CHAPTER XIX
"Oh, Katniss, darling, how wonderful it is to hear your voice!" Effie doesn't sound as exuberant as per her usual, however her gentler disposition isn't unwelcome. "We've been busy bees over here and I have plenty to update you on."
"You both are well?" I ask. "Oh we both are right as rain. Peeta is currently resting in the other room but he is doing much better. Last week we consulted with a few friends I called in, and then had his doctors alter his medication. He said he's already feeling more like himself. The poor dear's emotions still go up and down, and if he gets too upset or confused we'll give him a gentle sedative, but at least he's not being kept practically comatose all day.
"I'm giving him little projects and he seems to enjoy the tasks. He's become a delightful assistant. I can't imagine how bored he's been. Everything here was utterly beige. I've given some rules to those so-called doctors, so now they aren't acting as if they have carte blanche. Our boy is long overdue for some maternal care, and I am so thankful you called me to provide it."
"You were the only person for the job, Effie."
"Oh, darling girl," she cries then attempts to hold in her emotion. "Now, don't go distracting me with such pretty compliments. What else, what else? Oh, I made a few calls to get some of the raw footage from your propos. Peeta has been eager to see them and the doctors were dragging their heels. I don't think those buffoons even asked Beetee. Anyway, they'll be delivered tomorrow, so he can start watching. I might bring in someone to help fill in the blanks, maybe one of the members of your prep team. I know he's always liked them."
That actually isn't a terrible idea. They weren't present for any of his worst experiences but they were on the periphery of what took place in 13 and were privy to most of my activity. They are a bit ridiculous, but if we are fighting his boredom, they will certainly liven the place up.
"Are the doctors helping him, Effie, or do we need to get him out of there?" This has been the question on my mind. I should not let my own bias to doctors affect Peeta's care, but I can't help it.
"Now that we've taken back some control of the situation, I think this is tolerable. They are doing a lovely job monitoring him and they provide excellent security. And Peeta says that when he leaves here, he wants his next stop to be home. We both agree he needs more time and I reminded him 12 needs more time as well to clean itself up. I'm sure it's still terribly dusty, no?" Dusty is an understatement, I think.
"He does need some familiarity though, so I have a little job for you, darling. Nothing here belongs to him. I of course offered to go shopping, I thought we would have delightful time, but he told me he wants something that would remind him of home. Isn't that just so charming?"
Oh Peeta, of course: unfamiliar people, unfamiliar clothing, unfamiliar furniture, unfamiliar everything. Since the Quell, he hasn't had a single thing from his life as Peeta Mellark, the baker's son. I feel spoiled with my own luxury. I had my father's jacket, my pearl, even that stupid cat. I clung to the rafts of the familiar while I was forced to travel through foreign seas and never considered sharing that with others. Was I always so selfish?
"You want me to send something? I can get into his house if that's what he wants." I have to help. The guilt is tugging at my heart, and I have to make some effort to lighten its weight.
"I was thinking the same thing. His memory is still vague so I would choose a bit of this and that. I mean, you of course know him best, my dear." Do I? The best? The truth hits me: yes, Katniss, you're the only one still alive who can claim that title. What a sorry state of affairs.
We toss around a few ideas and I hang up, pleased to have a task. It's another little thing to fill my day. But this is a little thing I can do to make his life a little brighter. I've so rarely been able to achieve that.
So after another afternoon of target practice, the following day I slip back into the desolation of Peeta's house. If he returns, we'll have to do something to make this place less dreary. I've appropriated a crate from a previous delivery that should allow enough space for whatever I find.
I can tell the living room, study, and dining room will all prove fruitless, I don't think he ever used them, but I trust the kitchen will have more success. Walking in, I can't help but feel a pang of sadness. Peeta's kitchen should be filled with pleasant scents. Overwhelming flavors of all the foods I only use to dream of smelling let alone eating. Where are the sweet smells of fresh cakes and pies, the sensuous notes of cinnamon and clove? After many months of its master's absence, this room is just a normal room, all lovely wafting aromas long gone.
His kitchen is stocked with gadgets and odd devices. Some show their age, perhaps from his youth of working in the bakery, whereas others are shiny and new. Those must have been gifts to himself from his Victor's winnings. There's a well-worn apron hanging from a hook in the corner, a plain piece of lightly stained white fabric with fraying strings. It's the kind of item that you can immediately tell has been thoroughly cherished. Picking it up, I can feel the remnants of the fine flour under my thumbs. I fold it and place it in the crate.
