The Hawkweed Prophecy Read online

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ember didn’t come to the dell that next day, nor for the next few days after that.

  Poppy kept returning, though. She never meant to, but she liked the walk—her legs crossing the grassy slopes, treading through the bracken, past the russet trees, avoiding the prickle of the thistles. And she liked it in the dell. She found peace in the soft sounds of the countryside and took comfort in the warm glow of the sun as it slouched into the hills. Each time she meant to leave the gift somewhere Ember might find it and save herself another trip. But as the sun slid from sight and the light faded, Poppy’s troubles seemed to fade with it, and she didn’t leave the gift in case it got tossed by the wind or soaked by the rain. Instead, she came back again, day after day after day, finding solace there and hoping Ember might come to find some too.

  The paper bag in Poppy’s pocket that held the present had crumpled and ripped. Then, on the Saturday morning when the day was starting, Poppy carried on past the dell, into the woods. She went where her feet took her. She had no idea where she was going or how she’d get back, but this didn’t seem to concern her. She felt strangely at home in the speckled light, dwarfed by the tall trees that swayed and rustled, bending their branches in greeting. The ground was supple under her feet, cushioning her tread. She pushed through nettles, past brambles; she climbed over tree trunks, her hands reaching to stroke leaves overhead as twigs snapped underfoot. She felt a part of life here in a way that she never had in any town or city. Squirrels stopped their climbing and looked at her with interest. Small birds flew past as if on reconnaissance, chirping the news of her arrival. Poppy felt like they were welcoming her into their home.

  She saw Ember by the stream, the water singing as it sashayed over stones.

  “Ember?” she called.

  Ember looked around, startled. Then she beamed. “I was hoping you’d find me.”

  “You weren’t at the dell.”

  Ember looked apologetic. “My mother told me I must stay away from there.” Poppy raised her eyebrows and Ember quickly added, “I wanted to come, though.” She reached down into a leather satchel by her feet. “I’ve been carrying this in hope that I might see you.” She pulled out an old, cloth-bound book. “I wanted to bring you something to look at. To thank you. You showed me your book of learning, so . . . ” Ember trailed off nervously, then held the book out to Poppy, shutting her eyes as if in fear as she did so.

  “Are you sure?” Poppy asked.

  Ember opened her eyes and nodded. “I want to.”

  Poppy took the book and opened it carefully. She flicked through the first few pages. There were dried flowers stuck to the paper, labeled and detailed. Later on she found drawings of reptiles and mushrooms and berries.

  “You mustn’t tell anyone I showed you, though. Not ever,” Ember added.

  Poppy quickly glanced up and saw the gravity on Ember’s face. “I promise. I brought you something too.” Her hand felt in her pocket and she pulled out the crushed bag. “Sorry.”

  Ember took the bag eagerly and looked inside. She pulled out the manicure set and gasped. “Oh . . . thank you . . . thank you! This is the best gift I’ve ever received.”

  A thought suddenly struck Poppy. “Do you know what it is?” she asked.

  “No,” admitted Ember with a big grin on her face. “But no matter. I love it.”

  “It’s for your nails. If you want to shape them and buff them and paint them.” Poppy shrugged. “If you like that kind of thing.” Ember’s eyes widened with amazement. “Don’t get too excited. It’s only a manicure set.”

  A sudden look of worry crossed Ember’s face. “The paint!” she despaired. “How will I get it off?!”

  Ember sat against the rocks, beautifying her nails with such artistry and attention, it was as though she were creating a masterpiece. She had been instantly placated by the knowledge that the set contained a liquid, like an antidote, to remove the polish, and so had set to work immediately. Meanwhile Poppy had spread her coat wide, laid down, and begun to read.

  Ember’s school book was an epiphany. Its curious mix of biology, astrology, chemistry, and poetry had Poppy captivated. She marveled at the intricate drawings of a bird’s wing, a frog’s leg, a newt’s tongue; the study of the night sky’s constellations; the rhythm and vocabulary of old recipes and sayings. She was enthralled by it like she had never been by any book before. It felt foreign yet familiar, though Poppy couldn’t fathom how. She just let her brain soak in the facts and the diagrams, memorizing them so she would never forget.

