Free The Hawkweed Prophecy by Irena Brignull Page A

the photographs, her imagination carrying her far, far away.
    â€œAre 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.
    â€œWhat’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.
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œNo,” replied Poppy.
    â€œDo you want one?”
    â€œNo,” Poppy answered with not a drop of doubt.
    â€œBecause you don’t like them?” Ember asked.
    â€œDo you ask everyone this many questions, or just me?” Poppy replied, her eyes fixed on the water she was adding to the paste.
    â€œJust you.”
    Ember’s answer was so sincere, no sign of cynicism or sarcasm, that Poppy responded alike.
    â€œLook, 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.
    â€œIt’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?”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œIt’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