Chapter Seven: A Spark
The blackness consumes me and I feel like I'm free falling. In this odd state, nothing exists, not even myself. I feel, hear, and know nothing. All I feel is a numbing emptiness that washes over my entire body.
After awhile, the blackness begins to subside, I pick up on the little things. I can wiggle my toes and twitch my pinkies. I can feel the soft dirt beneath my body, emanating heat from the sun. My shoulder throbs uncomfortably, sending bursts of white-hot pain through my body. Miles away, I can hear voices; their tone is tense and almost angry. I am about to succumb back into the comfortable silence I've resided in previously when I pick out a familiar sound. Peeta.
His words are lost to me and I struggle against the mist that clogs my mind in order to hear him. His voice is like a glass of water on a hot day, pouring over me and giving me something to hold on to. Peeta's voice stirs up the memories that have been hidden by the fog in my head. I remember the thud of the spear as it went through my body; I remember the start of the games and the oddly shaped arena. Finally, with dull horror, I remember the baby. Is it still alive? Did I hurt it when I fell? A million more questions pop into my cluttered mind. It is the thought of the baby though, that finally gets me to push through the pain and fog and into the real world.
I groan and my eyes flutter open. I wince at the sharp pricks of light that pierce my unadjusted eyes. "Katniss," Peeta breathes and I feel his hot breath on my cheek. As my eyes adjust, I make out his soft features. His rounded, full face that always seems to bear slight traces of a smile; his beautiful, icy blue eyes, and the slight curve of his lips. I drink in his image and he stares back at me patiently.
After a few moments though, my prior dread sets in again. "The baby." I croak; my voice hoarse from its time spent unused.
At this statement, a cloud of darkness clouds over Peeta's face. His usually bright features marred by a pained expression. "Katniss—a couple hours after you passed out—you—you started bleeding a bit—and I—I didn't know what to do," He takes a sharp intake of air and I can see the pleading in his eyes. He blames himself and he wants me to understand how badly he feels. Any other day my I would melt over this, but all I can think of is the baby.
"Peeta, is the baby okay?" I say through gritted teeth.
"I don't know, Katniss." He whispers, his voice cracking. At this, I feel a new sort of emptiness setting in; an ice cold numbness that attempts to shield me from the pain I know will eventually come. I search myself for any sign of the baby, a flicker to give me a signal that it's alive. I just want some sort of sign, I plead silently.
I feel nothing. Nothing, except for the icy cold numbness that flows through my veins. I stay there, frozen, for what seems like an eternity. Then I feel the numbness begin to crack and the pain floods through me. My throat closes up and I succumb to my broken sobs. I lean against Peeta's broad chest, and he holds me, rocking me back and forth. I feel his silent tears slide down his chin and onto me.
In this moment the audience, the rest of our alliance, Haymitch, Prim, all of them are forgotten. This is about Peeta and me, and our pain. This is about us.
...
"We should move." Johanna says the next morning, "We've been here for awhile and we're down to eight tributes." I look around the group and notice the two empty holes I had neglected to acknowledge last night. Wiress and Mags were lost at some point while I was out; there absence has definitely had an effect on the morale of the group.
Finnick seems a little more serious than usual, his handsome face bearing signs of mourning. Johanna seems a little less biting than usual towards the rest of us, keeping her sarcastic quips to herself. Beetee, though, seems to have taken the biggest hit of all. He stares forlornly at the ground, his face betraying the fact that he's been crying. I feel a stab of pain in my heart for him, I know how hard Wiress's death must be for him. I can't imagine what it would be like for me to lose Peeta in this arena.
"I agree, we're putting ourselves at a higher risk for an attack the longer we sit here." Finnick says, pulling me back into the conversation.
"You're right, let's pack up and head out." I say emotionlessly. Everyone stares at me after I speak. I suppose they have good reason to, I haven't said a word since yesterday's conversation about—No, I can't think of that now. Now, I need to focus on surviving.
"Katniss, I don't know if you'll be able to go anywhere with that shoulder." Peeta says softly. I consider his words and glance at the wound to my right shoulder. The spear went cleanly through me, Tearing through the ligaments and muscle as easily as a knife through butter. It left a gaping hole about the diameter of a small teacup, leaving my right arm nearly completely useless. It's been bandaged haphazardly with a combination of mine and Peeta's suits.
"I'll be fine." I say steely, still examining the shoulder.
