Author's Note
I shall repeat my apology from Chapter 9 for those who read the chapter before I added it: I fear I may be losing my audience because I am pacing the "romance" part of this story rather slowly. (There has been some frustration with Gale expressed in some of the messages I've received; truthfully, he frustrates me, too, which is why he's one of my favorites). I know, I know, ten chapters in and still not much but - stay with me, I beg of you! We're getting there - I just want it to be 1) believable and 2) worth it in the end ;)
Rory's carp gets me five fat raccoons. I can hardly believe it. I find two in snares, and then pick off three more while I lie in wait with my bow and they trundle down the path. Part of me even feels a little stupid for not trying this sooner, though to be fair I never had much to spare for bait. With this many I can afford to keep a pelt for myself. As the youngest, poor Posy often gets the worst of the hand-me-downs, the battle-tested survivors of three older brothers. For once, she'll get a brand new pair of fur mittens this winter. They may not be a gem-encrusted dress, but they'll keep her hands warm.
I dawdle a little in the woods today; there's no hurry to get to school (not that I've ever been especially concerned about punctuality in that respect) because it is cancelled for the first day of the Games. It's getting easier to love the forest again, and I want to enjoy the feeling before it might be damaged beyond repair in a few hours. I skin, gut, and dismember a raccoon with unusual precision; the extra concentration required distracts me from the worry that's dampening the small, uneasy ember of hope I'm trying to keep alight. Once in pieces, this one will go to Prim; she has a soft spot for cute furry things, and if that awful cat qualifies then there's a good chance a raccoon will, too. The less recognizable it is when I give it to her, the better. I don't go to this much trouble with the others. I'll keep one, and the other three will go to the Hob whole (relieved of their pelts, of course, because why should I let the buyer have the chance to resell the fur?).
I reserve a few slivers of bait for the pond where I know I can find catfish; they'll eat anything that will hold still long enough and that they think they can swallow. It seems a little weird to entice them with bits and pieces of one of their relatives, but I guess that's what they get for being lower on the food chain and not very picky at mealtime. I weave a basket-like trap from yew switches and cattail stalks, something I haven't done since Katniss left because of the time it takes to do it. I'd been unwilling to allow myself so much time to think. Now that I've had some practice at telling myself that she's coming back, I'm getting more comfortable with letting my mind wander. I remember how she'd marveled at the contraption the first time I'd shown it to her, how amused I'd been, how it seemed impossible at the time that I could ever think of her as anything besides a dumb kid. How she'd been astonishingly relentless, and it took a long time, but she earned my respect. And with more time, my trust. And a few short months ago (which are starting to feel like an eternity) more than that. Once I turn the funneled mouth properly inward and get the whole thing submerged, I stake it in place with a sharpened tree branch, and I all I have to do is wait. And I'm pretty good at doing that.
The sunlight that plays on the ripples in the water makes me think of Madge and her golden ponytail and mockingjay pin, but even though the pin was a gift to Katniss I can't seem to get thoughts of the two of them to jibe. Katniss is my friend. Madge, for reasons that are beyond my control, will never be more than a customer. And things that I cannot control make me angry. I find that I no longer have the patience to sit by the water.
On a whim, I decide I ought to scrounge up something green to go with our meal while the trap collects fish. This was something Katniss was always better at; she always knew what was edible, and of that what was palatable. I know the basics, but I've never been inclined to bother with much more than that. She'd always tease me that my botanical knowledge left something to be desired, and to get even I'd remind her that she couldn't set a decent snare if her life depended on it. Now, the memory of our friendly jabs stings as it comes to mind. Now, her life might. I smile a little to myself, because her snare-setting has improved vastly since I met her. She'll be fine. On the other hand, though I've gotten better, I still can't tell the difference between boneset and snakeroot. Which is unfortunate, because snakeroot will kill you.
….
The annual bloodbath begins at noon, and it is eating a hole through my insides. At the same time, I want the hour to never come and to start now so it's over with. My father had been ecstatic when I presented him with my map of the arena, and the flare of hope I'd felt even outshined a selfish wave of pride for my accomplishment. Now I feel useless. I've done what little I can, and in the light of day I have to admit it's very little in the grand scheme of things. Everything is so far beyond my control at this point that I can't even continue to entertain the illusion that a tiny bit was ever within it.
