and hard. It had become a sharp-edged weapon, and Poppy felt its shadow on her, darkening her mind. The thrill and release she had felt at the fire in the dining hall and then again in the library—that was nothing compared to this. This was all-consuming.
Poppy could see it in Charlock too. The expression on her face was frightening—eyes burning, cheeks hollow, hair wired with electricity. Poppy wondered whether her own features were just as savage. But she was grateful for Charlock’s transformation. Time after time her mother would defend her, shielding her from blows both magical and physical, repelling those who tried to hurt her. As for Raven, she hardly seemed made of flesh and blood. She fought as one not born of this earth. Single-handedly she was laying waste to whole strips of the enemy. She seemed unstoppable, but Poppy feared what might happen to them if she tired.
It was merely a momentary misgiving, but with it Poppy felt her strength suddenly dwindle. She looked around her and saw only death and destruction and it felt terrifying. A witch, monstrous in her fury, ran toward Poppy, screaming, and Charlock blasted the assailant back. The witch lay on the ground with her ribs jutting out of her chest like railings, but her eyes stayed open and still she stared in hatred at Poppy and her lips kept on chanting.
“Look!” shouted Charlock, and Poppy turned her head to see a new group of witches joining the fray. “Our clan!” cried Charlock.
And with these two words Poppy felt her mind re-engage and her energy surge.
Straight into the conflict the clan went, firing spells and rallying behind their leader, Raven Hawkweed. They were still massively outnumbered, but these witches were fresh and ready for the fight. The young among them bristled with excitement; the more experienced gritted their teeth in grim determination. There was no time for them to question Poppy’s presence. She was with Charlock and that was enough. Besides, the air was thick with malice, droning with spells of the wickedest kind, and it would take all their effort to stay unharmed.
Close by, a girl not much older than Poppy was quickly knocked to the ground. She lay there gasping, clutching her side, as her attacker loomed above her, lifting her arms to strike again. A bolt of light shot from Poppy’s hand and pierced the witch straight through. Before she fell, the witch looked down in curious surprise at the hole where her stomach once sat. Poppy stared in horror at the damage she’d done, a perfect cauterized circle without a drop of blood.
The girl she had saved sat up and regarded Poppy with newfound admiration. “How’d you do that?”
“I don’t know,” Poppy told her, reaching out a hand to pull her up.
“What do they call you?”
“Poppy. My friend, Ember, have you seen her?”
“She’s safe,” said the girl, and Poppy shut her eyes in momentary relief.
“Watch your back!” cried the girl, and Poppy turned to see another witch advancing. Again she attacked and hit her target. She nodded to the girl in thanks.
“Are you Sorrel?”
The girl shook her head but not before Poppy caught the light change in her eyes. “Kyra,” she replied.
Holding her wounded side in her palm, the girl charged forward with a war cry bursting from her lips. Poppy watched her go, quickly losing sight of her in the flying hands and turning torsos of this frenetic, frantic, deadly dance that Poppy found herself a part of. The battle was far from won, but now Poppy felt they had a chance—if not at victory, at least at survival.
At the battle’s raging, bloody heart was Raven. She cut a swath through the skirmish, like she was merely slashing down the brambles in the forest that got in her way. So fast she moved, intent on reaching her destination. For a moment Poppy feared it was her that Raven was aiming for, but Raven shot past without a glance in her direction.
Then Poppy realized. There was but one witch in Raven’s sights, the leader of the Eastern clan. This witch knew that Raven was coming for her and she was ready. There was no surprise on her face, no trace of panic.
Hands outstretched like claws, both witches released their magic. The Eastern witch was a match for Raven, thwarting her spells, deflecting and reflecting her powerful attacks. Enraged, Raven breathed fire upon her. The witch cried out as she fell to the ground. But instead of staying down and beaten, her body folded and curled as her back lifted up and her limbs reached down so she was on all fours and growing still. Poppy blinked, and suddenly the witch was a panther, even greater and more fearsome than the others.
“You think your sorcery scares me?” cried Raven. “You dare attack my child?”
The creature roared, displaying its huge teeth, then lunging for a bite. Raven smote it away with the back of her hand. Poppy hurried to Charlock’s side as the panther raised its head again.
“Ask yourself, Raven. Why would we bother with your daughter when she is not the one?”
Raven flinched, but then opened her mouth and let it become a beak—long, pointed, and deadly. “You lie!” she shrieked, and her head darted forward, stabbing the cat in the eye.
The panther’s paw flew to its face as it howled with pain. “Look to your sister,” it cried. “Or do you have the brains of a bird to match that beak?”
It took one look of doubt to end a lifetime’s trust. Raven locked eyes with Charlock. So intense it was that Poppy could feel the beam of her stare. She could see Charlock’s cheeks start to burn with the effort of holding that gaze. The seconds ticked. The battle slowed as all faces turned to watch. Raven’s stare was searing, but still Charlock met it with her own.
Poppy squeezed her mother’s hand, and as she did so, she saw it—Charlock slipping into the storeroom, taking a potion from a table. Sorrel stumbling through the woods, her face cut, her body trembling. Charlock scooping her up into her arms, tending to her wounds, giving her something to calm her nerves to help ease the pain. Charlock’s hand cradling Sorrel’s head. “Sip carefully now.”