"Great," Johanna says with little enthusiasm, "Before we leave though, we need to discuss what you've missed. Beetee over here," she jerks her thumb towards the sorrowful little man, "made an interesting discovery on the arena; it's a clock. There's a different, terrifying scenario on each section and each come to life at that specific time. So far, we've managed to determine a few of the different hours: at twelve, there's a lightning storm; at one there's a blood rain; two, a particularly nasty acid fog, that's how you got a few of the burns on your shoulders; three, is full of the game maker's mutts; four—four is jabber jays," a flicker of pain flits across her face at the mention of this, "and the only other one we know is ten, which is a tidal wave."
I nod my head, digesting this new information. My stomach turns at how sick this arena is. It's a gross reminder of the ticking time that's left on each of the tribute's clocks. None of us knows how many more minutes we're going to have, maybe an hour, a day or two if we're lucky.
"Who's left?" I say, shaking my head of these thoughts; all they'd do is get me into trouble.
"The careers have held strong, Enobaria is the one that threw the spear, so you know. And then there's us. That's it." Her voice sounds dead as she says this.
I nod and then stand up to gather my things. My ripped tendons scream in protest, but I grit my teeth and push through the pain. I grab my bow and arrows, wondering if they'll be of any use to me now, and I also pocket a knife, and pick up a spear; that bitch Enobaria deserves some payback for what she did to my baby.
Peeta notices my selections, but wisely keeps his thoughts to himself. After several minutes, we're ready to head out. I grab Peeta's hand with my good arm and follow in step behind the others.
...
We come to a stop at the beach which Finnick informs me is the twelve to one wedge. We'll be safe here for another eight hours. I set down my equipment and rest in a body-sized hole I make in the sand. It's roughly four in the morning and the stars are bright in the sky. I remember as a little girl, my father told me that every person in the world had a star that was created the moment they were conceived.
He would scoop me up and put me on his shoulders, pointing out a star and telling me it was mine. After he died, I would search and search for his star, trying to find which one was his. It brought me a sort of comfort, to think a part of him still resided in this world. Even as I got older, when I missed him, I'd look to the sky for comfort. I wonder now, where my baby's star is. If it's burning brightly with newfound light, or if its shine has already been dulled with death.
I'm torn from these thoughts by a warm body that wraps itself around mine. Peeta's legs entangle themselves in my own and he nuzzles into my hair, sighing to himself. I turn to face him and I struggle with the pain I feel at the guilt that still shows in his eyes.
"It was a boy, I think." I say, voicing the unspoken presence that we can both feel. He doesn't respond so I continue, staring back at the pitch-black sky. "A little boy with thick, curly brown hair and bright blue, cobalt eyes. He had your button nose and my full lips, his eyelashes were so thick Peeta, you should have seen them." I lower my voice as I reminisce on my vision before the games, "It was what I saw on the platform, you know. It was what gave me the motivation to leave it and head for the cornucopia. I saw him and you; you were both so happy." My voice cracks and I turn back to Peeta, noting the tear tracks streaming down his face.
I know that for once, he cannot say anything. For once, I'm the one that is comforting him. I know that my words have helped us somehow, that somehow we'll come out better from this. At least, that's what I tell myself.
He sniffs, and brushes a piece of hair from my face, his eyes brimming with tears, "I keep holding on to the possibility that we didn't lose her, that she's still there somehow. She'd be a fighter like you, with my blonde hair that would hang in little ringlets around her face. And your grey eyes would shine out from under her hair, just as bright as yours do. She'd have your angular build and she'd love to hunt, being fearless like her mother. We wouldn't have to worry about her getting picked on because she'd be street smart like you and know how to hold her own. I'd put her up on my shoulders and carry her around like a little princess, even though she'd see herself as more of a warrior." Peeta stops and his tears come down more freely now.
I lean forward and kiss his forehead gently, then I move my head downwards and brush his lips against my own. He pushes up against me and locks his lips with mine, with his kiss I can feel the pain, the sorrow, the regret, but most of all I feel his love, that still exists despite everything. The kiss lasts for what seems like seconds and forever all at the same time.
It's interrupted by a man's quiet clearing of his throat. We both twist around to see Beetee, Finnick, and Johanna standing over us. I'm shocked to see that everyone, even Johanna, has tears swimming in their eyes. I briefly wonder how much they've heard, but then I realize I don't care. After all, this is being shown on national television and I know the game makers wouldn't want to pass on something as dramatic and theatrical as this.
"We're sorry to interrupt," Finnick says, and they do seem genuinely sorry, "But Beetee wants to tell us something."
Beetee looks up, he's been fiddling with a wire that he has wrapped up in his hands, "I think I know how to take care of the careers." He says quietly, his voice still full of loss.
