The Hunger Games Part 3: The Victor
Chapter 23
Every cell in my body wants me to dig into the stew and cram it, handful by
handful into my mouth. But Peeta’s voice stops me. “We better take it slow on that
stew. Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I
wasn’t even starving then.”
“You’re right. And I could just inhale the whole thing!” I say regretfully. But I
don’t. We are quite sensible. We each have a roll, half an apple, and an egg-size
serving of stew and rice. I make myself eat the stew in tiny spoonfuls — they even
sent us silverware and plates — savoring each bite. When we finish, I stare
longingly at the dish. “I want more.”
“Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another
serving,” Peeta says.
“Agreed,” I say. “It’s going to be a long hour.”
“Maybe not that long,” says Peeta. “What was that you were saying just before
the food arrived? Something about me . . . no competition . . . best thing that ever
happened to you . . .”
“I don’t remember that last part,” I say, hoping it’s too dim in here for the
cameras to pick up my blush.
“Oh, that’s right. That’s what I was thinking,” he says. “Scoot over, I’m
freezing.”
I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall,
my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me. I can feel Haymitch
nudging me to keep up the act. “So, since we were five, you never even noticed
any other girls?” I ask him.
“No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting
impression but you,” he says.
“I’m sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam,” I say.
“Hardly. But I couldn’t care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won’t be a
girl from the Seam, you’ll be a girl from the Victor’s Village,” he says.
That’s right. If we win, we’ll each get a house in the part of town reserved for
Hunger Games’ victors. Long ago, when the Games began, the Capitol had built a
dozen fine houses in each district. Of course, in ours only one is occupied. Most of
the others have never been lived in at all.
A disturbing thought hits me. “But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!”
“Ah, that’ll be nice,” says Peeta, tightening his arms around me. “You and me
and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire
retelling old Hunger Games’ tales.”
“I told you, he hates me!” I say, but I can’t help laughing at the image of
Haymitch becoming my new pal.
“Only sometimes. When he’s sober, I’ve never heard him say one negative
thing about you,” says Peeta.
“He’s never sober!” I protest.
“That’s right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It’s Cinna who likes you. But
that’s mainly because you didn’t try to run when he set you on fire,” says Peeta.
“On the other hand, Haymitch . . . well, if I were you, I’d avoid Haymitch
completely. He hates you.”
“I thought you said I was his favorite,” I say.
“He hates me more,” says Peeta. “I don’t think people in general are his sort of
thing.”
I know the audience will enjoy our having fun at Haymitch’s expense. He has
been around so long, he’s practically an old friend to some of them. And after his
head-dive off the stage at the reaping, everybody knows him. By this time, they’ll
have dragged him out of the control room for interviews about us. No telling what
sort of lies he’s made up. He’s at something of a disadvantage because most
mentors have a partner, another victor to help them whereas Haymitch has to be
ready to go into action at any moment. Kind of like me when I was alone in the
arena. I wonder how he’s holding up, with the drinking, the attention, and the
stress of trying to keep us alive.
It’s funny. Haymitch and I don’t get along well in person, but maybe Peeta is
right about us being alike because he seems able to communicate with me by the
timing of his gifts. Like how I knew I must be close to water when he withheld it
and how I knew the sleep syrup just wasn’t something to ease Peeta’s pain and
how I know now that I have to play up the romance. He hasn’t made much effort to
connect with Peeta really. Perhaps he thinks a bowl of broth would just be a bowl
of broth to Peeta, whereas I’ll see the strings attached to it.
A thought hits me, and I’m amazed the question’s taken so long to surface.
Maybe it’s because I’ve only recently begun to view Haymitch with a degree of
curiosity. “How do you think he did it?”
“Who? Did what?” Peeta asks.
“Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games?” I say.
Peeta considers this quite a while before he answers. Haymitch is sturdily built,
but no physical wonder like Cato or Thresh. He’s not particularly handsome. Not in
the way that causes sponsors to rain gifts on you. And he’s so surly, it’s hard to
imagine anyone teaming up with him. There’s only one way Haymitch could have
won, and Peeta says it just as I’m reaching this conclusion myself.
“He outsmarted the others,” says Peeta.
I nod, then let the conversation drop. But secretly I’m wondering if Haymitch
sobered up long enough to help Peeta and me because he thought we just might
have the wits to survive. Maybe he wasn’t always a drunk. Maybe, in the
beginning, he tried to help the tributes. But then it got unbearable. It must be hell
to mentor two kids and then watch them die. Year after year after year. I realize
that if I get out of here, that will become my job. To mentor the girl from District
12. The idea is so repellent, I thrust it from my mind.
About half an hour has passed before I decide I have to eat again. Peeta’s too
hungry himself to put up an argument. While I’m dishing up two more small
servings of lamb stew and rice, we hear the anthem begin to play. Peeta presses
his eyes against a crack in the rocks to watch the sky.
“There won’t be anything to see tonight,” I say, far more interested in the stew
than the sky. “Nothing’s happened or we would’ve heard a cannon.”
