Things are going to get dark. Consider yourself warned.
Dedicated to Hanieya for believing that my writing is awesome even when I'm pretty sure it isn't.
I will be twelve.
I am eleven for now. Eleven until the Reaping in just two hours.
I haven't stopped shaking since I woke up this morning. I told Mom it was because of the unexpectedly cool month.
But I think we can all guess the reason why.
"Steady now, Jay," Dad says, peering over my shoulder at the knots I make. "Let's just focus on what we need to do."
It was Dad's idea that we go trapping before the Reaping. It's not like our family doesn't need the money. But I know that in reality he is doing this for me. I need this. I need this silence before the world drowns me in noise.
I suppose Dad and I are alike in many ways, even beyond our physical similarities – that dark brown hair and green eyes that no one else seems to have for miles around. We both like nature far more than we ever liked humans and we'd both rather have silence than words.
The wind rises again, shrieking like a mockingjay through the air as I twist up the last snare. I try to close my eyes and focus on this wind and the trees and this place that I love more than anywhere else. But no matter what I do, I can't stop shaking.
We catch a rabbit not ten minutes later, its leg all twisted and bloodied. Dad hands me the knife and I go to kill, finding its small pulse beating so rapidly under my hand, the body going lax, eyes glazed over as if already accepting its fate. I raise my hand but I am shaking so badly that I can barely keep my hand raised, let alone kill this creature.
I lower the knife. "I'm sorry, Dad. I can't."
He takes both items from my fingers without a word and a moment later I hear the gurgle of the creature's dying breath. Dad hands me the corpse and I skin it in silence.
"There's nothing wrong with not being able to kill," he says once I'm finished.
I blink back at him. "Didn't say that there was."
We don't return home quite yet instead venturing deeper into the forest, farther than I've ever walked before, until we sit down at the edge of a cliff that peers out into the rolling land, nothing but trees and wilderness for miles and miles.
And any other day this would be enough. But today is still the Reaping.
Dad starts to whistle, the mockingjays repeating it back lovingly as if they know what a great treasure they are dealing with. And they are, everyone around here says that Dad has the best voice they've ever heard. He is always bent on trying to teach me some song or tune as if teaching them to me will also hand over his gift.
Today, after a few familiar tunes, he sings something else, something very strange:
Are you, Are you
Coming to the tree
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
Are you, Are you
Coming to the tree
Where the dead man called out for his love to flee
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
Are you, Are you
Coming to the tree
Where I told you to run so we'd both be free
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
Are you, Are you
Coming to the tree
Wear a necklace of rope side by side with me
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
The mockingjays mimic it with perfection. The song sticks in my mind, something that touches me deeply in a way that no song ever has and so after a moment, I too sing it back. Instantly the mockingjays fall silent, peering at me intently. I halt to a stop.
"You have a better voice than mine," Dad says. "Even the mockingjays stop to listen."
"I'd rather they didn't instead of leaving me to echo my own song," I reply.
I am sure he is going to explain what it means and where it comes from, like he does with all of his songs, but instead he just turns around and we start heading back towards the fence.
But I find myself returning again and again to that song, its strange melody and lyrics haunting me, I whistle it louder and louder. The mockingjays gather around me, following me as I walk and then, just as I finish it for the fifth time, one of the smallest ones, a bird barely as big as my palm lets out the first few notes.
And the world explodes in song.
The rest join in, singing loud and free, stringing the notes together in more complex melodies than I have ever heard anything sing, filling the earth with their song, my song, and for the first time that day, I forget all about the Reaping. I feel so happy that I have finally made the mockingjays sing that I let out a laugh.
Dad turns suddenly and when I see his face, I take a step back for I have never seen him look so angry. The mockingjays almost seem to sense his anger too. They slowly taper off to silence.
He grabs me by the shoulders, almost lifting me off the ground. "You don't sing that here. Understand?"
His grasp is so tight, I can barely breathe. "Okay."
"You don't sing that ever unless you're out where no one can ever hear you. Understand?"
