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Chapter Twenty Four: Foraging
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I dive for the knife, but Katniss already has her bow loaded and aimed—damn, she's fast. We wait for a few seconds, but there's no other sound, just the continuous deluge of rain and another boom of thunder. Finally, I creep forward and peer out the opening. Not Cato or Thresh, nobody at all. Instead, sitting outside the entrance to the cave is a large, woven picnic basket attached to a silver parachute.
I give a shout of joy and dive toward it, scooping it up before the rain can permeate its weave. When I bring it back inside and hand it to Katniss, she opens it immediately and pulls out our own little feast. My mouth begins to water without hesitation at the sight: fresh Capitol rolls, goat cheese, apples and a thermos of the lamb stew she spoke of in her interview.
"I guess Haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve!" I crow excitedly, rubbing some warmth back into my hands as I sit down across from her.
"I guess so."
I can see the ravenous look on her face and lay a hand over hers. "We better take it slow on that stew," I caution. "Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn't even starving then."
She nods, her face falling. "You're right. And I could just inhale the whole thing…" She seems to steady herself, and then pulls more out of the basket—the Capitol has sent us actual plates, linen napkins and silverware. She tears a roll in half while I divide an apple with one of the knives. She spoons us out a small portion of the stew each. The meager portions on our plates look pathetic, but we force ourselves to eat slowly, chewing and swallowing meticulously, taking sips of water in between.
When the plates are clean, Katniss stares morosely at hers. "I want more," she pouts.
"Me, too," I admit. "Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another serving."
She considers this, nods. "Agreed… It's going to be a long hour."
"Maybe not that long," I oppose. Now that my stomach is at least partially full, I'm again finding myself distracted by other yearnings not so easily ignored. "What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me… No competition… Best thing that ever happened to you…"
"I don't remember that last part," she says as she crawls back into the sleeping bag. The light's dimmer in that part of the cave, but I can swear she's blushing again.
"Oh, that's right," I tease. "That's what I was thinking. Scoot over, I'm freezing."
I squeeze in beside her, and we lean against the wall, her head on my shoulder. After a moment of hesitation, I enfold her in my arms.
"So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?" she queries, almost hesitantly, as if she's shy.
"No, I noticed just about every girl," I admit. "But none of them made a lasting impression but you."
"I'm sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam." There is a hint of bitter shame in her tone.
I make a face, where she can't see, imagining my mother's shrill, opinionated words. "Hardly," I admit grudgingly. "But I couldn't care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam," I point out, pulling back so I can see her profile. "You'll be a girl from the Victors' Village."
"But then," she says, her head swinging up so fast she just about clips me in the jaw. "Our only neighbor will be Haymitch!"
I chuckle at her horrified expression, relieved that she's moved on from the topic of my mother's judgment so quickly. "Ah, that'll be nice. You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games tales." I can almost hear the Capitol laughing. Haymitch has become something of a class clown since his tumble off the stage at the reaping, and I'm sure this conversation will only contribute.
"I told you, he hates me!" she replies, but she's laughing.
"Only sometimes," I placate her. "When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you."
"He's never sober!" she moans. More nationwide laughter.
"That's right," I say, knocking the heel of my palm against my forehead. "Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you—but that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set you on fire… On the other hand, Haymitch… Well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you," I tell her cheerfully.
It occurs to me, with a little detonation of joy in my chest, that we may actually get to see these people again. Haymitch. Effie. Cinna. Portia. Our families and friends. What I originally set out to do—return this girl to her sister and mother, who so desperately need her—may actually see its completion.
She gives me a patronizing look now, but I can see the smile tugging at her lips. "I thought you said I was his favorite."
"He hates me more. I don't think people in general are his sort of thing."
She grins, but then seems to lapse into some sort of introspection. "How do you think he did it?" she says after a moment.
"Who? Did what?"
"Haymitch," she clarifies. "How do you think he won the Games?"