“Katniss,” Peeta says quietly.
“What? Should we split another roll, too?” I ask.
“Katniss,” he repeats, but I find myself wanting to ignore him.
“I’m going to split one. But I’ll save the cheese for tomorrow,” I say. I see
Peeta staring at me. “What?”
“Thresh is dead,” says Peeta.
“He can’t be,” I say.
“They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it,” says
Peeta.
“Are you sure? I mean, it’s pouring buckets out there. I don’t know how you
can see anything,” I say. I push him away from the rocks and squint out into the
dark, rainy sky. For about ten seconds, I catch a distorted glimpse of Thresh’s
picture and then he’s gone. Just like that.
I slump down against the rocks, momentarily forgetting about the task at hand.
Thresh dead. I should be happy, right? One less tribute to face. And a powerful
one, too. But I’m not happy. All I can think about is Thresh letting me go, letting
me run because of Rue, who died with that spear in her stomach. . . .
“You all right?” asks Peeta.
I give a noncommittal shrug and cup my elbows in my hands, hugging them
close to my body. I have to bury the real pain because who’s going to bet on a
tribute who keeps sniveling over the deaths of her opponents. Rue was one thing.
We were allies. She was so young. But no one will understand my sorrow at
Thresh’s murder. The word pulls me up short. Murder! Thankfully, I didn’t say it
aloud. That’s not going to win me any points in the arena. What I do say is, “It’s
just . . . if we didn’t win . . . I wanted Thresh to. Because he let me go. And
because of Rue.”
“Yeah, I know,” says Peeta. “But this means we’re one step closer to District
Twelve.” He nudges a plate of foot into my hands. “Eat. It’s still warm.”
I take a bite of the stew to show I don’t really care, but it’s like glue in my
mouth and takes a lot of effort to swallow. “It also means Cato will be back hunting
us.”
“And he’s got supplies again,” says Peeta.
“He’ll be wounded, I bet,” I say.
“What makes you say that?” Peeta asks.
“Because Thresh would have never gone down without a fight. He’s so strong, I
mean, he was. And they were in his territory,” I say.
“Good,” says Peeta. “The more wounded Cato is the better. I wonder how
Foxface is making out.”
“Oh, she’s fine,” I say peevishly. I’m still angry she thought of hiding in the
Cornucopia and I didn’t. “Probably be easier to catch Cato than her.”
“Maybe they’ll catch each other and we can just go home,” says Peeta. “But
we better be extra careful about the watches. I dozed off a few times.”
“Me, too,” I admit. “But not tonight.”
We finish our food in silence and then Peeta offers to take the first watch. I
burrow down in the sleeping bag next to him, pulling my hood up over my face to
hide it from the cameras. I just need a few moments of privacy where I can let any
emotion cross my face without being seen. Under the hood, I silently say good-bye
to Thresh and thank him for my life. I promise to remember him and, if I can, do
something to help his family and Rue’s, if I win. Then I escape into sleep,
comforted by a full belly and the steady warmth of Peeta beside me.
When Peeta wakes me later, the first thing I register is the smell of goat
cheese. He’s holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped
with apple slices. “Don’t be mad,” he says. “I had to eat again. Here’s your half.”
“Oh, good,” I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese
tastes just like the kind Prim makes, the apples are sweet and crunchy. “Mm.”
“We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery,” he says.
“Bet that’s expensive,” I say.
“Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it’s gone very stale. Of course,
practically everything we eat is stale,” says Peeta, pulling the sleeping bag up
around him. In less than a minute, he’s snoring.
Huh. I always assumed the shopkeepers live a soft life.
And it’s true, Peeta has always had enough to eat. But there’s something kind
of depressing about living your life on stale bread, the hard, dry loaves that no one
else wanted. One thing about us, since I bring our food home on a daily basis,
most of it is so fresh you have to make sure it isn’t going to make a run for it.
Somewhere during my shift, the rain stops not gradually but all at once. The
downpour ends and there’s only the residual drippings of water from branches, the
rush of the now overflowing stream below us. A full, beautiful moon emerges, and
even without the glasses I can see outside. I can’t decide if the moon is real or
merely a projection of the Gamemakers. I know it was full shortly before I left
home. Gale and I watched it rise as we hunted into the late hours.
How long have I been gone? I’m guessing it’s been about two weeks in the
arena, and there was that week of preparation in the Capitol. Maybe the moon has
completed its cycle. For some reason, I badly want it to be my moon, the same
one I see from the woods around District 12. That would give me something to
cling to in the surreal world of the arena where the authenticity of everything is to
be doubted.
Four of us left.
For the first time, I allow myself to truly think about the possibility that I might
make it home. To fame. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor’s Village. My
mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of
freedom. But then . . . what? What would my life be like on a daily basis? Most of it
has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I’m not really
sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Haymitch,
with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children,
most of his waking hours drunk. I don’t want to end up like that.
“But you won’t be alone,” I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Prim.
