The Hunger Games (29 page)

The Goat Man was mad, but he still wanted that goat off his hands. It took us half an hour to agree on the price. Quite a crowd had gathered by then to hand out opinions. It was an excellent deal if the goat lived; I’d been robbed if she died. People took sides in the argument, but I took the goat.

Gale offered to carry her. I think he wanted to see the look on Prim’s face as much as I did. In a moment of complete giddiness, I bought a pink ribbon and tied it around her neck. Then we hurried back to my house.

You should have seen Prim’s reaction when we walked in with that goat. Remember this is a girl who wept to save that awful old cat, Buttercup. She was so excited she started crying and laughing all at once. My mother was less sure, seeing the injury, but the pair of them went to work on it, grinding up herbs and coaxing brews down the animal’s throat.

“They sound like you,” says Peeta. I had almost forgotten he was there.

“Oh, no, Peeta. They work magic. That thing couldn’t have died if it tried,” I say. But then I bite my tongue, realizing what that must sound like to Peeta, who is dying, in my incompetent hands.

“Don’t worry. I’m not trying,” he jokes. “Finish the story.”

“Well, that’s it. Only I remember that night, Prim insisted on sleeping with Lady on a blanket next to the fire. And just before they drifted off, the goat licked her cheek, like it was giving her a good night kiss or something,” I say. “It was already mad about her.”

“Was it still wearing the pink ribbon?” he asks.

“I think so,” I say. “Why?”

“I’m just trying to get a picture,” he says thoughtfully. “I can see why that day made you happy.”

“Well, I knew that goat would be a little gold mine,” I say.

“Yes, of course I was referring to that, not the lasting joy you gave the sister you love so much you took her place in the reaping,” says Peeta drily.

“The goat
has
paid for itself. Several times over,” I say in a superior tone.

“Well, it wouldn’t dare do anything else after you saved its life,” says Peeta. “I intend to do the same thing.”

“Really? What did you cost me again?” I ask.

“A lot of trouble. Don’t worry. You’ll get it all back,” he says.

“You’re not making sense,” I say. I test his forehead. The fever’s going nowhere but up. “You’re a little cooler though.”

The sound of the trumpets startles me. I’m on my feet and at the mouth of the cave in a flash, not wanting to miss a syllable. It’s my new best friend, Claudius Templesmith, and as I expected, he’s inviting us to a feast. Well, we’re not that hungry and I actually wave his offer away in indifference when he says, “Now hold on. Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately.”

I do need something desperately. Something to heal Peeta’s leg.

“Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance,” says Claudius.

There’s nothing else, just his words hanging in the air. I jump as Peeta grips my shoulder from behind. “No,” he says. “You’re not risking your life for me.”

“Who said I was?” I say.

“So, you’re not going?” he asks.

“Of course, I’m not going. Give me some credit. Do you think I’m running straight into some free-for-all against Cato and Clove and Thresh? Don’t be stupid,” I say, helping him back to bed. “I’ll let them fight it out, we’ll see who’s in the sky tomorrow night and work out a plan from there.”

“You’re such a bad liar, Katniss. I don’t know how you’ve survived this long.” He begins to mimic me. “
I knew that goat would be a little gold mine. You’re a little cooler though. Of course, I’m not going
.” He shakes his head. “Never gamble at cards. You’ll lose your last coin,” he says.

Anger flushes my face. “All right, I am going, and you can’t stop me!”

“I can follow you. At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I’m yelling your name, I bet someone can find me. And then I’ll be dead for sure,” he says.

“You won’t get a hundred yards from here on that leg,” I say.

“Then I’ll drag myself,” says Peeta. “You go and I’m going, too.”

He’s just stubborn enough and maybe just strong enough to do it. Come howling after me in the woods. Even if a tribute doesn’t find him, something else might. He can’t defend himself. I’d probably have to wall him up in the cave just to go myself. And who knows what the exertion will do to him?

“What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?” I say. He must know that’s not an option. That the audience would hate me. And frankly, I would hate myself, too, if I didn’t even try.