I ponder this. Haymitch has been a victor for the last twenty-four years; it's hard to say exactly how old he is—drink can age someone phenomenally. But it's safe to say it's not his personality that won the Capitol over, inundating him with sponsor gifts. It's also difficult to imagine him as some sort of warrior; kids from Twelve so rarely are, especially coming from the Seam. Besides, he never pushed for that in training; he was always more interested in survival skills, or our team image. I think of that spark in his grey Seam eyes, the intuition that allowed him to decipher my feelings for Katniss so quickly, the quiet, casual—but weighted—conversations he shared at dinner with Cinna and Portia. The unassuming yet noteworthy aura he gave off…
"He outsmarted the others," I realize.
I find myself wondering how much of a role he's played in all of this. Of course, he couldn't have known that my feelings for Katniss—the alliance in between and my willingness to protect her at all cost—would have led us to this point… Or could he have? Do we owe Haymitch more credit than he's been dealt thus far, or am I just overthinking things? Is the reason that I'm sitting here in this cave with Katniss more because of Haymitch than any of the individual moves either of us has made on our own? Could he really be that influential?
The anthem begins to play as Katniss is serving up our second meal, and I cross to the window in the entrance to watch—just in case we've missed anything in between the rumbling thunder. Possibly because I haven't been expecting it, or maybe it's in response to the emotional story Katniss told me yesterday, but I feel such a wallop of grief when I see Thresh's image rise in the sky that it nearly causes my knees to buckle. Not for myself, but for Katniss.
"There won't be anything to see tonight. Nothing's happened or we would've heard a cannon," she's saying, oblivious to the tragic news.
I try to say her name, but it catches, soundless, in my throat. I try again. "Katniss."
"What?" she says. "Should we split another roll, too?"
"Katniss," I repeat, glancing over my shoulder at her.
Refusing to look up at me, she pulls another flower-shaped bun from the basket. "I'm going to split one. But I'll save the cheese for tomorrow." Finally, she turns to meet my eyes. "What?"
I take a breath, bracing myself for her reaction. "Thresh is dead."
She blinks, the roll perched, forgotten, in her fingers. "He can't be."
"They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it."
Slowly, purposefully, she sets the roll down, brushes crumbs from her lap and rises. "Are you sure? I mean, it's pouring buckets out there. I don't know how you can see anything."
She's in denial, I think as she nudges me away from the rocks so she can take a look for herself. I watch her face carefully as she blinks up at the sky, and then she leans dejectedly against the wall, and I know she's seen his image.
"You all right?" I ask her.
She gives a shrug, wrapping her arms tightly around her torso. I watch the emotions flicker across her face, easier to discern now from all the time we've spent together: pain, anger, grief, regret.
"It's just…" she finally says quietly, almost inaudibly, "If we didn't win… I wanted Thresh to… Because he let me go… And because of Rue."
I regard her words carefully, knowing they aren't exactly what she means, grateful that she's keeping it together for the cameras—but also heartbroken because of it. The extent of her exhaustion is clear in the slumped line of her slim shoulders, in the haggard expression on her face. I think of the girl Cato killed in the forest that first night, of Coral, of Pixel, Rue, and even of Glimmer and Clove, of how permanent their deaths will be for me, also. Of how much more I understand Haymitch's pain now; his inability to face the day without a bottle.
Why us? I find myself thinking. Why do we get to survive, and not them? Not that I would change it if I could—of course I want to live—but it doesn't make me feel any less guilt for it. Doesn't make it any easier to close my eyes and face the image of their final expressions, composed in death.
I sigh. "Yeah, I know." Boy, do I know. And then, reminding myself as much as I'm reminding her, I add, "But this means we're one step closer to District Twelve." Back to our families and friends, and as normal a life as will be possible after all this horror and carnage.
I kneel down and finish her interrupted task, then hand her the fuller plate. "Eat. It's still warm."
She takes it, folds her legs underneath her on the rough gravel floor, and scoops a bite into her mouth. I follow suit.
After a moment, she says, "It also means Cato will be back hunting us."
"And he's got supplies again," I add.
"He'll be wounded, I bet."
"What makes you say that?" I ask.
She swallows the bite of roll and shakes her head, her brows furrowed in concentration. "Because Thresh would have never gone down without a fight. He's so strong—I mean, he was… And they were in his territory."
"Good," I say, knowing this will be an advantage for us. "The more wounded Cato is the better… I wonder how Foxface is making out." Is that really it? Just the four of us left?