Well, for the time being. And then . . . I don’t want to think about then, when Prim
has grown up, my mother passed away. I know I’ll never marry, never risk bringing
a child into the world. Because if there’s one thing being a victor doesn’t
guarantee, it’s your children’s safety. My kids’ names would go right into the
reaping balls with everyone else’s. And I swear I’ll never let that happen.
The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating
Peeta’s face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing,
good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem
believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I’ll admit it, there are moments
when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we’ll be friends, I think. Nothing will
change the fact that we’ve saved each other’s lives in here. And beyond that, he
will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though .
. . and I feel Gale’s gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from
District 12.
Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Peeta’s shoulder. His
eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss.
“We’re wasting hunting time,” I say when I finally break away.
“I wouldn’t call it wasting,” he says giving a big stretch as he sits up. “So do we
hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?”
“Not us,” I say. “We stuff ourselves to give us staying power.”
“Count me in,” Peeta says. But I can see he’s surprised when I divide the rest
of the stew and rice and hand a heaping plate to him. “All this?”
“We’ll earn it back today,” I say, and we both plow into our plates. Even cold,
it’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I abandon my fork and scrape up the
last dabs of gravy with my finger. “I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my
manners.”
“Hey, Effie, watch this!” says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and
literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he
blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, “We miss you, Effie!”
I cover his mouth with my hand, but I’m laughing. “Stop! Cato could be right
outside our cave.”
He grabs my hand away. “What do I care? I’ve got you to protect me now,”
says Peeta, pulling me to him.
“Come on,” I say in exasperation, extricating myself from his grasp but not
before he gets in another kiss.
Once we’re packed up and standing outside our cave, our mood shifts to
serious. It’s as though for the last few days, sheltered by the rocks and the rain
and Cato’s preoccupation with Thresh, we were given a respite, a holiday of sorts.
Now, although the day is sunny and warm, we both sense we’re really back in the
Games. I hand Peeta my knife, since whatever weapons he once had are long
gone, and he slips it into his belt. My last seven arrows — of the twelve I sacrificed
three in the explosion, two at the feast — rattle a bit too loosely in the quiver. I
can’t afford to lose any more.
“He’ll be hunting us by now,” says Peeta. “Cato isn’t one to wait for his prey to
wander by.”
“If he’s wounded —” I begin.
“It won’t matter,” Peeta breaks in. “If he can move, he’s coming.”
With all the rain, the stream has overrun its banks by several feet on either
side. We stop there to replenish our water. I check the snares I set days ago and
come up empty. Not surprising with the weather. Besides, I haven’t seen many
animals or signs of them in this area.
“If we want food, we better head back up to my old hunting grounds,” I say.
“Your call. Just tell me what you need me to do,” Peeta says.
“Keep an eye out,” I say. “Stay on the rocks as much as possible, no sense in
leaving him tracks to follow. And listen for both of us.” It’s clear, at this point, that
the explosion destroyed the hearing in my left ear for good.
I’d walk in the water to cover our tracks completely, but I’m not sure Peeta’s
leg could take the current. Although the drugs have erased the infection, he’s still
pretty weak. My forehead hurts along the knife cut, but after three days the
bleeding has stopped. I wear a bandage around my head though, just in case
physical exertion should bring it back.
As we head up alongside the stream, we pass the place where I found Peeta
camouflaged in the weeds and mud. One good thing, between the downpour and
the flooded banks, all signs of his hiding place have been wiped out. That means
that, if need be, we can come back to our cave. Otherwise, I wouldn’t risk it with
Cato after us.
The boulders diminish to rocks that eventually turn to pebbles, and then, to my
relief, we’re back on pine needles and the gentle incline of the forest floor. For the
first time, I realize we have a problem. Navigating the rocky terrain with a bad leg
— well, you’re naturally going to make some noise. But even on the smooth bed of
needles, Peeta is loud. And I mean loud loud, as if he’s stomping his feet or
something. I turn and look at him.
“What?” he asks.
“You’ve got to move more quietly,” I say. “Forget about Cato, you’re chasing
off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius.”
“Really?” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”
So, we start up again and he’s a tiny bit better, but even with only one working
ear, he’s making me jump.
“Can you take your boots off?” I suggest.
“Here?” he asks in disbelief, as if I’d asked him to walk barefoot on hot coals or
something. I have to remind myself that he’s still not used to the woods, that it’s
the scary, forbidden place beyond the fences of District 12. I think of Gale, with his
velvet tread. It’s eerie how little sound he makes, even when the leaves have
fallen and it’s a challenge to move at all without chasing off the game. I feel
certain he’s laughing back home.
“Yes,” I say patiently. “I will, too. That way we’ll both be quieter.” Like I was
making any noise. So we both strip off our boots and socks and, while there’s
some improvement, I could swear he’s making an effort to snap every branch we
encounter.