“I won’t die. I promise. If you promise not to go,” he says.

We’re at something of a stalemate. I know I can’t argue him out of this one, so I don’t try. I pretend, reluctantly, to go along. “Then you have to do what I say. Drink your water, wake me when I tell you, and eat every bite of the soup no matter how disgusting it is!” I snap at him.

“Agreed. Is it ready?” he asks.

“Wait here,” I say. The air’s gone cold even though the sun’s still up. I’m right about the Gamemakers messing with the temperature. I wonder if the thing someone needs desperately is a good blanket. The soup is still nice and warm in its iron pot. And actually doesn’t taste too bad.

Peeta eats without complaint, even scraping out the pot to show his enthusiasm. He rambles on about how delicious it is, which should be encouraging if you don’t know what fever does to people. He’s like listening to Haymitch before the alcohol has soaked him into incoherence. I give him another dose of fever medicine before he goes off his head completely.

As I go down to the stream to wash up, all I can think is that he’s going to die if I don’t get to that feast. I’ll keep him going for a day or two, and then the infection will reach his heart or his brain or his lungs and he’ll be gone. And I’ll be here all alone. Again. Waiting for the others.

I’m so lost in thought that I almost miss the parachute, even though it floats right by me. Then I spring after it, yanking it from the water, tearing off the silver fabric to retrieve the vial. Haymitch has done it! He’s gotten the medicine—I don’t know how, persuaded some gaggle of romantic fools to sell their jewels—and I can save Peeta! It’s such a tiny vial though. It must be very strong to cure someone as ill as Peeta. A ripple of doubt runs through me. I uncork the vial and take a deep sniff. My spirits fall at the sickly sweet scent. Just to be sure, I place a drop on the tip of my tongue. There’s no question, it’s sleep syrup. It’s a common medicine in District 12. Cheap, as medicine goes, but very addictive. Almost everyone’s had a dose at one time or another. We have some in a bottle at home. My mother gives it to hysterical patients to knock them out to stitch up a bad wound or quiet their minds or just to help someone in pain get through the night. It only takes a little. A vial this size could knock Peeta out for a full day, but what good is that? I’m so furious I’m about to throw Haymitch’s last offering into the stream when it hits me. A full day? That’s more than I need.

I mash up a handful of berries so the taste won’t be as noticeable and add some mint leaves for good measure. Then I head back up to the cave. “I’ve brought you a treat. I found a new patch of berries a little farther downstream.”

Peeta opens his mouth for the first bite without hesitation. He swallows then frowns slightly. “They’re very sweet.”

“Yes, they’re sugar berries. My mother makes jam from them. Haven’t you ever had them before?” I say, poking the next spoonful in his mouth.

“No,” he says, almost puzzled. “But they taste familiar. Sugar berries?”

“Well, you can’t get them in the market much, they only grow wild,” I say. Another mouthful goes down. Just one more to go.

“They’re sweet as syrup,” he says, taking the last spoonful. “Syrup.” His eyes widen as he realizes the truth. I clamp my hand over his mouth and nose hard, forcing him to swallow instead of spit. He tries to make himself vomit the stuff up, but it’s too late, he’s already losing consciousness. Even as he fades away, I can see in his eyes what I’ve done is unforgivable.

I sit back on my heels and look at him with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction. A stray berry stains his chin and I wipe it away. “Who can’t lie, Peeta?” I say, even though he can’t hear me.

It doesn’t matter. The rest of Panem can.

In the remaining hours before nightfall, I gather rocks and do my best to camouflage the opening of the cave. It’s a slow and arduous process, but after a lot of sweating and shifting things around, I’m pretty pleased with my work. The cave now appears to be part of a larger pile of rocks, like so many in the vicinity. I can still crawl in to Peeta through a small opening, but it’s undetectable from the outside. That’s good, because I’ll need to share that sleeping bag again tonight. Also, if I don’t make it back from the feast, Peeta will be hidden but not entirely imprisoned. Although I doubt he can hang on much longer without medicine. If I die at the feast, District 12 isn’t likely to have a victor.