To keep my mind occupied and to get some fresh air, I wander outside and offer to help our gardener with the weeding. I started doing when I was small, much to Mr. Aaron's consternation, and over the years it has stuck with me. As I have gotten older, I've become much better able to discern the difference between the weeds and the "keepers" and am able to exercise better self control when picking flowers (I had on one occasion cleared out an entire bed of phlox for a bouquet for my ailing mother because at age four I decided that five or six stems just wouldn't do). I still don't know Mr. Aaron's first name. I don't think Mom or Dad or even Rose does. He gives me his gloves so I can pull up prickly thistles without hurting myself while he fiddles with the wire mesh surrounding the vegetables that still fails to confound our rather determined rabbit.
The work doesn't take me long, and I consider for a moment going back inside and practicing on the piano, but my mother is likely still taking her nap and I don't want to wake her. I miss my music very much, and it always seems that the times I need it most coincide with the times she needs the quiet. So I walk around the front of the house to dead-head the rows of day lilies planted there. I hum the tune of the etude I've been working on to myself as I pull out the dried stalks, and try to imagine the keystrokes needed to play it. Every so often I pause and move my fingers over the notes, which I am certain probably makes me look crazy to anyone who happens by. I choose not to care, because most everyone treats me like a leper anyway.
I freeze in the middle of a c-sharp because I suddenly feel like I'm being watched closely, and I turn to find that Gale Hawthorne has appeared in my front yard. He has a bag slung over his shoulder and a smaller one in the other hand, his expression stoic as usual, just how he always looks when he comes on Saturdays. I try to smile at him and find it difficult; it is unnerving that I never even heard him coming. Furthermore, I'm horrifically embarrassed by yesterday's conversation with him. When he'd asked me why none of the Capitol reporters would think he was only Katniss' friend, and the only thing I could think for what seemed like ages was no one will (and I can't) believe she doesn't want you. I feel my face redden a little again.
"You weed your own flowers?" he says, cocking his head just enough to make his dark hair fall in the way of his pretty eyes.
Breathe, Madge. Blink. I nod. Words seem to get stuck on the way out. I find the question irksome, but I'm determined not to show it. He probably finds the frivolity of an ornamental flower garden irksome. We're even, then. Belatedly, I realize that I'm still holding the c-sharp so I brush my hands off awkwardly against my pants.
He studies me silently for another moment, as if carefully digesting my response. Then he holds up the small bag at arm's length, and nods at it when it becomes clear that I missed the fact that I'm supposed to take it.
"Strawberries are still green yet," he explains as I open the crackly paper to find ripe blueberries.
The smiling gets a little easier, because we are back in familiar territory. There you go getting carried away again, Madge. He and I. "Okay," I say. I'm not partial to blueberries myself, but I'm sure my father will take them. "Dad will like these. Let me run inside real quick – how much?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing. They're for you."
I stare at him, and it's my turn to cock my head curiously. I feel like my heart and my stomach just abruptly switched places. For me? "Oh." That's it? I scream inside my head. He gives you a gift and that's all you have to say?
His steady gaze falls away for a second. "I owed you one," he says simply, and something in his voice implies that he still feels that his debt has still not been adequately repaid.
I'd never tell him that, any more than I'd tell him that I don't care for blueberries, and I don't think I could convince him that he doesn't owe me anything. Most of all, I do not want to discourage this tenuous truce that he has established between us. Somehow I understand that this is a gesture of enormous gravity for him. "Thank you," I manage, surprised and a little awestruck.
He nods again, meets my eyes for the tiniest moment, and starts to walk away.
A kind of courage I never knew I possessed prompts me to say his name. "Gale?" He looks over one broad shoulder, and it takes everything I have to continue to speak. "I don't want to watch this alone." I can't hold his gaze while my voice wavers. "Can I stand with you and your family in the square today?"
I half expect him to ignore me, but he doesn't. Instead, he turns, takes a few steps closer to me, and reaches one hand toward my face. My heart and stomach correct themselves almost painfully. He removes a dead leaf from my hair with such care that if I hadn't been watching I don't think I'd have known he'd done it. He hands me the offending thing, and one corner of his mouth quirks into that almost-smile.
"Yeah. Okay." And he leaves. Just like that.
I look down at my hands, stunned. The two things most precious to me in this world are a dead piece of foliage and a sack of berries I don't even like. Who needs a jeweled dress?
...
Footnote: Boneset (pronounced "Bone-Set") and snakeroot are both real species found in the Appalachia region, and are nearly indistinguishable to the untrained eye. Boneset was commonly used as an effective fever-reducer until aspirin became widely available (it is still a staple of Appalachian folk medicine), and snakeroot is highly toxic (it is the plant responsible for milk sickness). I imagine that someone like Katniss, whose mother is an expert in herbal medicine and who maintains the family "plant book," would be able to tell them apart. I confess that I was a little disappointed that S.C. left out little intersting details like this in The Hunger Games. I'm a nerd with a degree in anthropology - can you tell?