Needless to say, although it takes several hours to reach my old camp with
Rue, I’ve shot nothing. If the stream would settle down, fish might be an option,
but the current is still too strong. As we stop to rest and drink water, I try to work
out a solution. Ideally, I’d dump Peeta now with some simple root-gathering chore
and go hunt, but then he’d be left with only a knife to defend himself against
Cato’s spears and superior strength. So what I’d really like is to try and conceal
him somewhere safe, then go hunt, and come back and collect him. But I have a
feeling his ego isn’t going to go for that suggestion.
“Katniss,” he says. “We need to split up. I know I’m chasing away the game.”
“Only because your leg’s hurt,” I say generously, because really, you can tell
that’s only a small part of the problem.
“I know,” he says. “So, why don’t you go on? Show me some plants to gather
and that way we’ll both be useful.”
“Not if Cato comes and kills you.” I tried to say it in a nice way, but it still
sounds like I think he’s a weakling.
Surprisingly, he just laughs. “Look, I can handle Cato. I fought him before,
didn’t I?”
Yeah, and that turned out great. You ended up dying in a mud bank. That’s
what I want to say, but I can’t. He did save my life by taking on Cato after all. I try
another tactic. “What if you climbed up in a tree and acted as a lookout while I
hunted?” I say, trying to make it sound like very important work.
“What if you show me what’s edible around here and go get us some meat?”
he says, mimicking my tone. “Just don’t go far, in case you need help.”
I sigh and show him some roots to dig. We do need food, no question. One
apple, two rolls, and a blob of cheese the size of a plum won’t last long. I’ll just go
a short distance and hope Cato is a long way off.
I teach him a bird whistle — not a melody like Rue’s but a simple two-note
whistle — which we can use to communicate that we’re all right. Fortunately, he’s
good at this. Leaving him with the pack, I head off.
I feel like I’m eleven again, tethered not to the safety of the fence but to Peeta,
allowing myself twenty, maybe thirty yards of hunting space. Away from him
though, the woods come alive with animal sounds. Reassured by his periodic
whistles, I allow myself to drift farther away, and soon have two rabbits and a fat
squirrel to show for it. I decide it’s enough. I can set snares and maybe get some
fish. With Peeta’s roots, this will be enough for now.
As I travel the short distance back, I realize we haven’t exchanged signals in a
while. When my whistle receives no response, I run. In no time, I find the pack, a
neat pile of roots beside it. The sheet of plastic has been laid on the ground where
the sun can reach the single layer of berries that covers it. But where is he?
“Peeta!” I call out in a panic. “Peeta!” I turn to the rus tle of brush and almost
send an arrow through him. Fortunately, I pull my bow at the last second and it
sticks in an oak trunk to his left. He jumps back, flinging a handful of berries into
the foliage.
My fear comes out as anger. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be here,
not running around in the woods!”
“I found some berries down by the stream,” he says, clearly confused by my
outburst.
“I whistled. Why didn’t you whistle back?” I snap at him.
“I didn’t hear. The water’s too loud, I guess,” he says. He crosses and puts his
hands on my shoulders. That’s when I feel that I’m trembling.
“I thought Cato killed you!” I almost shout.
“No, I’m fine.” Peeta wraps his arms around me, but I don’t respond. “Katniss?”
I push away, trying to sort out my feelings. “If two peo ple agree on a signal,
they stay in range. Because if one of them doesn’t answer, they’re in trouble, all
right?”
“All right!” he says.
“All right. Because that’s what happened with Rue, and I watched her die!” I
say. I turn away from him, go to the pack and open a fresh bottle of water,
although I still have some in mine. But I’m not ready to forgive him. I notice the
food. The rolls and apples are untouched, but someone’s definitely picked away
part of the cheese. “And you ate without me!” I really don’t care, I just want
something else to be mad about.
“What? No, I didn’t,” Peeta says.
“Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese,” I say.
“I don’t know what ate the cheese,” Peeta says slowly and distinctly, as if
trying not to lose his temper, “but it wasn’t me. I’ve been down by the stream
collecting berries. Would you care for some?”
I would actually, but I don’t want to relent too soon. I do walk over and look at
them. I’ve never seen this type before. No, I have. But not in the arena. These
aren’t Rue’s berries, although they resemble them. Nor do they match any I
learned about in training. I lean down and scoop up a few, rolling them between
my fingers.
My father’s voice comes back to me. “Not these, Katniss. Never these. They’re
nightlock. You’ll be dead before they reach your stomach.”
Just then, the cannon fires. I whip around, expecting Peeta to collapse to the
ground, but he only raises his eyebrows. The hovercraft appears a hundred yards
or so away. What’s left of Foxface’s emaciated body is lifted into the air. I can see
the red glint of her hair in the sunlight.
I should have known the moment I saw the missing cheese. . . .
Peeta has me by the arm, pushing me toward a tree. “Climb. He’ll be here in a
second. We’ll stand a better chance fighting him from above.”
I stop him, suddenly calm. “No, Peeta, she’s your kill, not Cato’s.”
“What? I haven’t even seen her since the first day,” he says. “How could I have
killed her?”
In answer, I hold out the berries.