I spy a stately spice rack on the corner. Its carousel spins to display the wide variety it stores. I pull out the three jars that look the emptiest and add it to the crate. I don't know much about fancy seasonings, but if I was Peeta, the most used spices would be the most loved.
I pick up the crate and proceed upstairs. The previously unexplored bedrooms look untouched by Peeta so I head to the room filled with canvases. I still won't look at any of the paintings, but there is a shelf with speckled brushes that I'll include. From the bathroom, I grab his toothbrush and a few half-used bottles thinking the scents might be comforting, and then walk to his bedroom.
Here is where I feel most like an intruder, a little girl snooping about his space. I try to keep a boundary and not cross the line of satisfying my nosiness over helping him. I recall the empty chipped mug and sketchpad on the bedside table and immediately place both into the crate without inspection. I'm sentimental about my tea mugs. I have a favorite, and maybe he'll feel the same. When I return home, I'll put a bag of some of our District 12 foraged tea and maybe, feeling inspired, some garden-grown peppermint tea I think he'll enjoy. Tastes of home.
A chest of drawers stands against the wall. I pull out a few baby soft shirts, some comfortable pants, and warm sweaters I struggle not to keep for myself. I avoid harsh tones and the beiges Effie warned me of, instead choosing warm colors that remind me of autumn leaves, his sunset colors. Then, thinking of his eyes, sneak in a few the color of the ocean. I top it off by snagging the velvet slippers arranged neatly next to the bed.
As I close the drawers, my eyes catch a beautifully handcrafted wooden box atop the dresser. It's open, inviting me to peek into its overflowing contents. He's filled the box like a thieving magpie with precious finds: a shiny button, a preserved oak leaf, lost feathers, coins, tiny red and yellow gems, a pair of cuff links, and hauntingly, the flattened yellow head of a dandelion. Folded in a handkerchief, however, are two items that cause my heart to flutter. Hidden inside is a black and gold coiled wire clip that I swear is from my first chariot headdress and next to it a dark wavy lock of hair tied with an old red ribbon. I reach for my braid. My hair. Definitely mine.
A close the lid quickly and put it in the crate before I am tempted to keep studying it. Sweet and gentle Peeta, how long have you been collecting these treasures? I imagine little, chubby Peeta Mellark relishing in a lost button or tumbling ribbon, squirreling it away like prize. I imagine a smiling, fifteen-year-old Peeta Mellark saving away every coin to buy something special at the mercantile. And I imagine a broken-hearted Peeta Mellark, stealing away one of my tresses as he watches me sleep, chasing away my nightmares as our train speeds into the night. He was far too tender for the life he'd been handed.
I sit on the bed and close my eyes. The clock ticks away the seconds. How many nights did he lie awake in this empty house, unable to sleep, listening to that clock tick by? It is soothing in a way. Maybe some would find it morose, but the reminder that life continues on second by second seems to touch me. I am one of the lucky ones; I'm alive to hear it. With an odd impulse, I pull the ticking clock from the wall, place it in the crate, and return home.
Late that night I add a letter sharing the current news in 12, the comfort of hearing Effie's updates, and a promise that I tried to respect his privacy as I collected the items included and that I hope I chose well. By the next afternoon the sealed crate is on a train headed towards the Capitol.
The new crews arrive and construction begins while I work targets with Samson, tend the garden with Ana, or read my family journals. I continue to take it one day at a time.
Eventually, Sam is strong enough to move into the woods. With our efforts, my opinions have changed so completely and I am eager to take down snares and rely on the bows to keep Sae well stocked. After spending the morning checking then taking down most of the snares, I warm up alone. I bring in half a dozen brazen squirrels, five straight through the eye like my father taught me. In the quiet of the morning, for a moment, I feel fifteen again. It's just me and my bow.
The first day in the woods Sam and I practice silence and don't shoot a thing. On the second, I let him try, knowing full well he'll miss his shots. Give him a week and I think he'll get close. When I can, I take a shot and have him watch, mostly to guarantee the game for Sae's meals. He's seen me process the game from the snares, but I start to have him participate. The butchering is not for the squeamish, but it's good to get accustomed to it while young.
