The Hawkweed Prophecy by Irena Brignull

evidence of this witch’s existence.
    Sorrel tried to imagine Ember in such a state. The more she strived to picture it, the more unlikely it seemed. But Raven had charged Sorrel with a task and she must complete it. Besides, Sorrel liked having a mission. It made her feel important. She liked having a chance to prove her worth. It quieted the nagging voice in her head that told her she wasn’t good enough, not to be queen anyway.

    What Raven didn’t tell Sorrel was that the owl from the western oak had circled three times around the camp and then settled on the roof of Charlock’s caravan. A cloud shaped like a wolf had passed the moon, and the soot from the fire had formed seven peaks before a northeast wind had swept them away. All these omens would have incited too many questions from her daughter, and she didn’t want Sorrel knowing too much. Raven longed to investigate herself, but her sister was so attentive to Ember, so sensitive to her frailties, that Raven’s presence or any spell she cast might easily arouse Charlock’s suspicions. Sorrel, however, was often in Ember’s vicinity and Charlock was used to her meddling. Raven must, for now, be prudent and let Sorrel do the work.
    That night Raven dreamt that the great yew tree yanked itself from the ground and walked with earthy, fibrous limbs to warn that her life would be uprooted too. In Raven’s nightmare, she sawall her buried secrets come trailing out like worms and centipedes, exposed in all their ugliness by the light of the sun, defenseless against the pecking beaks of hungry birds.
    The next morning she found the great yew toppled, its ancient branches crushed. Its needles were scattered far around, and its trunk that had survived a thousand years was now lying prone like a giant corpse, its roots like entrails spilling out and dangling helplessly into the gaping, empty grave that once had been its home. The women and girls of the coven were gathering around and falling to their knees in grief at such a dreadful sight. They had thought this tree would outlive them all, as it had done for countless generations before them. They stroked its bark and gathered its needles, the ululating song of the eldest of the sisters a harrowing funereal dirge.
    Later the whisperings began. It was their enemy of old again, the witches of the East.
    â€œThey wouldn’t dare,” claimed one sister.
    Another suspected the Southerners. She had heard they’d suffered a rot that attacked the heart of their trees and killed whole thickets in days. Perhaps they’d sent it here. Two of them went and inspected the center of the yew but reported back that it was healthy.
    â€œIt is an omen. An omen of disaster and ruin,” the blind one said.
    The others hushed. They all looked to Raven. She held a piece of bark in one hand and the needles in the other and appeared to be divining a truth of great significance. Her eyes shut and her arms stretched out in supplication. The sisters waited silently. Then Raven spoke.
    â€œIt is the Eastern mountain clan. They struck the great tree to make us fear such an omen. For our future is golden. We have the next queen among us. And they mean to tarnish that.”
    Sharp as a sword were the words, steely as truth. It was, Raven told herself, the most likely conclusion.
    â€œWe must have retribution,” a younger sister cried.
    The voices rose around Raven and the talk turned to plots and schemes of reprisal against their bitter rivals. The Eastern sisters had fought with the Northern since long before the Hawkweed prophecy was first foretold, but the battles had escalated in more recent times. Three hundred and three years hence, the prophecy claimed. The day was drawing ever closer, and the enmity of other witches had heightened as they readied their own challengers to the throne.
    Since Sorrel was a baby Raven had cloaked her daughter in protection. Much of her energy went into