Chapter 23
Every cell in my body wants me to dig into the stew and cram it, handful by
handful into my mouth. But Peeta’s voice stops me. “We better take it slow on that
stew. Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I
wasn’t even starving then.”
“You’re right. And I could just inhale the whole thing!” I say regretfully. But I
don’t. We are quite sensible. We each have a roll, half an apple, and an egg-size
serving of stew and rice. I make myself eat the stew in tiny spoonfuls — they even
sent us silverware and plates — savoring each bite. When we finish, I stare
longingly at the dish. “I want more.”
“Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another
serving,” Peeta says.
“Agreed,” I say. “It’s going to be a long hour.”
“Maybe not that long,” says Peeta. “What was that you were saying just before
the food arrived? Something about me . . . no competition . . . best thing that ever
happened to you . . .”
“I don’t remember that last part,” I say, hoping it’s too dim in here for the
cameras to pick up my blush.
“Oh, that’s right. That’s what I was thinking,” he says. “Scoot over, I’m
freezing.”
I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall,
my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me. I can feel Haymitch
nudging me to keep up the act. “So, since we were five, you never even noticed
any other girls?” I ask him.
“No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting
impression but you,” he says.
“I’m sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam,” I say.
“Hardly. But I couldn’t care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won’t be a
girl from the Seam, you’ll be a girl from the Victor’s Village,” he says.
That’s right. If we win, we’ll each get a house in the part of town reserved for
Hunger Games’ victors. Long ago, when the Games began, the Capitol had built a
dozen fine houses in each district. Of course, in ours only one is occupied. Most of
the others have never been lived in at all.
A disturbing thought hits me. “But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!”
“Ah, that’ll be nice,” says Peeta, tightening his arms around me. “You and me
and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire
retelling old Hunger Games’ tales.”
“I told you, he hates me!” I say, but I can’t help laughing at the image of
Haymitch becoming my new pal.
“Only sometimes. When he’s sober, I’ve never heard him say one negative
thing about you,” says Peeta.
“He’s never sober!” I protest.
“That’s right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It’s Cinna who likes you. But
that’s mainly because you didn’t try to run when he set you on fire,” says Peeta.
“On the other hand, Haymitch . . . well, if I were you, I’d avoid Haymitch
completely. He hates you.”
“I thought you said I was his favorite,” I say.
“He hates me more,” says Peeta. “I don’t think people in general are his sort of
thing.”
I know the audience will enjoy our having fun at Haymitch’s expense. He has
been around so long, he’s practically an old friend to some of them. And after his
head-dive off the stage at the reaping, everybody knows him. By this time, they’ll
have dragged him out of the control room for interviews about us. No telling what
sort of lies he’s made up. He’s at something of a disadvantage because most
mentors have a partner, another victor to help them whereas Haymitch has to be
ready to go into action at any moment. Kind of like me when I was alone in the
arena. I wonder how he’s holding up, with the drinking, the attention, and the
stress of trying to keep us alive.
It’s funny. Haymitch and I don’t get along well in person, but maybe Peeta is
right about us being alike because he seems able to communicate with me by the
timing of his gifts. Like how I knew I must be close to water when he withheld it
and how I knew the sleep syrup just wasn’t something to ease Peeta’s pain and
how I know now that I have to play up the romance. He hasn’t made much effort to
connect with Peeta really. Perhaps he thinks a bowl of broth would just be a bowl
of broth to Peeta, whereas I’ll see the strings attached to it.
A thought hits me, and I’m amazed the question’s taken so long to surface.
Maybe it’s because I’ve only recently begun to view Haymitch with a degree of
curiosity. “How do you think he did it?”
“Who? Did what?” Peeta asks.
“Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games?” I say.
Peeta considers this quite a while before he answers. Haymitch is sturdily built,
but no physical wonder like Cato or Thresh. He’s not particularly handsome. Not in
the way that causes sponsors to rain gifts on you. And he’s so surly, it’s hard to
imagine anyone teaming up with him. There’s only one way Haymitch could have
won, and Peeta says it just as I’m reaching this conclusion myself.
“He outsmarted the others,” says Peeta.
I nod, then let the conversation drop. But secretly I’m wondering if Haymitch
sobered up long enough to help Peeta and me because he thought we just might
have the wits to survive. Maybe he wasn’t always a drunk. Maybe, in the
beginning, he tried to help the tributes. But then it got unbearable. It must be hell
to mentor two kids and then watch them die. Year after year after year. I realize
that if I get out of here, that will become my job. To mentor the girl from District
12. The idea is so repellent, I thrust it from my mind.
About half an hour has passed before I decide I have to eat again. Peeta’s too
hungry himself to put up an argument. While I’m dishing up two more small
servings of lamb stew and rice, we hear the anthem begin to play. Peeta presses
his eyes against a crack in the rocks to watch the sky.
“There won’t be anything to see tonight,” I say, far more interested in the stew
than the sky. “Nothing’s happened or we would’ve heard a cannon.”