I make a meal out of the smaller, bonier fish that inhabit the stream down here, fill every water container and purify it, and clean my weapons. I’ve nine arrows left in all. I debate leaving the knife with Peeta so he’ll have some protection while I’m gone, but there’s really no point. He was right about camouflage being his final defense. But I still might have use for the knife. Who knows what I’ll encounter?

Here are some things I’m fairly certain of. That at least Cato, Clove, and Thresh will be on hand when the feast starts. I’m not sure about Foxface since direct confrontation isn’t her style or her forte. She’s even smaller than I am and unarmed, unless she’s picked up some weapons recently. She’ll probably be hanging somewhere nearby, seeing what she can scavenge. But the other three…I’m going to have my hands full. My ability to kill at a distance is my greatest asset, but I know I’ll have to go right into the thick of things to get that backpack, the one with the number
12
on it that Claudius Templesmith mentioned.

I watch the sky, hoping for one less opponent at dawn, but nobody appears tonight. Tomorrow there will be faces up there. Feasts always result in fatalities.

I crawl into the cave, secure my glasses, and curl up next to Peeta. Luckily I had that good long sleep today. I have to stay awake. I don’t really think anyone will attack our cave tonight, but I can’t risk missing the dawn.

So cold, so bitterly cold tonight. As if the Gamemakers have sent an infusion of frozen air across the arena, which may be exactly what they’ve done. I lie next to Peeta in the bag, trying to absorb every bit of his fever heat. It’s strange to be so physically close to someone who’s so distant. Peeta might as well be back in the Capitol, or in District 12, or on the moon right now, he’d be no harder to reach. I’ve never felt lonelier since the Games began.

Just accept it will be a bad night,
I tell myself. I try not to, but I can’t help thinking of my mother and Prim, wondering if they’ll sleep a wink tonight. At this late stage in the Games, with an important event like the feast, school will probably be canceled. My family can either watch on that static-filled old clunker of a television at home or join the crowds in the square to watch on the big, clear screens. They’ll have privacy at home but support in the square. People will give them a kind word, a bit of food if they can spare it. I wonder if the baker has sought them out, especially now that Peeta and I are a team, and made good on his promise to keep my sister’s belly full.

Spirits must be running high in District 12. We so rarely have anyone to root for at this point in the Games. Surely, people are excited about Peeta and me, especially now that we’re together. If I close my eyes, I can imagine their shouts at the screens, urging us on. I see their faces—Greasy Sae and Madge and even the Peacekeepers who buy my meat—cheering for us.

And Gale. I know him. He won’t be shouting and cheering. But he’ll be watching, every moment, every twist and turn, and willing me to come home. I wonder if he’s hoping that Peeta makes it as well. Gale’s not my boyfriend, but would he be, if I opened that door? He talked about us running away together. Was that just a practical calculation of our chances of survival away from the district? Or something more?

I wonder what he makes of all this kissing.

Through a crack in the rocks, I watch the moon cross the sky. At what I judge to be about three hours before dawn, I begin final preparations. I’m careful to leave Peeta with water and the medical kit right beside him. Nothing else will be of much use if I don’t return, and even these would only prolong his life a short time. After some debate, I strip him of his jacket and zip it on over my own. He doesn’t need it. Not now in the sleeping bag with his fever, and during the day, if I’m not there to remove it, he’ll be roasting in it. My hands are already stiff from cold, so I take Rue’s spare pair of socks, cut holes for my fingers and thumbs, and pull them on. It helps anyway. I fill her small pack with some food, a water bottle, and bandages, tuck the knife in my belt, get my bow and arrows. I’m about to leave when I remember the importance of sustaining the star-crossed lover routine and I lean over and give Peeta a long, lingering kiss. I imagine the teary sighs emanating from the Capitol and pretend to brush away a tear of my own. Then I squeeze through the opening in the rocks out into the night.