  “You’re so lucky,” she murmured to Ember, who was appraising her handiwork.

  “I wish I were you,” whispered Ember to Poppy, as she realized it was time to head home.

  They made a pact to try to meet every afternoon. As soon as Poppy would leave school, she’d jump on the bus heading out of town, get off at the stop at the foot of the hill, and then start her climb toward the dell. With her she’d bring gifts of shampoo and conditioner, toothpaste and a toothbrush, and other such tiny luxuries. She’d arrive with her bag stuffed full with books, newspapers, and magazines, and Ember would flick through all of them, her eyes darting over the words and the pictures of presidents and foreign countries, of vast cities and oceans, of architecture and sports. She devoured it all like it was food and she hadn’t eaten in weeks. She said the names of the places out loud, committing them to memory—Rome, Tokyo, Sydney, and, her favorite, Paris. Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame—these she whispered as if casting a wish.

  Ember scrutinized the faces on those pages as though they were an alien species, especially the models and celebrities whose loveliness she studied every detail of. Poppy had to stop herself from being scornful. She had to remind herself that Ember didn’t see how they were fawning at the camera; she didn’t realize their eyes were too shiny, skin too smooth, and smiles too forced to be genuine. She didn’t know better. Not about that, or about wars, or starvation, or crime, or climate change. And Poppy didn’t want to be the one to spoil it for her. Let it be lovely for as long as it can, she figured.

  In turn, Ember brought Poppy more books, older ones this time, their paper dry and yellowing, their chapters more dense and detailed. And she brought ingredients, tools, and tonics to make remedies for ailments—cuts and sores, headaches and belly aches, rashes and stings.

  It was like all of Poppy’s birthdays and Christmases rolled into one, only the gifts were just what she wanted, not all those dolls and toys and clothes that had been left untouched and ignored over the years. So Poppy became a chemist of sorts, and for the first time, she felt like she had found her place in the world. For that, she could never thank Ember enough.

  Animals often joined them in the dell, keeping their distance but not at all wary, just going about their business as though Poppy and Ember were merely another part of forest life to be accepted. The hare made an appearance, not coming over but catching Poppy’s eye while nibbling at the grasses that sprouted between the strings of an old tennis racket. Then, one day, a flock of birds settled on the branches of the trees all around them and watched them like an audience on high.

  Ember seemed delighted with their arrival. She stood in front of them with her arms held up and muttered strange words that seemed to be her way of trying to tame them. When that had no effect, she began whistling and breaking off bits of bread that she held in her fingers to entice them. She even threw the crumbs in the air in a shower of temptation, but the birds wouldn’t budge.

  “I don’t think they’re interested,” Poppy told her, looking up from her work.

  Ember’s face looked so crestfallen that Poppy longed for one of them to fly down to her. The birds called in conversation across the tiny valley, and Ember sang back as if trying to join their gang.

  “I’m pathetic,” she finally sighed.

  “Don’t say that!”

  “It’s true though.” Ember slumped to the ground, giving up her efforts. Just then a bi
rd, the nearest to her, flapped from its perch and swooped down and pecked at the bread at her feet. Ember gasped, and Poppy could see she was so stunned that she dared not speak. Poppy smiled and Ember beamed back at her. Twitching its tail feathers, the bird fluttered upward and landed on Ember’s head. “Oh,” she cried. “It’s the first time this has happened to me!” Then she saw the confusion cross Poppy’s face and quickly added, “My family, they like birds.” The bird skipped down onto Ember’s shoulder. “Oh, how I wish they could see this!” She held out her arm, and the bird hopped along it before taking to the air and retiring to the treetops. “I think it’s you,” Ember announced, and Poppy blinked, then felt her body tense. “You’re my lucky charm.”

  Poppy’s smile returned to her face. “I’ve never been called that before.”