“Katniss,” Peeta says quietly.
“What? Should we split another roll, too?” I ask.
“Katniss,” he repeats, but I find myself wanting to ignore him.
“I’m going to split one. But I’ll save the cheese for tomorrow,” I say. I see
Peeta staring at me. “What?”
“Thresh is dead,” says Peeta.
“He can’t be,” I say.
“They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it,” says
Peeta.
“Are you sure? I mean, it’s pouring buckets out there. I don’t know how you
can see anything,” I say. I push him away from the rocks and squint out into the
dark, rainy sky. For about ten seconds, I catch a distorted glimpse of Thresh’s
picture and then he’s gone. Just like that.
I slump down against the rocks, momentarily forgetting about the task at hand.
Thresh dead. I should be happy, right? One less tribute to face. And a powerful
one, too. But I’m not happy. All I can think about is Thresh letting me go, letting
me run because of Rue, who died with that spear in her stomach. . . .
“You all right?” asks Peeta.
I give a noncommittal shrug and cup my elbows in my hands, hugging them
close to my body. I have to bury the real pain because who’s going to bet on a
tribute who keeps sniveling over the deaths of her opponents. Rue was one thing.
We were allies. She was so young. But no one will understand my sorrow at
Thresh’s murder. The word pulls me up short. Murder! Thankfully, I didn’t say it
aloud. That’s not going to win me any points in the arena. What I do say is, “It’s
just . . . if we didn’t win . . . I wanted Thresh to. Because he let me go. And
because of Rue.”
“Yeah, I know,” says Peeta. “But this means we’re one step closer to District
Twelve.” He nudges a plate of foot into my hands. “Eat. It’s still warm.”
I take a bite of the stew to show I don’t really care, but it’s like glue in my
mouth and takes a lot of effort to swallow. “It also means Cato will be back hunting
us.”
“And he’s got supplies again,” says Peeta.
“He’ll be wounded, I bet,” I say.
“What makes you say that?” Peeta asks.
“Because Thresh would have never gone down without a fight. He’s so strong, I
mean, he was. And they were in his territory,” I say.
“Good,” says Peeta. “The more wounded Cato is the better. I wonder how
Foxface is making out.”
“Oh, she’s fine,” I say peevishly. I’m still angry she thought of hiding in the
Cornucopia and I didn’t. “Probably be easier to catch Cato than her.”
“Maybe they’ll catch each other and we can just go home,” says Peeta. “But
we better be extra careful about the watches. I dozed off a few times.”
“Me, too,” I admit. “But not tonight.”
We finish our food in silence and then Peeta offers to take the first watch. I
burrow down in the sleeping bag next to him, pulling my hood up over my face to
hide it from the cameras. I just need a few moments of privacy where I can let any
emotion cross my face without being seen. Under the hood, I silently say good-bye
to Thresh and thank him for my life. I promise to remember him and, if I can, do
something to help his family and Rue’s, if I win. Then I escape into sleep,
comforted by a full belly and the steady warmth of Peeta beside me.
When Peeta wakes me later, the first thing I register is the smell of goat
cheese. He’s holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped
with apple slices. “Don’t be mad,” he says. “I had to eat again. Here’s your half.”
“Oh, good,” I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese
tastes just like the kind Prim makes, the apples are sweet and crunchy. “Mm.”
“We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery,” he says.
“Bet that’s expensive,” I say.
“Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it’s gone very stale. Of course,
practically everything we eat is stale,” says Peeta, pulling the sleeping bag up
around him. In less than a minute, he’s snoring.
Huh. I always assumed the shopkeepers live a soft life.
And it’s true, Peeta has always had enough to eat. But there’s something kind
of depressing about living your life on stale bread, the hard, dry loaves that no one
else wanted. One thing about us, since I bring our food home on a daily basis,
most of it is so fresh you have to make sure it isn’t going to make a run for it.
Somewhere during my shift, the rain stops not gradually but all at once. The
downpour ends and there’s only the residual drippings of water from branches, the
rush of the now overflowing stream below us. A full, beautiful moon emerges, and
even without the glasses I can see outside. I can’t decide if the moon is real or
merely a projection of the Gamemakers. I know it was full shortly before I left
home. Gale and I watched it rise as we hunted into the late hours.
How long have I been gone? I’m guessing it’s been about two weeks in the
arena, and there was that week of preparation in the Capitol. Maybe the moon has
completed its cycle. For some reason, I badly want it to be my moon, the same
one I see from the woods around District 12. That would give me something to
cling to in the surreal world of the arena where the authenticity of everything is to
be doubted.
Four of us left.
For the first time, I allow myself to truly think about the possibility that I might
make it home. To fame. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor’s Village. My
mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of
freedom. But then . . . what? What would my life be like on a daily basis? Most of it
has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I’m not really
sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Haymitch,
with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children,
most of his waking hours drunk. I don’t want to end up like that.
“But you won’t be alone,” I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Prim.
