CHAPTER XXIV
New routines begin to form as the days pass. Peeta and Effie come over for breakfast then Samson and I head out to the woods. After lunch, I work in the garden where Peeta begins regularly joining me. He works alongside me most days, but, thankfully, he is able to tell when I'm having one of my bad days and need my solitude. Those days, he pulls out his pad and quietly sketches from the porch. Peeta and Effie return for dinner and every so often Haymitch will show up to liven up the evening.
Peeta's questions continue, though instead of an inquisition he'll merely flip open to a pencil sketch and ask me if I know what it is and what really happened. Most are random, unexciting moments when compared to so many others we have shared, however from the oddities found in the drawings, I can deduce that the tampered versions he has in his mind are much more eventful. If I point out an error or something I say conflicts with his memory, he'll rapidly jot notes in the margins.
I begin to realize that my reclusiveness is manageable when I'm only with one other person. Peeta has commented on how I can be open when it's just us but withdrawn, or worse, defensive when in company. It's not surprising to me. I spent the years between 11 and 16 pretty much speaking to only three people: Gale in the woods, Madge at school, and Prim everywhere else. Even at the Hob, if too many people started gathering near Sae's stand I'd quickly slip away.
I'll catch Peeta studying me like a puzzle he's yet to solve. I have a feeling he's using our time together to further correct his memories. When I mention that the thought of having to be in front of or socialize with any group of people has always made me want to reach for my bow, he nods as if that answers some great mystery on his mind.
By the end of her first week in 12, Effie has landed herself a position as the coordinator for Plutarch's July celebration and any complaints about District 12 are never spoken aloud again. She cheerfully flits around the district making pages of notes, expounds on the great potential and irresistibility of the project, and makes nonstop phone calls. By the end of the second week, she is confident in Peeta's resettlement and eager to meet with Plutarch's team to continue her planning. Her hesitance to leave Peeta was heartwarming but there was no way either of us was going to keep her here, both for her sake and our sanity. As I hugged her goodbye at the train depot, she made me promise to watch over Peeta twice as much in her stead. Peeta told her we loved her and I went so far as to softly tell her we would miss her. With teary cheeks and fluttering hands, she boarded the train back to the Capitol.
Not wanting to let Effie down, I try and make sure, without his notice, that Peeta is managing the change. During the day, he appears much the same as he was in the weeks prior, however, at night, I'll watch from my window as his lights stay on late into the morning. On the third consecutive night of insomniac habits, it's time to check in.
With an assuredness that I do not actually possess, I stand at his front door and knock. His shock is expected I suppose, it is well after midnight, and although he tries to convince me he's fine and I should head to bed, I won't have it.
"Nope, you're coming with me," I insist, grabbing his shirt to tug him along. I maneuver through his house as if it is my own, not answering his questions about where I am taking him. He needs a distraction, something calming. A change of scenery is due.
His eyes widen as I enter his bedroom but I am on a mission and won't be stopped. Not paying attention of the room around me, I walk straight to the window and pull it wide open. Sticking my head out the window, I check to make sure the roof is built the same as my own then twist my chin up to look at the sky. "There isn't a single cloud up there night."
He looks at me as if I've grown a pair of antlers.
"That's great, Katniss. Just swell. You mind telling me what you're up to?"
"You need to put on some shoes," is all I answer. He looks confounded. I quite like making him speechless.
As he slides on his sneakers I slip out the window and onto the scarcely pitched roof below.
"Katniss," he says sounding worried, "where did you go?"
I walk back to the window and poke my head back through. "Come on!" He shakes his head to refuse. "You want to take a one-legged man out onto a roof?" I blow out a scoff dismissingly. "You've never let that stop you before." I lean onto the window frame on my forearms. "Come on. I would never take you someplace you'd be in danger."