We spend the next two days tracking a herd of deer. It's mostly an exercise but I haven't had venison in years. If we succeed, this would be the fourth deer in all my years of hunting. It required the strength of a partner and such supreme efforts of covertness it was barely worth the risk. But the few times I did, our bellies and our pockets felt unimaginably full. Sam and I would only be able to carry a young buck, which is too much of a waste, but we could get something larger if we send for some of our locals to do the heavy lifting.
Right at the start of Sam's sixth day, he comes across what might be the ugliest woodchuck I've ever seen, but it's a lazy beast and he finally has his first success. His delight was quickly surpassed when several days later our herd brazenly wanders into our hideout. I've explained to him which to target and which to avoid, so when I silently gesture to a midsize buck standing apart from the does and youths, he knows that's his mark. I take aim at a larger buck with a massive rack of antlers. I gesture a countdown, knowing we'll need to fire together. Gale and I got to a point where a blink or a breath was all that was needed, but for now my hand cues are enough. We fire.
I know mine lands without looking. I had a clear view of its broadside and enough control to know it hit its vitals. So without hesitation, I knock a second arrow and turn in time to strike Sam's buck near its hind legs. It is a shot that will take him down in time but he'll suffer for a long while.
My mind goes to Cato at the Cornucopia. Mercy, someone to deliver mercy. The herd scatters; I give a nod of approval to Sam, and release the second arrow to finish it off before it attempts to follow its mates. We check both animals to ensure they are at rest, thanking them for their sacrifice.
I look to Samson and his face glows with pride and his eyes shimmer with unshed tears. "You okay?" He gasps out a breathy laugh. "Yes. I promise. That was… that was incredible, Kat. They're huge, I didn't expect that they'd be so much bigger than me. A month ago, I would have hidden from them. And we'll feed so many. It's got to be more meat than a hundred squirrels. And we did it. With just some sticks and strings and –"
His adrenaline is pumping and his mouth is running away with him. "I'm proud of you, Sam. You've learned faster than I ever expected. Now sit down on that log and take a few breaths. Don't want you getting dizzy when I send you into town to find some workers to get these back to the Village."
On his buck, I talk him through the process of field dressing, temporarily sparing him the unpleasant task of doing it himself, and then send him on his way to collect some muscle. While he's gone, I work on the second, then prop them open to keep air circulating while I drag two branches to bind them to for carrying. Knowing it will take at least another forty minutes, I climb up a tree to enjoy a better view.
By the sun, it's an hour or two past noon. By its grumbling, my stomach confirms that belief. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. From my branch, I can make out the mountains in the distance. I always wondered if they were as far away as they seemed. There is a crisp breeze today that feels heavenly blowing across my face. The small flyaway hairs that have escaped my braid tickle my skin like spring foliage.
The forest hushes to listen to a nearby chorus of birds. They chatter and trill discordantly. It reminds me of my father, who loved to hush the birds with our songs. They'd listen reverently then take possession of the melody once we were done. Briefly, they would sing together in unity before again separating into different conversations. However, days later, you could still hear small pieces of our song being carried all over the district.
After he died, I remember sitting in the meadow listening desperately for any bit of bird song that might still carry my father's tune. An echo of him still here with me. But the birds were silent.
There shall I visit the place of my birth
And they'll give me a welcome the warmest on earth
All so loving and kind full of music and mirth,
In the sweet sounding language of home.
There shall I gaze on the mountains again,
On the fields and the woods and the burns and the glens,
Away among corries beyond women and men
In the haunts of the deer I will roam
Oh, oh soon shall I see them;
Oh, oh see them oh see them;
Oh, oh soon shall I see them;
the mist covered mountains of home. *
When I finish, for a breath, maybe two, there is nothing but silence. Then one, two, twenty mockingjays pick up the melody. I smile at their enthusiasm. I wonder if they've been lonely.
After some time, I hear the loud rustling of approaching men that clearly don't know how to correctly walk through the woods. I suppose we don't need to worry about scaring the game away. I see Sam moving quickly with Thom, Oakley, and a man I don't recognize. "Kat! We're back! You won't believe what we heard on our way here! Where are you?" Well Sam is obviously excited.
I climb down the tree to meet them. "Oh! Ha! I should have kept an eye on the trees. When I didn't see you, I was worried I got turned around. I was able to find Mr. Thom and Mr. Oakley but I hope you don't mind but I kinda grabbed my dad too. I really wanted to show him. Is that okay?"
