The Hawkweed Prophecy (8 page)

“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.

The boy smiled as if he knew how unused she was to saying that. “Where does it hurt?”

Poppy remembered her knee and opened her coat. Her tights were ripped and soaked with blood. The boy gently pushed the material away. Then with one quick movement, he tore the rest so he could peel it down to her boot. Then his fingers touched around the wound as he examined it. Every nerve ending in Poppy's leg was firing . . . cold, hot, pain, pleasure.

“The cut's deep. You might need stitches.”

“No,” Poppy retorted quickly. It would mean her dad knowing, and she couldn't face that. The boy looked surprised but didn't argue. “My bag, could you get it?” she asked.

Her bag was lying close to where she fell. Some of the contents were scattered around, and Poppy watched as the boy carefully picked up each item, returning them to the bag. While he was distracted, she took her chance to study him, her eyes straining to make out his features in the darkness. He was much taller than her, but it was hard to judge his age. His appearance made him look older, but she felt instinctively it was only by a year or two. His hair was long and shaggy, his cheeks hollow, and his cheekbones high, and he was olive skinned, his face glowing gold and bronze when caught in the glimmer of the street light.

The boy turned and Poppy quickly looked away, wondering if he'd felt her stare. As he walked back toward her, Poppy glanced at him, and his eyes locked on hers and she felt herself flush. Then she realized—there was no fear in him. His eyes looked
straight at her, freely, without inhibition. Silently the boy handed over the bag and Poppy looked inside until she found the jar with the poultice she had made. He raised his eyebrows, and Poppy shrugged as she scooped on the paste, then covered it with a leaf that she pressed to her knee. She felt a tinge of pride as it actually began to work, the relief spreading through her knee and down her leg.

“It's helping?” the boy asked, and Poppy nodded. “I could do with some of those,” he added.

Poppy's eyes flicked to him. He had a scar on his forehead. “You fight a lot?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“But you've got a knife.”

The boy hesitated as if not sure whether to lie.

“You don't have to tell me,” Poppy quickly added. She didn't want him to lie. She'd prefer him to be a knife wielder, not a liar.

“Yeah. I have a knife.”

“You ever stabbed anyone?”

“Not to death.”

Poppy blinked. His tone was wry, but she knew he was telling the truth.

“So you make medicine?” he asked, and it was Poppy's turn to hesitate. “I saw the book in your bag,” he explained. “Natural remedies?”

“Oh, that. A friend lent it to me.”

The boy studied her face, searching for clues to her sincerity. “It looks old,” he said.

“I think it's like a family heirloom. I'm supposed to be taking very good care of it.”

He seemed to be waiting for her to say more, but when she didn't he pressed on. “I grew up with all of that. My mother was into it, herbs and healing stones. Tarot cards too.”

He gave a half-laugh and Poppy touched his arm without thinking. “I'm sorry,” she said, and suddenly her hand on his arm felt momentous and she quickly removed it. “She died, didn't she?”

He shut his eyes for a second before answering. “A few years ago. She wasn't my real mother,” he said, like he was confessing a secret. “But it felt like it.”

Poppy kept her hands in her lap, fighting the impulse to touch him again.

He insisted on walking her home, even though it wasn't far and Poppy told him she'd be fine on her own. She was limping, and he took her arm and she leaned on him. Despite the pain in her leg, Poppy took him the longest route. They walked without words, as if not wanting to puncture the promise that floated in the air. The silence was soft and silky, and they glided through it, letting it caress their skin. She got used to the boy's warmth and felt the chill as soon as they parted. They stood there outside her house, looking at each other. Suddenly the silence seized them, tethering them too tightly.

Say something
, Poppy wished to the boy. And then she couldn't bear the wait and spoke herself. “So now you know where I live.”

The boy smiled, and she saw a hint of satisfaction there.

“What about you?” she continued.

He shifted from one foot to another, and Poppy couldn't work out what was wrong but then he answered, “I live in town,” and she thought nothing more of it.

The boy was looking at her like he wanted her to read something in his eyes, but Poppy tried and found herself illiterate. All at once she felt overwhelmed and she turned to go.

“See you around, then,” she muttered, but he reached out and took her hand in his. She glanced back at him apprehensively. But they just stood there, her hand in his until everything became about their two hands, joined, melded. Poppy looked from their hands to his eyes, and this time she could interpret what she saw there and her heart beat faster.

“I just wanted to know what it felt like,” he said. Then he let go and Poppy felt bereft. “Good night, Poppy Hooper.”

“How d'you know my name?”

He was walking away but he called out, and the word hung in the air: “Magic!”