After a few seconds of deliberation, he tentatively makes his way through the window to join me. Once his feet are solidly planted and he realizes the safe rake he calms. I lead him over to the perfect spot towards the center of the house. I recline back, my face to the stars. He peers down at me with a look I don't understand. "You're missing the view." He settles down beside me with a sigh.
"I've always liked to stargaze when I haven't been able to settle my thoughts. Even the biggest problems seem so small when compared to all this."
"The moon is just a sliver tonight. It makes the stars seem so much brighter," he observes.
"My pa always loved a full moon. He said Grandpa loved the crescent moons because it reminded him of a bow, but my pa was like my great grandfather and loved the full moon."
"Did he say why?" Peeta asks.
I chuckle to cover up my embarrassment, "Pa said it was like looking up and seeing his daughter winking back at him. He would tease that there used to be three moons but I swallowed two as a baby and now they're stuck in my eyes." I shake my head at his silliness. "Sometimes he'd call me his little moon," I say fondly.
"I can see that. They aren't the coal gray of typical Seam eyes; they shine like polished silver and even seem to glow sometimes."
"During the war, when I'd see the full moon, I'd always think of the pearl from the Quell. I could pull it out of my pocket and hold them side-by-side, hypnotized by their iridescence. But where the moon was blotched and speckled, the pearl was perfect, completely flawless."
"You carried it with you?"
"All the way until I the bombs dropped in City Circle." It was in the pocket of my uniform where I once stored the key to Peeta's handcuffs. When I woke up in the burn unit, I couldn't get anyone to tell me where my clothes went. Another thing lost to fire.
"Why?" He probes. "It was the last thing you gave me, the only way I had to keep you close. Sometimes I'd cling to it as if… as if it was the only bit of you I had left. As though if I kept it safe, you would- I don't know, it would keep you alive. When you gave it to me, I made a myself a promise that I would get you home safe."
It's odd, after the war ended, my desperation to hold tight to the pearl drifted away. It's flawlessness no longer felt right given all that happened and all that Peeta and I had become. It was a promise kept. Maybe it served its purpose faithfully and melted away when it was no longer needed. I shift subjects.
"Have you ever looked for images in the stars?" I query. With his artistic eye, he could probably imagine fantastic shapes and images.
"No. Is there something hiding up there?"
"Of course. They're more interesting than the ones in clouds. Look, just to the right of the moon." I point, "There is the Big Bear being pursued by seven hunters. Well only three can keep up. See them trailing behind?"
"It looks like a ladle."
I tilt my head the opposite direction. "I'm a huntress; it's a bear. But okay baker, in that case, if you look above the big ladle there is a smaller one hanging upside-down. See it?"
"Yeah."
"The brighter star at the end of its tail is the North Star. My father called it the Chief Star. He said the reason it was Chief was because it remains in its place in the north as it directs all of the other stars across the sky. He maintains a schedule and steady order to their movements. Like any good leader, the Chief Star is trustworthy and dependable. If you're lost, you can have faith that it will help you find your way home."
"Is that true?" Peeta asks and I laugh. "Obviously not the Chief part, but yes, I've used it to determine which direction is north. Same way you can figure out east and west by the path of the sun."
"What else is out there?"
"Hmm. Oh, I always liked this one. Over there, to the right, with the straight line and split tail, that's Grandpa's lost arrow." I take his finger to follow the shape in the sky. "Pa said that a long time ago the very first Everdeen archer tried to shoot the moon and missed his mark. The lost arrow is now displayed, warning all Everdeens of the folly of pride."
I point out a few more animals but then we just lay quietly side-by-side gazing skyward.
"Did you ever do this with Gale?" He asks softly. I hate how vulnerable Peeta suddenly sounds.
Gale. I've enjoyed avoiding thoughts of him. I know Peeta has a lot of questions about him but up until now it has been an unspoken understanding that Gale shall remain unspoken. But if I want Peeta to stay, to keep this closeness, there's a lot he should probably know, things he's never understood. He was always so bitter about Gale and my history; it wasn't fair at all. It made me angry. Why was I the bad person for not wanting a romance with anyone? So I, being me, never went to any trouble to ease his misconceptions.