I swallow my mild anxiety. This is Sam's father. Family is safe. And he's in my woods. And I'm armed. I nod. "I know you're excited. And it looks much more impressive now than it will later." I greet the familiar faces, "Thom, Oakley," then turn to the elder gentleman, "Hello, I'm Katniss."
The towering man has similar coloring and face shape to Sam's, but lacks the dusting of freckles across his cheekbones that I adore. He has a faint scar across his shadowed jaw line and a dazzling smile on his face. "Miss Everdeen, I'm Abe, Samson's dad. I can never thank you enough for the change you've made in my boy. I nearly wept when I saw him running up to get us with the biggest smile on his face. I wasn't going to be of any good working once I knew."
I look down, uncomfortable by the compliments. I decide to change topics. "Go on then, Sam. I know you're anxious to show them off."
He grabs his father's hand then tugs him over to the trees where the two bucks lay. A chorus of shock and awe rises from each man and then is followed by a gasp as Abe lifts his son into his arms, squeezing tight. He mumbles something into his ear, words of encouragement or pride perhaps. Suddenly we are intruding on a very private moment between father and son. It makes me fiercely ache for my own father.
I gesture to Thom and Oakley to help me tie the bucks' legs onto the two long branches for carrying. As I knot the first pair, Oakley looks at me seriously. "You're amazing, you know that?" I bite my lip and keep my head down. "It's just a couple good shots," I mumble shyly. He huffs, "We both know that's not the truth. But I wasn't referring to these two feats, I was talking about that one." I follow his finger as it points to the father and son now talking softly to each other forehead to forehead. My heart aches at the sight. I think about Thom and Oakley and the tender looks on their faces, and remember that they are as much orphans as I am.
As we finish binding, the two rejoin us and his father clutches my hand with emotion, kissing the back of it fervently whispering, "Thank you. Thank you." I meet his eyes and nod in earnest.
We lift the branches onto our shoulders and head toward Victors Village. Sam provides a dramatic recap of the day's activity as we walk. About midway through the journey, bird song seems to surround us. He interrupts his tale to ask, "There it is again! Kat, what's with the birds today? That song is everywhere."
If my face wasn't already red from exertion, it would be now. Thom is the one who catches my embarrassment. "They're singing because of you, aren't they? I remember Peeta telling that story about the birds but I didn't know it'd be like this."
I grumble a bit, "They seem especially enthusiastic today." They all laugh at my peevishness. Oakley comments, "You think they'd listen to my singing, Katniss? When I get a few drinks in me, I've got quite the voice."
The rest of the walk passes quickly, filled with playful banter from the men. As we enter the Village exiting the thick wall of trees, I see Sae gleefully standing in the middle of the street on lookout, Ana close by her side.
"I heard and I just had to see it with my own two eyes. Have you ever seen such a sight! Child, you have outdone yourself. How do you feel about butcherin' it behind your house? Should let you keep a little privacy. Samson, head to the porch and bring down the crates I've set out. They'll make for a decent work table in a pinch."
She leads the way into the backyard and down to the tree line where the target is mounted. I explain to the tiring men, "We need to hang the deer. It's the easiest way to skin the hide and remove the meat." I question the strength of their stomachs for this next part, so we suspend the bucks from a limb and get something to eat and drink before sending the men off to return to their crews. Sam wants to see the entire process through and Sae has offered to help until she needs to return to her kitchen.
Slipping my sharpest knife's point under the skin, I begin to work. It's the same as any other animal I handle almost daily, just larger and with a coat you want to keep as intact as possible. I explain to Sam the order as I go while Sae and Ana bring down a variety of pots. As I remove the meat, we'll separate it out into the prime cuts, the decent cuts, and the useful but unappetizing other pieces. In leu of Rooba, Sae offers her best advice as we work our way through from shank to rump.
Looking at the sun's placement, I know Sae will have to start dinner soon. Thankfully she sends for Haymitch to take over trimming. He might as well make good use of those knife skills. When I hand her the filets she's been eying covetously I swear she is near tears. She'll make something special tonight and Sam will bask in the celebration of his biggest success yet.
As the sun sets, my Mentor and I stand side by side, our knives in a silent choreography. The only sounds are the pieces of a misty mountain melody sung from the treetops.
* Adapted from "The Mist-Covered Mountains of Home" by or "Chì mi na mòrbheanna" by John Cameron