Well, for the time being. And then . . . I don’t want to think about then, when Prim
has grown up, my mother passed away. I know I’ll never marry, never risk bringing
a child into the world. Because if there’s one thing being a victor doesn’t
guarantee, it’s your children’s safety. My kids’ names would go right into the
reaping balls with everyone else’s. And I swear I’ll never let that happen.
The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating
Peeta’s face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing,
good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem
believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I’ll admit it, there are moments
when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we’ll be friends, I think. Nothing will
change the fact that we’ve saved each other’s lives in here. And beyond that, he
will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though .
. . and I feel Gale’s gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from
District 12.
Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Peeta’s shoulder. His
eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss.
“We’re wasting hunting time,” I say when I finally break away.
“I wouldn’t call it wasting,” he says giving a big stretch as he sits up. “So do we
hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?”
“Not us,” I say. “We stuff ourselves to give us staying power.”
“Count me in,” Peeta says. But I can see he’s surprised when I divide the rest
of the stew and rice and hand a heaping plate to him. “All this?”
“We’ll earn it back today,” I say, and we both plow into our plates. Even cold,
it’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I abandon my fork and scrape up the
last dabs of gravy with my finger. “I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my
manners.”
“Hey, Effie, watch this!” says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and
literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he
blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, “We miss you, Effie!”
I cover his mouth with my hand, but I’m laughing. “Stop! Cato could be right
outside our cave.”
He grabs my hand away. “What do I care? I’ve got you to protect me now,”
says Peeta, pulling me to him.
“Come on,” I say in exasperation, extricating myself from his grasp but not
before he gets in another kiss.
Once we’re packed up and standing outside our cave, our mood shifts to
serious. It’s as though for the last few days, sheltered by the rocks and the rain
and Cato’s preoccupation with Thresh, we were given a respite, a holiday of sorts.
Now, although the day is sunny and warm, we both sense we’re really back in the
Games. I hand Peeta my knife, since whatever weapons he once had are long
gone, and he slips it into his belt. My last seven arrows — of the twelve I sacrificed
three in the explosion, two at the feast — rattle a bit too loosely in the quiver. I
can’t afford to lose any more.
“He’ll be hunting us by now,” says Peeta. “Cato isn’t one to wait for his prey to
wander by.”
“If he’s wounded —” I begin.
“It won’t matter,” Peeta breaks in. “If he can move, he’s coming.”
With all the rain, the stream has overrun its banks by several feet on either
side. We stop there to replenish our water. I check the snares I set days ago and
come up empty. Not surprising with the weather. Besides, I haven’t seen many
animals or signs of them in this area.
“If we want food, we better head back up to my old hunting grounds,” I say.
“Your call. Just tell me what you need me to do,” Peeta says.
“Keep an eye out,” I say. “Stay on the rocks as much as possible, no sense in
leaving him tracks to follow. And listen for both of us.” It’s clear, at this point, that
the explosion destroyed the hearing in my left ear for good.
I’d walk in the water to cover our tracks completely, but I’m not sure Peeta’s
leg could take the current. Although the drugs have erased the infection, he’s still
pretty weak. My forehead hurts along the knife cut, but after three days the
bleeding has stopped. I wear a bandage around my head though, just in case
physical exertion should bring it back.
As we head up alongside the stream, we pass the place where I found Peeta
camouflaged in the weeds and mud. One good thing, between the downpour and
the flooded banks, all signs of his hiding place have been wiped out. That means
that, if need be, we can come back to our cave. Otherwise, I wouldn’t risk it with
Cato after us.
The boulders diminish to rocks that eventually turn to pebbles, and then, to my
relief, we’re back on pine needles and the gentle incline of the forest floor. For the
first time, I realize we have a problem. Navigating the rocky terrain with a bad leg
— well, you’re naturally going to make some noise. But even on the smooth bed of
needles, Peeta is loud. And I mean loud loud, as if he’s stomping his feet or
something. I turn and look at him.
“What?” he asks.
“You’ve got to move more quietly,” I say. “Forget about Cato, you’re chasing
off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius.”
“Really?” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”
So, we start up again and he’s a tiny bit better, but even with only one working
ear, he’s making me jump.
“Can you take your boots off?” I suggest.
“Here?” he asks in disbelief, as if I’d asked him to walk barefoot on hot coals or
something. I have to remind myself that he’s still not used to the woods, that it’s
the scary, forbidden place beyond the fences of District 12. I think of Gale, with his
velvet tread. It’s eerie how little sound he makes, even when the leaves have
fallen and it’s a challenge to move at all without chasing off the game. I feel
certain he’s laughing back home.
“Yes,” I say patiently. “I will, too. That way we’ll both be quieter.” Like I was
making any noise. So we both strip off our boots and socks and, while there’s
some improvement, I could swear he’s making an effort to snap every branch we
encounter.