"Oh, she's fine," Katniss snaps mulishly. "Probably be easier to catch Cato than her."
"Maybe they'll catch each other and we can just go home," I say, well aware that it's wishful thinking. "But we better be extra careful about the watches. I dozed off a few times."
"Me, too. But not tonight."
I nod in agreement, scooping up another bite of stew. We don't speak for the rest of the meal, and I watch her steadily retreat into herself, her face growing more strained. I rinse the dishes off in the rain, and then offer to take first watch, knowing she needs a few minutes as alone as she can be with her thoughts and her sorrow.
We settle into the sleeping bag, and she pulls her hood up over her head, burrowing deeply inside so that her face is hidden. I grip the knife with considerably more readiness than the last few nights, eyes on the sheeting rain. She keeps one hand on her loaded bow, even while she sleeps, murmuring uneasily in her sleep. I can't help but find myself affected by her grief, pulled into the sphere her gravity creates. I'm so far gone for her it can't be helped, but if my intuition is leading me in the correct direction there's something in the way she looks at me, in the way she kisses me… Something in her eyes that's meant for me alone, something soft, more subtle that seems to speak directly to my heart.
So a few hours later, when my stomach begins to snarl and complain again, I carefully shift her limbs away from mine and make my way toward the basket, examining the contents of it, trying to come up with a way to make her feel better. I miss the smell of bread so much it's a palpable pain, the aching absence of dough under the heels of my hands an irreplaceable void, and the urge to create an itch that needs to be scratched. Eventually, I come up with a shoddy imitation of a pastry from back home, using the silver Capitol knife to shabbily slice an apple and fan them atop a split roll spread with goat cheese. I'm so hungry I gobble my portion down before I can help it. It's good—not nearly as pretty as my dad's, but still good.
I shake her shoulder with one hand, holding one half of my impromptu tart under her nose with the other. "Don't be mad," I wheedle when her eyes open. "I had to eat again. Here's your half."
"Oh, good," she enthuses, practically snatching it from my hand with a ravenous gleam in her eye. She takes a ginormous bite and moans in ecstasy.
"We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery," I explain, to draw the comparison.
"Bet that's expensive," she says through a second mouthful.
"Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it's gone very stale. Of course, practically everything we eat is stale," I say through a yawn. I wriggle down beside her into the pocket of warmth she's left, my stomach content with the small snack. Within a matter of minutes, I'm asleep.
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I dream of goat cheese and apple tarts, home, the bakery, of me and Katniss, together, and when she shakes me awake, she's backlit by clear, golden light. It shimmers through her frizzy hair, strands escaping from her braid, casting a halo around her head, and shatters in rays across the right side of her face, casting fiery strips through one of her eyes.
So beautiful, I think and, possibly still half asleep and not quite in full possession of my faculties yet, I yank her down for a nice, long kiss. She still tastes of tart apples and creamy cheese, and when she pulls back, I can make out not only the blush on her cheeks, but a subtle smattering of freckles. Then I realize that the sunlight that illuminates her is present because the rain has stopped.
"We're wasting hunting time," she murmurs, her eyes still mere inches from mine.
"I wouldn't call it wasting," I disagree, but reluctantly sit up and stretch, yawning hugely. "So," I say finally, "Do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?"
"Not us," she says, reaching up to smooth down the hair on the back of my head. "We stuff ourselves to give us staying power."
"Count me in." But even I'm surprised when she seems to mean this literally. I watch as she divides the remainder of the lamb and dried plum stew, splitting it between our plates. "All this?" I ask doubtfully.
"We'll earn it back today," she guarantees and then digs in. My small midnight treat has long since digested, and so I start eating with equal fervor. Katniss uses her finger to wipe the last smears of gravy from her plate, and as she licks the last bit from her finger, her eyes meet mine and we grin, both struck by the same memory at once it seems, because she says, "I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my manners."
I snort. "Hey, Effie!" I call out, "Watch this!" I toss the fork over my shoulder, hearing it clatter with a small metallic tinkle against the rocks and then lift my plate to my face, licking up the dredges of my own gravy—all too clearly picturing the horror on Effie's face. Maybe she'll even faint. To top it off, I blow a kiss toward the overall direction of a camera. "We miss you, Effie!"