The liquid flowing into Sorrel’s mouth, dribbling down her chin. Charlock tenderly wiping it away, helping Sorrel to lie back. Sorrel whispering her thanks, asking for her mother.
Poppy let go of Charlock’s hand. She couldn’t help it. Her mother’s hand hung there, empty and limp for all to see. Raven’s eyes didn’t waver, though. Her focus remained set only on Charlock’s face.
And then it happened. Whether because of Poppy’s hand, or Raven’s stare, or simply that the truth will out, Charlock’s eyelids blinked shut, and in that moment Raven knew. She saw it too, and the horror of it ravaged her. She shut her eyes in pain and bowed her neck as if waiting to receive the blow. When it came, the panther’s strike caved in Raven’s head like it was made of plaster and swept her body up like it was foam that lifted in the air, then floated to the ground.
Charlock cried out in anguish and clutched her head, as though she felt the blow upon her own face. She flew to her sister’s side and all made way for her. Kneeling down in penitence, she took Raven’s hands. Her tears fell and washed away the blood and the hideous beak, healing the broken bones and fixing the ripped skin.
“I’m sorry, sister. I didn’t know the potion was so strong. My only want was to hurt you as you would me.” The words gushed forth in a flood of sorrow. “Forgive me,” Charlock lamented.
“If only the past were so easily mended,” cawed Raven.
Charlock sobbed. Her face, usually so flat and still, creased and crumpled with emotion. “The prophecy!” she cried as if by explanation.
Raven’s eyes flickered up and what she saw there made them close. “Don’t cry,” she said softly. “You are a Hawkweed. You are the mother of a queen.”
Charlock took in a sudden gasp of breath just as
Raven exhaled her last. “My sister,” she wept as Raven’s hands slipped out of hers and into the cold, wet snow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Everything about her was pale like clouds. Her hair was so fair, it was almost white. Her eyebrows and lashes too. Her eyes were a faded denim blue, same as the veins running like streams beneath her bleached skin. Leo wondered how a woman so light and airy could have produced a daughter as dark and fiery as Poppy. The two of them seemed to belong to different species.
They were in a hospital room, and Mr. Hooper had been questioning his wife, Melanie, about Poppy and she had answered openly and clearly. She was sitting upright in a chair by the window. A book lay open on the small table next to her and her eyes seemed bright and alert, not at all what Leo had been expecting. Mr. Hooper commented on how well she looked. There was a faint tremor in his voice, and Leo noted that Poppy’s father seemed nervous.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Hooper replied graciously. “I’m feeling much better.”
Poppy had been to visit her, she told them. She had seemed fine but she hadn’t said where she was going or when she might come by again. Mr. Hooper looked disappointed.
“Don’t worry,” Poppy’s mother advised calmly. “She’s a strong girl. She knows what she’s doing.”
Mr. Hooper actually stuttered on his next few words. He was going to ask around, he said. Take a look in town, and if there was no sight of her, he would head home. “At least if she returns, I’ll be there waiting,” he shrugged.
Looking a little lost, he waited for some acknowledgement, but Mrs. Hooper just nodded serenely, and this seemed to make him feel even more unsettled as he turned and tripped over a chair and then had to pick it up and reposition it by the bedside.
It was then that Leo saw the clock.
“Could I stay?” he asked suddenly, and they both turned to stare at him. “Just for a bit longer?” he added.
Mr. Hooper looked at Mrs. Hooper, and she said kindly, “Well, that would be lovely.”
After that, Mr. Hooper was in a hurry to leave, but he tried to give Leo some money before he went. Leo refused, but not taking no for an answer, Mr. Hooper thrust it into the pocket of Leo’s jacket along with his card.
“To get you started,” he said gruffly. “You hear anything . . .”
“I’ll call you.”
When he left, Leo picked up the clock.
“You like it?” asked Mrs. Hooper. “It was a gift.”
“Poppy gave it to you,” Leo said.
Mrs. Hooper looked around furtively, then whispered, “She did, but it’s not from her. It’s from my baby girl. I’m getting well so I can be with her.”
Leo looked at Mrs. Hooper, so pale and fair, then looked at the clock. “Ember,” he said.
Mrs. Hooper’s eyes lit up and she leaned toward him. “Do you know her?”
“Mrs. Hooper, will you tell me about Poppy? Tell me everything?”
There was blood in the panthers’ mouths. Poppy could see their fangs, yellow like their eyes, oversized like their giant, panting tongues. They had pushed her back to the cliff’s edge. She could go no further. Only Charlock had tried to defend her, but she had been quickly overcome. The rest of the Northern clan were no help, despite Charlock’s rallying cries. They had lost all spirit and nerve after Raven’s death and had shrunk back in shock, allowing Poppy to be surrounded. Now they could hardly bear to look at her. Their backs were stooped with defeat, their eyes lowered as if searching for their feet within the snow. Only Kyra met Poppy’s gaze, but the message she sent her was full of remorse.