Needless to say, although it takes several hours to reach my old camp with
Rue, I’ve shot nothing. If the stream would settle down, fish might be an option,
but the current is still too strong. As we stop to rest and drink water, I try to work
out a solution. Ideally, I’d dump Peeta now with some simple root-gathering chore
and go hunt, but then he’d be left with only a knife to defend himself against
Cato’s spears and superior strength. So what I’d really like is to try and conceal
him somewhere safe, then go hunt, and come back and collect him. But I have a
feeling his ego isn’t going to go for that suggestion.
“Katniss,” he says. “We need to split up. I know I’m chasing away the game.”
“Only because your leg’s hurt,” I say generously, because really, you can tell
that’s only a small part of the problem.
“I know,” he says. “So, why don’t you go on? Show me some plants to gather
and that way we’ll both be useful.”
“Not if Cato comes and kills you.” I tried to say it in a nice way, but it still
sounds like I think he’s a weakling.
Surprisingly, he just laughs. “Look, I can handle Cato. I fought him before,
didn’t I?”
Yeah, and that turned out great. You ended up dying in a mud bank. That’s
what I want to say, but I can’t. He did save my life by taking on Cato after all. I try
another tactic. “What if you climbed up in a tree and acted as a lookout while I
hunted?” I say, trying to make it sound like very important work.
“What if you show me what’s edible around here and go get us some meat?”
he says, mimicking my tone. “Just don’t go far, in case you need help.”
I sigh and show him some roots to dig. We do need food, no question. One
apple, two rolls, and a blob of cheese the size of a plum won’t last long. I’ll just go
a short distance and hope Cato is a long way off.
I teach him a bird whistle — not a melody like Rue’s but a simple two-note
whistle — which we can use to communicate that we’re all right. Fortunately, he’s
good at this. Leaving him with the pack, I head off.
I feel like I’m eleven again, tethered not to the safety of the fence but to Peeta,
allowing myself twenty, maybe thirty yards of hunting space. Away from him
though, the woods come alive with animal sounds. Reassured by his periodic
whistles, I allow myself to drift farther away, and soon have two rabbits and a fat
squirrel to show for it. I decide it’s enough. I can set snares and maybe get some
fish. With Peeta’s roots, this will be enough for now.
As I travel the short distance back, I realize we haven’t exchanged signals in a
while. When my whistle receives no response, I run. In no time, I find the pack, a
neat pile of roots beside it. The sheet of plastic has been laid on the ground where
the sun can reach the single layer of berries that covers it. But where is he?
“Peeta!” I call out in a panic. “Peeta!” I turn to the rus tle of brush and almost
send an arrow through him. Fortunately, I pull my bow at the last second and it
sticks in an oak trunk to his left. He jumps back, flinging a handful of berries into
the foliage.
My fear comes out as anger. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be here,
not running around in the woods!”
“I found some berries down by the stream,” he says, clearly confused by my
outburst.
“I whistled. Why didn’t you whistle back?” I snap at him.
“I didn’t hear. The water’s too loud, I guess,” he says. He crosses and puts his
hands on my shoulders. That’s when I feel that I’m trembling.
“I thought Cato killed you!” I almost shout.
“No, I’m fine.” Peeta wraps his arms around me, but I don’t respond. “Katniss?”
I push away, trying to sort out my feelings. “If two peo ple agree on a signal,
they stay in range. Because if one of them doesn’t answer, they’re in trouble, all
right?”
“All right!” he says.
“All right. Because that’s what happened with Rue, and I watched her die!” I
say. I turn away from him, go to the pack and open a fresh bottle of water,
although I still have some in mine. But I’m not ready to forgive him. I notice the
food. The rolls and apples are untouched, but someone’s definitely picked away
part of the cheese. “And you ate without me!” I really don’t care, I just want
something else to be mad about.
“What? No, I didn’t,” Peeta says.
“Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese,” I say.
“I don’t know what ate the cheese,” Peeta says slowly and distinctly, as if
trying not to lose his temper, “but it wasn’t me. I’ve been down by the stream
collecting berries. Would you care for some?”
I would actually, but I don’t want to relent too soon. I do walk over and look at
them. I’ve never seen this type before. No, I have. But not in the arena. These
aren’t Rue’s berries, although they resemble them. Nor do they match any I
learned about in training. I lean down and scoop up a few, rolling them between
my fingers.
My father’s voice comes back to me. “Not these, Katniss. Never these. They’re
nightlock. You’ll be dead before they reach your stomach.”
Just then, the cannon fires. I whip around, expecting Peeta to collapse to the
ground, but he only raises his eyebrows. The hovercraft appears a hundred yards
or so away. What’s left of Foxface’s emaciated body is lifted into the air. I can see
the red glint of her hair in the sunlight.
I should have known the moment I saw the missing cheese. . . .
Peeta has me by the arm, pushing me toward a tree. “Climb. He’ll be here in a
second. We’ll stand a better chance fighting him from above.”
I stop him, suddenly calm. “No, Peeta, she’s your kill, not Cato’s.”
“What? I haven’t even seen her since the first day,” he says. “How could I have
killed her?”
In answer, I hold out the berries.
0 comments:
Post a Comment