"Do you think they've figured out about the clock?" I ask, curious as to what Beetee's cooked up.
"If they haven't, they'll figure it out soon enough, though perhaps not as specifically as we have. But they must know that at least some of the zones are wired for attacks and that they're reoccurring in a circular fashion," says Beetee. "So I think our best bet will be setting our own trap."
He swiftly draws a circle and divides it into twelve wedges. It's the arena, not rendered in Peeta's precise strokes but in the rough lines of a man whose mind is occupied by other, far more complex things and plagued with the loss of a loved one. "If you were Brutus and Enobaria, knowing what you do now about the jungle, where would you feel safest?" Beetee asks. There's nothing patronizing in his voice, and yet I can't help thinking he reminds me of a schoolteacher about to ease children into a lesson. Perhaps it's the age difference, or simply that Beetee is probably a million times smarter than the rest of us.
"Where we are now. On the beach," says Peeta. "It's the safest place."
Sometimes, I counter mentally.
"So why aren't they on the beach?" says Beetee.
"Because we're here," says Johanna impatiently.
"Exactly. We're here, claiming the beach. Now where would you go?" says Beetee.
I think about the deadly jungle, the occupied beach. "I'd hide just at the edge of the jungle. So I could escape if an attack came. And so I could spy on us."
"Also to eat," Finnick says. "The jungle's full of strange creatures and plants. But by watching us, I'd know the seafood's safe."
Beetee smiles at us as if we've exceeded his expectations. "Yes, good. You do see. Now here's what I propose: a twelve o'clock strike. What happens exactly at noon and at midnight?"
"The lightning bolt hits the tree," I say.
"Yes. So what I'm suggesting is that after the bolt hits at noon, but before it hits at midnight, we run my wire from that tree all the way down into the saltwater, which is, of course, highly conductive. When the bolt strikes, the electricity will travel down the wire and into not only the water, but also the surrounding beach, which will still be damp from the ten o'clock wave. Anyone in contact with those surfaces at the moment will be electrocuted," says Beetee.
There's a long pause while we all digest Beetee's plan. It seems a bit fantastical to me, impossible even. But why? I've set thousands of snares. Isn't this just a larger snare with a more scientific component? Could it work? How can we even question it, we tributes trained to gather fish and lumber and coal? What do we know about harnessing power from the sky?
Peeta takes a stab at it. "Will that wire really be able to conduct that much power, Beetee? It looks so fragile, like it would just burn up."
"Oh, it will, but not until the current has passed through it. It will act something like a fuse, in fact. Except the electricity will travel along it," says Beetee.
"How do you know?" asks Johanna, clearly not convinced.
"Because I invented it," says Beetee, as if slightly surprised. "It's not actually wire in the usual sense. Nor is neither the lightning natural lightning nor the tree a real tree. You know trees better than any of us, Johanna. It would be destroyed by now, wouldn't it?"
"Yes," she says glumly.
"Don't worry about the wire—it will do just what I say," Beetee assures us.
"And where will we be when this happens?" asks Finnick.
"Far enough up in the jungle to be safe," Beetee replies.
"The Careers will be safe, too, then, unless they're in the vicinity of the water," I point out.
"That's right," says Beetee.
"But all the seafood will be cooked," says Peeta.
"Probably more than cooked," says Beetee. "We will most likely be eliminating that as a food source for good. But you found other edible things in the jungle, right, Katniss?"
"Yes. Nuts and rats," I say. "And we have sponsors."
"Well, then. I don't see that as a problem," says Beetee. "But as we are allies and this will require all our efforts, the decision of whether or not to attempt it is up to you four."
"Why not?" I say. "If it fails, there's no harm done. If it works, there's a decent chance we'll kill them. And even if we don't and just kill the seafood, Brutus and Enobaria lose it as a food source."
"I say we try it," says Peeta. "Katniss is right."
Finnick looks to Johanna and raises his eyebrows. He will not go forward without her. "All right," she says finally. "It's better than hunting them down in the jungle, anyway. And I doubt they'll figure out our plan, since we can barely understand it ourselves."
Beetee wants to inspect the lightning tree before he has to rig it. Judging by the sun, it's about eight or nine in the morning, Peeta and I have sat up nearly the whole night talking. We have to leave our beach soon, anyway. So we break camp, walk over to the beach that borders the lightning section, and head into the jungle. Johanna leads the group with Finnick taking up the rear. They're the two most able-bodied people at the moment to it makes sense. I am sandwiched in the middle between Beetee and Peeta. As we head off to the trees, my only thought is I hope this works.
