The Hawkweed Prophecy Read Online Free PDF Page A

bite.”
    Ember willed her hand to move, but it wouldn’t. She started to feel sick.
    â€œSister Ada, she’s going to vomit again!”
    Ember couldn’t tell which of the girls had made this announcement, but there was tittering and chattering from the mass of them.
    â€œEmber Hawkweed! You will touch this snake this instant,” spat Sister Ada, spraying Ember with spittle.
    Ember’s arm obeyed and lifted. The index finger of her right hand uncurled and pointed. Her shoulder stretched in its joint . . . her fingertip was less than an inch from the snake’s brow. The snake watched, waited, then twitched.
    And Ember fled.
    â€œEmber Hawkweed! You pitiful excuse for a witch. Come back here!” shrieked Sister Ada.
    But Ember kept on running—out of the camp, past the wooden caravans with their peeling, faded paint, along the vegetable patches, between the boulders that encircled everything, into the bushes, through the great forest, and out into the fresh air of the river bank. There she stopped. She always stopped there—too scared to continue but too mortified to go back.

    An hour later, when the shame had receded, Ember was scooping the cold water into her palms and splashing it under her arms. She had goose bumps all over and her teeth were chattering. The bar of soap she always kept in her skirt pocket was a thin, translucent slither. It still smelled of lavender, though, she noticed with a fleeting sense of pride. For while the other girls brewed up vile medicinal stuff every day, she created soap.
    It hadn’t been easy. The first slabs were flaky, then mushy, before she got the ratio of oil, lye, and water just right. Since then, Ember had tried her hand at perfume too. Where the others took the roses’ thorns, she took the petals. She’d dab a few drops of the fragrance on her pillow at night and bury her head in the sweet, floral scent. The camp didn’t smell good. There were too many animal carcasses and fish bones. The ancient skills of witchcraft seemed to require the most hideous of ingredients. Ember worried that the rancid smells had coated her hair and become ingrained in her skin. So she slipped away to the river whenever shecould and scrubbed at her body until the soap lather foamed upon her, washing the traces of her odorous existence away.
    Ember watched as the last bubbles of her soap were carried downstream by the river. She wondered, as she always did, where the river led, and wished for the umpteenth time that she was brave enough to carry on, to follow the river around the bend and onward, away from her life to a world beyond. If only she were less fearful, she would dip her toes in the water, step out into the deep, lie back in the water, and let the currents take her.
    But she wasn’t brave. Not one bit. She was a coward, a pathetic thing, soft and weak. Ember had been told it enough times, and she had stopped taking offense long ago. It was the truth and there was no point denying it. So many things scared her—nettles, mice, owls, spells, curses, snakes. The list was endless. She wished she was like the others. She had tried to be. But she bruised easily and tears always came to her eyes before she had a chance to blink them back. To fit in with her clan, you had to be strong and coarse like rope—but Ember’s curves were plump and soft as pillows. And if you wanted to fit in with the night, your hair had to be dark. Ember’s was like a lamp, lighting up her inadequacies for all to see.
    Despite all this, Ember secretly cherished her looks. She knew she should want to look more like her cousin, Sorrel, but she just couldn’t make herself. She’d grown up in a community of women who paid no attention to their appearance. They scorned such feeble concerns and put their minds to greater pursuits. Ember had tried so hard to follow their example, but she loved to brush her fair hair until it shone; she liked her