  But Ember was full of insistence. “It’s you! How I wish I could take you home with me.”

  “Me too,” Poppy replied softly. “It’s not me, though. It’s this place. There’s something magical about it, don’t you think?”

  As the mellow autumn afternoons turned colder and darker, Poppy busied herself dissecting and experimenting while Ember lay back, her eyes soaking in the photographs, her imagination carrying her far, far away.

  “Are they wed?” Ember asked dreamily of a couple kissing in a magazine.

  Poppy glanced up from her pestle and mortar, her fingers stained orange from the turmeric. “I think they’re just dating.”

  Poppy had mentioned marriage a few days before, and ever since, Ember had been picking up the idea like an object, turning it over and examining it from all sides. Ember glanced back down at the photograph. She seemed lost in thought, and Poppy hoped no other questions would follow. After a while, though, Ember’s voice piped up again.

  “What’s dating?”

  Poppy ground hard at the spices in the mortar as she tried to think of the most simple definition of boyfriends and girlfriends. When she spoke, it didn’t sound so simple, though Ember sat there riveted by every word.

  “So do you have one of these boyfriends?” she asked after Poppy finished explaining what happens when a boy and a girl like each other and want to be more than just friends.

  “No,” replied Poppy.

  “Do you want one?”

  “No,” Poppy answered with not a drop of doubt.

  “Because you don’t like them?” Ember asked.

  “Do you ask everyone this many questions, or just me?” Poppy replied, her eyes fixed on the water she was adding to the paste.

  “Just you.”

  Ember’s answer was so sincere, no sign of cynicism or sarcasm, that Poppy responded alike.

  “Look, boys just don’t like me. I can’t tell you why. Girls too, really. But boys—it’s different with them. They shy away. Can’t even look me in the eye.” Ember was staring at Poppy, mouth open. Realizing this was the most she had ever revealed about herself, Poppy felt her cheeks begin to heat up. “I think I creep them out,” she finished rather hurriedly, just wanting the whole conversation to be over.

  “It’s because you’re so strong and powerful,” Ember responded in a matter-of-fact voice.

  This wasn’t the response Poppy was expecting. She looked at Ember in surprise. “Why do you think that?”

  “I’ve been told. By my mother. By everyone I know. The males—they fear a powerful woman.”

  It sounded so simple. Simple enough to be of comfort. Perhaps even simple enough to be true.

  It was later than usual when Poppy got off the bus that night. The October sun had disappeared without any good-bye, and suddenly it was dark already and the street lights were glowing.

  Poppy had stayed at the dell to finish her attempt at herbal remedies. Arriving back at the town made her time in the forest almost feel like a dream. As if to check it was real, she sniffed at the lapel of her coat and smelled the smoke of the fire she’d lit. Then she looked at her hands. Today they were stained with the red of berries and rosehips. She had brewed a cure for headaches and made a poultice for an infected wound.

  Ember had been her patient. She had a headache from Poppy’s constant grinding of the pestle and mortar and the chopping of the wood—that and the smell of the concoctions as they boiled. Ember had no wound, though, and refused to have one inflicted for the sake of Poppy’s medicinal education. Poppy had felt a sudden, searing urge to persuade her, sensing she had the power to do so, but she had resisted.

  To make up for such a wicked thought, she had summarized the next chapter of Jane Eyre for Ember, who was now hooked on the love story between Jane and Mr. Rochester, whom she kept referring to as boyfriend and girlfriend. Poppy didn’t have the energy to correct her. Ember had so many questions as it was, ones that Poppy couldn’t begin to answer.

  “It’s just a story,” she said.

  For Ember, though, there was no distinguishing between fact and fiction. Her mind accepted the inexplicable and mysterious as a young child’s would.

  Poppy had taught Ember money too—dollars and coins and how to buy things in a store. They had acted it out—Poppy as shopkeeper, Ember as customer. It took a few attempts before Ember stopped trying to bargain. When finally they had said good-bye, Ember hugged her, and Poppy, so unused to such affection, had stood there like a statue. On the bus home she replayed the moment in her mind, practicing wrapping her arms around Ember and squeezing. It felt too big, too showy, but Poppy kept reimagining the scene until she felt more used to the idea.