"Dad, you're hurting me."
"Understand?"
"Dad!"
He jumps at my shout and releases me. I fall to the ground, gasping, shaking all over. He stands there for a moment, almost dazed, before he kneels down to me, trying to touch my shoulder as a reassurance. I jerk away.
He sighs. "Jay, I'm sorry. But you have to understand. That song is illegal, if the Peacekeepers caught you singing that song, if they found you…" he trails off.
"Why'd you teach it to me in the first place then?" I snap.
"I…" He sighs again and pauses for a moment. "I wasn't thinking," he says finally. "I'm sorry. You're going to be late for the Reaping. Let's go." He gets to his feet and starts walking.
I comply, but I do have to ask, "What does it mean?"
He stops.
"I mean, why is it illegal to sing?"
He turns around slowly. "It's a rebel song. They taught you about the Dark Days in school, correct?"
I nod my head. "Why we have the Hunger Games."
"Well," he says with a small smile on his face, "let me tell you a version they certainly don't tell you in school.
"The districts were like fire, burning with hatred and vengeance from the years of abuse they had suffered at the hands of the Capitol. They burned bright and strong but the cold calculated fury of the Capitol was stronger. Those in the Capitol; they hurt, they killed, they destroyed. And as bright as a fire can be, it can also be so quickly snuffed out.
"In the final years, as the rebellion came to a close, many rebels were rounded up, killed in mass numbers. What do you think they sang?"
"This one." I look at Dad carefully. I have never heard someone speak so against the Capitol, it almost makes me afraid.
"Of those who were killed, your great-grandfather was among them. He let himself be captured because he couldn't bear to be in a world where his freedom was nonexistent."
"Our family…was part of the rebels?" I have always been told that my great-grandfather died in an accident while illegally hunting. This is something else entirely.
He nods his head. "But your grandfather, my father, believed differently. He was able to hide his tracks, to renounce his ways. I was only a child when it all happened but I still remember so very clearly. He was a blacksmith before the mine, he used to make all sorts of weapons for the rebels. We had to use codes and messages, because of the jabberjays. The violence in those days…"
He shakes his head and turns away while I stand here, amazed that I have never learned this part of my father ever before. But I suppose it's not something we could ever easily talk about.
"What was it like before the Games?" I ask quietly.
"It was nice," he says, "even if I only knew it for such a short time. I was just your age when the Games began."
We are silent for several long moments.
He turns to me again. "It wasn't that he didn't believe in the rebellion anymore, far from it. But he knew that in order for his family to survive, he had to pretend otherwise. Out of those days of rebellion and defiance, our family has only one thing."
He unzips his jacket and unpins this golden token from the inside of his shirt, handing it to me though I can already see what it is.
A mockingjay. I smile. Of course.
"The fire of the rebellion may have been snuffed out," he continues, "but what can happen with fire, especially forest fires?"
My mind clicks it all together. "They can burn, just underneath the surface where no one can see. Those are dangerous fires. One moment the world seems safe, the next, there is nothing but flames surrounding you and there is no escape."
He nods his head and smiles. "That is the meaning of the mockingjay," he leans forward and puts his hands on my shoulders. "When you were born, you were such a small thing. You weren't even breathing much less making a sound. We thought for sure that you were gone. But then you starting crying, fighting your way back to us. We had five children before you, all of them dying at birth or soon after. But no matter what fever you caught, no matter what happened to you, you always came back fighting, existing when everyone said you shouldn't. Like the rebellion. Like the mockingjay. And that's why I named you Jay. The rebellion will come again. I pray you will live to see it."
I feel so foolish that I never understood until now, my name, the meaning, and I don't say anything but look down at this small piece of resistance and smile. After a moment, I hand it back but Dad shakes his head.
"You keep it," he says. "It belongs with a mockingjay after all."
He starts walking again and I follow, matching his paces, pinning the jay to the underside of my shirt. It is only once we've crossed the fence that I realize I'm not shaking anymore.
It was one of the last times I would ever be so proud of my father.