“So you are to be queen?” came a witch’s voice.
“No clan,” came another.
“No schooling.”
“No knowledge.”
“No experience.”
“Why should we have you?”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Why?”
The voices stabbed at Poppy like knives. The panthers growled and snapped their jaws at her. Their saliva hit her arms. She felt the sea air on her back and tasted the salt of it on her tongue. How easy to let go, to run away for good.
“Are you sure she’s yours, Charlock?” cackled a witch. “She doesn’t seem a Hawkweed.”
Hooper or Hawkweed? Poppy wanted neither.
Another witch spoke out, this time addressing the leader of the cats. “You said she was the one we had to fear. She’s nothing but a chaff!” she cried scathingly.
The panther turned its head toward the witch, and as it did so, Poppy saw the blackened, clotted socket from where its eye had fallen and almost gagged.
Chaff or witch? She thought of the fire and the rats, of the broken glass and the books in the library. She remembered Mrs. Silva’s baby and Minx and Margaret Bryant’s eyes. She saw Melanie and Charlock, Ember and Leo. It had to be for something.
The panthers stepped closer. Poppy was on the very edge of everything. She reached inside her pockets, feeling, needing, hoping. Her hands grasped the smooth, glossy curve of the chestnut Ember had given her. Poppy brought it out and looked at it, glimpsing her reflection in its shine. Then, in one swift move, she threw it down before the witches.
As soon as it hit the earth, great trees rose and spread around her, forcing the enemy back and shielding her from them with their thick branches and lush greenery. Poppy’s legs gave way with relief and she sat in the snow, feeling lucky to be alive. But the fire came fast and furious, blasting the trees, devouring their leaves and turning their wood to cinder. Poppy hung her head in dismay.
“Poppy!” she heard Charlock cry. “Again!”
Quickly Poppy delved into her pocket once more, and this time she found a piece of paper. She pulled it out and her spirits sank when she saw that it was Melanie’s photograph. She couldn’t see how this could ever come to her aid, but she tossed it toward them and waited. Nothing happened for a moment, and Poppy felt ridiculous for even trying. But then the paper folded and tucked and folded again until it became a paper boat, and beneath it the snow melted into a pool and the pool became a lake, spreading its bank wider and wider, pushing the witches further and further away. The witches started to murmur to one another and their voices grew louder. Poppy could see the consternation spreading from face to face.
“Is that magic enough?” she shouted to them. “What other tricks do I have to perform?”
The leader of the cats roared and the water began to evaporate into rain that disappeared into the clouds above until the ship sank into the puddle that remained.
“Is that all you’ve got, girl? You are but a pretender to our throne. A fraud, a fake! That is all you are!”
Poppy felt the familiar stirrings of resentment and injustice within her. She got to her feet and stood tall and proud. “And yet you have all left your homes and traveled so far because of me. If I’m a fake, what, tell me, does that make you?” She could feel the wave of anger rippling among the witches, and they stepped toward her threateningly. Poppy’s eyes gleamed as she reached inside her pocket, praying for one last chance.
“Give up, child,” scorned the panther. “There’s nothing you can build that I can’t destroy.”
Poppy’s fingertips touched something cool as glass. She groaned inside. Not that. Of all things, not that. The witches were staring, waiting, and so she clasped it and held it up high. The heart stone. Unconditional love, those had been Leo’s words.
“This,” she cried. “This is everlasting.”
Released from her hand, the crystal spun through the air, flickering rainbows of pinks and mauves and magentas on the snow. It landed like the tiniest iceberg in a sea of white. Then it grew, more monumental and magnificent by the second. The witches gasped in awe, and even the cats moved back to stand and watch until they were lost from Poppy’s view as the ridge of rose-tinted crystal mountains towered higher and higher into the sky. They sparkled and shimmered in the light, and as Poppy marveled at them, one thought was in her mind. Leo.
And then she started to climb.
Her hands and feet gripped the jagged clefts and crevasses as she pulled herself higher and higher away from the hurt and the loss, away from her past. It was all she could do just to put one hand and foot before the other, dragging herself upward. The sun burned through the white of the clouds and the crystals glittered all the more, Poppy but a tiny spot of dust upon them. Finally she reached the peak. To one side the tops of the trees spread out for miles, uphill and down. To the other draped the ocean, with all its blues and greens and its promise of other shores too far for her to see but, with her magic, Poppy could make them out in her mind—the beaches, the meadows, the spires and rooftops, the mountains, cities, deserts, jungles. On it went, and with it the endless possibilities of new experiences and fresh encounters.
Poppy looked down at the witches and their battle, so small and feeble beneath her. The world is so much bigger than this, she thought to herself.
From her summit she addressed them all. “I am both witch and chaff. Both Hooper and Hawkweed. This is who I am and this is what I can do.” She stretched her hands out wide.
The Northern clan knelt and, directly, other clans followed. One by one, they bowed before her. Only the panthers refused, growling their dissent, scratching at the snow in protest. Poppy lowered her gaze upon them and muttered a simple spell, and mewing kittens they became. Soft and fluffy and harmless.
The Hawkweed Prophecy Page 27