  She knew the four boys would follow her as she passed them on the corner. She couldn’t understand it at first. Interest from any guys of any sort was so unusual to her. But she felt their eyes upon her, and it made her squirm and then she sensed why. They were drunk and they wanted a fight. Not knowing how best to react, Poppy kept her head down and kept walking, pretending she hadn’t noticed them.

  “Hey! Hey, wait up!” one of them called out.

  Poppy kept on walking.

  “We just want to talk to you.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “C’mon . . . why don’t you show us what you got under that coat?”

  Poppy clenched her jaw and sped up. She was walking so fast, she was on the brink of running. But she knew she shouldn’t run. That would make it a chase and they would be faster. She crossed the road instead. They followed. She could hear them laughing. Then one of them caught up with her. He reached out and pulled at her arm.

  “Hey, freak show. We’re talking to you.”

  Poppy turned and saw them. A scrawny mean-looking bunch with cheap chains around their necks and bad tattoos. Suddenly they were around her, encircling her like a pack of flea-bitten wolves.

  “You’ve picked the wrong girl,” Poppy said defiantly.

  “Yeah? Why’s that?” the leader growled.

  “Because you’ll get hurt. You don’t want that, do you? To be hurt by a girl.”

  The guys snorted and sniggered. One of them spit, his phlegm foaming on the pavement. The sight of it made Poppy’s stomach turn. She wanted to retch but stopped herself. Then the most curious thing happened. The boy who spat clutched his stomach and made a noise like he was going to be sick.

  “Pete! Gross, man!” The guys beside him stepped away in disgust.

  Poppy seized her chance and went for the gap in the ranks, trying to break free, but one of the guys grabbed her and swung her around.

  “Where you going?” His breath stank of cigarettes and beer. Poppy turned her face away, but he took hold of her chin. “We only just got started.”

  Poppy glared at him, the hatred shooting from her eyes, and he started coughing. His chest convulsing, he let go of her as he struggled for breath. The others stared in horror as smoke began to billow from his mouth and nostrils. Poppy barged past him and started to run. There was a moment’s silence before a crescendo of feet on pavement as they all sped after her.

  Poppy was running faster than she knew she could. She raced across the pavement and swung
around the lamp post. She was outrunning them. Then one loosely paved stone and she was flying through the air. Her hands came up to shield her face, and the pain shot into her knees and then her shoulder. The guys loomed over her, panting like hounds having caught their prey.

  “Back off!”

  Poppy glanced over to where this new voice had come to her rescue and caught a glint of metal, sharp and silver.

  “What the—” objected her attacker.

  Poppy heard a shove and a thump and saw the two of them—attacker and rescuer—up against the wall.

  “You heard me.” The words were delivered hard like a punch.

  Keeping her eyes low, Poppy saw the cluster of feet start to back away, then cross the road until she could see them no longer.

  The voice was next to her now, arms around her, helping her. “I got you. Can you stand?”

  “I’m okay,” mumbled Poppy.

  As she stood, she felt a creeping sensation on her left leg. The instant she recognized that it was blood trickling along her skin, it started to sting. She forced herself to ignore the hurt and straighten. Looking up for the first time, she saw the face before her and the pain disappeared. Just like that.

  The boy helped her to a low wall and sat her down.

  Poppy felt helpless and didn’t like it, but sort of liked it all at the same time. “I can look after myself, you know,” she said gruffly.

  The boy regarded her thoughtfully with night-dark eyes. Poppy looked away. He was thin and scruffy, with matted hair and torn jeans that seemed authentic, not just for effect like some of the boys at school. But, most of all, he was handsome. Too handsome for her to look at.

  “I expect you can,” he replied. The same voice that had intimidated and menaced with such authority was softer now, protective.

  “Thank you,” Poppy whispered, glancing back at him.