Katniss is laughing, but lurches forward to seal my lips with her hand. "Stop!" she begs, trying to be severe but failing largely in part to her girlish giggling. "Cato could be right outside our cave!"
"What do I care?" I say, then catch her wrist and pull her hand away, throwing her off balance in the process. My other arm flies out to catch her, cradling her securely against my chest. "I've got you to protect me now."
She laughs as I cover her mouth with mine. "Come on," she pretends to complain, batting ineffectually at my shoulder.
"Fine," I relent, grinning as I release her.
It's only as we step outside that my mood sobers, struck by the fresh air and exposure. Having been sheltered by the walls of the rocks for the past few days, the sun is too bright in my eyes, feels too hot on the back of my neck, the air almost buffeting. Of course, it's not only the elements I feel exposed to. It's the first morning of sun after days of rain. The remaining tributes will be out, too. I slip Katniss's knife into my belt as she counts her remaining arrows and then slings the quiver over her shoulder.
"He'll be hunting us by now," I murmur, squinting into the shadowy parts of the trees across the stream. "Cato isn't one to wait for his prey to wander by."
"If he's wounded—" she begins.
"It won't matter," I interrupt. "If he can move, he's coming." The old surge of protection fills me anew. His first target won't be me; I know that well.
She nods and starts forward. We have to help each other stumble down the rocks. It's clear we're both still in rough shape from our injuries. Even in the sunlight, her complexion isn't what it usually is, and although my pain is greatly improved, walking still isn't easy. We stop at the flooded stream first to refill our water bottles, squeezing drops of iodine into the flasks to purify them. Along the way, Katniss checks several snares she's set, all of them empty. This doesn't seem to surprise her.
"If we want food, we better head back up to my old hunting grounds."
"Your call," I say. "Just tell me what you need me to do."
"Keep an eye out. Stay on the rocks as much as possible, no sense in leaving him tracks to follow. And listen for both of us." She gestures to her left ear.
I nod, and we set out. We hold hands as we walk, but I can tell there's hardly a romantic gesture in it. This is a way to support one another, and I'm grateful for it. She points out the place she found me, which has since been eaten up by the mud and rain.
"That means we can come back to the cave if we need to," she says.
Gradually, the huge boulders shrink, and pretty soon we're underneath the cover of trees. We walk along for a few yards—I'm watching her with open fascination, her graceful movements, the way she holds her bow at the ready—before she starts shooting me accusing glances.
"What?"
"You've got to move more quietly. Forget about Cato, you're chasing off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius."
"Really? Sorry, I didn't know."
I try to remedy this by lifting my feet more purposefully, not shuffling the spill of dry pine needles as we continue forward, paying attention to the force with which my foot comes down. I think it's better, but obviously not enough for Katniss.
After a few minutes she asks, "Can you take your boots off?"
"Here?" I ask dubiously, examining the bracken all around us.
"Yes," she confirms tolerantly. "I will, too. That way we'll both be quieter."
I find it hard to imagine her being any quieter, but I agree to it anyway. We sling our boots over our shoulders in the same way she did when she rescued me by the stream, but the extra weight only causes me more strain as I try to compensate for balance. This annoys me, because I'm trying to keep an eye out for Cato, and I understand that she's trying to hunt, but I can only concentrate on so many things at once. Obviously, I'm no good at this. So when we stop for water a couple hours later with no success, I know what I have to do.
"Katniss, we need to split up. I know I'm chasing away the game."
"Only because your leg's hurt."
I decide not to tell her that I wasn't that much quieter before. "I know. So, why don't you go on? Show me some plants to gather and that way we'll both be useful."
"Not if Cato comes and kills you," she says quietly.
I laugh at that—thinking of my last confrontation with the boy from District Two, our drunken wheeling. So, it was probably pure luck that I survived that, but whatever. She'll never let me go off on my own if I don't make it look like I can take care of myself. "Look, I can handle Cato. I fought him before, didn't I?"
She considers this for a moment. "What if you climbed up in a tree and acted as a lookout while I hunted?" she suggests, plainly condescending whether she knows it or not.
I roll my eyes. "What if you show me what's edible around here and go get us some meat?" I retort. "Just don't go far, in case you need help."
She sighs and, finally, relents, leading me over to a patch of plants that she digs up to show me the roots of.
"These parts are edible," she says, laying them aside. "We've had them before. I won't go too far off, but we should still have some kind of signal to make sure we know the other's safe. Can you whistle?"
"Yeah."
"How about this?" She pipes a simple two-note warble, and I repeat it back.
"Good," she says, nodding. "We'll just sing that back and forth every once in awhile."
She sets the pack down near a tree, while I pull my socks and boots back on. She watches with a quizzical expression while I double-knot the laces for extra measure—the last thing I need is to trip over my shoelaces while I'm trying to chase down Cato—and then, giving me one last look and promise that she won't be far, she disappears into the foliage.
I dig the roots happily for a while, prying them up with my knife. It's only a minute or two later that I hear her whistle and I smile a little, shaking my head at her anxiety. I whistle back, and then return to my work. The day turns warmer, and the simple digging works up a thirst. Soon I've drunk through my bottle. I move into the woods to relieve my bladder, and then head down to the stream to replenish my water. That's when I notice the bush by its edge, absolutely burgeoned with dark purple berries.
Sugar berries, I think, smiling in spite of myself. Deciding to gather some of these too, I have to carry handfuls at a time back to the pack, where I lay the plastic sheet out to collect them. I make the trip back and forth a few times before I hear Katniss calling my name in a panic.
I hurry back up the incline, and as I approach the place we separated, I hear the whistle of something fly past my ear. Instinct takes over and I leap back, the berries in my hands taking to the air as my head jerks to the side, eyes falling on Katniss's arrow, lodged in a tree just to my left.
"What are you doing?" she shouts at me, her face flushed with anger as her bow drops to her side. "You're supposed to be here, not running around in the woods!"
Oh my god, I think numbly, She nearly just killed me. My heart is racing so quickly that it takes me a second to gather myself. "I found some berries down by the stream," I'm finally able to say.
"I whistled! Why didn't you whistle back?" she demands. It's then that I see the odd, humming quality of her bow, and I realize that she's shaking.
"I didn't hear," I tell her calmly. "That water's too loud, I guess." I cross to her and lay my hands over her shoulders.
"I thought Cato killed you!" she bursts out.
"No, I'm fine," I assure her, and draw her trembling form to me, kissing the top of her head. But she doesn't respond to the embrace, her arms rigid at her sides. "Katniss?"
Her hands come up between us, pushing hard against my chest. I let her go. "If two people agree on a signal, they stay in range," she seethes, "because if one of them doesn't answer, they're in trouble, all right?"
"All right," I consent.
"All right," she repeats. "Because that's what happened with Rue, and I watched her die!" She whirls away from me then, crosses to the pack and opens a bottle of water, takes a sip. In the trees nearby, some birds chirp. "And you ate without me!"
"What?" I say in confusion. "No, I didn't!"
"Oh," she snaps, turning back on me, her eyes glinting. "And I suppose the apples ate the cheese."
I clench my jaw, biting down on the irritation. "I don't know what ate the cheese, but it wasn't me. I've been down by the stream collecting berries. Would you care for some?" I gesture toward the sheet on the ground.
She surveys me, narrow-eyed, for a long second, and then turns and walks over to them. She crouches, scooping a few up and lets them roll around her palm in a careful, studious way. That's when the cannon fires.
She whips around, all the anger in her face gone, replaced only by wide-eyed, pale-faced terror.
I raise my eyebrows at her. What?
Then her eyes flicker past me, above the tree line, and I automatically turn, seeing the hovercraft appear. The metal claw extends into the greenery, and a moment later, retracts, cradling the wasted body of a redheaded girl in its grasp. Finch.
I lurch toward Katniss, clutching her by the arm, forcing her onto her feet. "Climb. He'll be here in a second; we'll stand a better chance fighting him from above."
But she plants her feet, her eyes fixed on the hovercraft. "No, Peeta," she says evenly, "She's your kill, not Cato's."