Do I know how to describe it now? My feelings and understanding have shifted greatly over time, but during my months of isolation in 12, I feel I've found more clarity than I had when I was floundering in the middle of the unknown.
"Um, no." I nervously pull at the ends of my sweater, stretching the sleeve over my hands. "Gale wouldn't have understood. He'd have found my stories childish."
"But- but they aren't." It's a statement but his tone is questioning. "They all have morals underneath the surface."
"That's the problem. Gale never was one for digging too deep. To him, if a lesson existed it would have been said directly. Things were black and white, one side or the other. And he'd scoff at anything resembling the sentimental.
"I don't know if we would have become friends if he hadn't realized I could shoot. He looked at me and I could tell right away that all he saw was just another scrawny little Seam girl. But we both had our families depending on us, and where I had two, he had four mouths to feed. He needed to learn how to use a bow so I traded him lessons in snares." I look out to my forest – to what once was our forest. "Over time, we grew to respect each other. With years, we eventually even trusted each other." For a long time, hunting together was the only time I felt happy. More importantly, when I had him covering my back, it was one of the only times I felt safe.
"No one else could truly understand what it felt like to single-handedly be responsible for your family's survival. It's a burden that never lifted. To be able to share that with someone… it kept me sane."
"What changed? You don't even speak of him anymore." His voice hushes, "Was it the bombing?"
His question confuses me. Shouldn't he be pleased I keep my distance? There're some things about Peeta I will always struggle to understand. His extraordinary ability to selflessly carefor others is one of them.
"Not just the bombing." I fight the images of my sister disappearing into the ball of flames. Things were changing long before that.
"Everything was different after the Games." I close my eyes and picture our last goodbye and then the welcome home. The difference was almost tangible. "I don't think Gale ever understood that I, that we, were changed by the Games. He had these expectations, things I owed him that I just couldn't meet. To him, I survived, I won," using the word makes me nauseous, "and he expected me to go back to be his Katniss. But my world had changed. I was different… I was broken, and there was no gluing the pieces back into the girl I was before. You understand completely don't you?"
"Yes," is all he answers.
"Then the war came, all the hypothetical arguments we used to have became real. He wasn't just an angry kid dreaming of his revenge against the government anymore. He wanted me to share his rage, that destructive fire that could bring down whatever might cross it. Any compassion or mercy I might feel, those were weaknesses I needed to control. At times I thought maybe he was right, maybe I was weak. So I tried to be a good soldier, a good little Mockingjay, but I never could turn off the sound of my father's voice playing in my head. My pa didn't raise me to be like that. So much of what Gale saw as weakness my father would have considered a mark of strength. The opposite is true too. The man who needs to wield the biggest weapon, who needs to crush every enemy to feel powerful, he's the weak one."
I shake my head sadly. "My father raised me to be respectful, patient, and humble. Why was it so wrong to want to live up to his ideals?"
Silence falls between us. Peeta muted by the flood of personal information I have uncharacteristically divulged. I look to the sky. It's getting late. It's getting early.
"There, to the south, that is the scorpion. Every spring, the scorpion stars chase the huntsman out of the sky. But in January, he was still up there. I'd look up and think a lot about that story back then."
Peeta turns to his side, laying his head on his arm like a pillow. "Will you tell me?"
I trace my finger along the curving path of the scorpions tail.
"There once was a huntress who was a collection of opposites. She was mighty with a bow, but was known as a protector of nature and its creatures. She was a bringer of death and yet known as a protector of innocents. She swore to never have children and yet was known to be the protector of mothers during childbirth. She spent her days and nights enjoying the woods in solitude. One day, she met a huntsman. He was strong and handsome, and the two began to hunt together. They would race and challenge each other." My voice cracks, "They were partners.
"But the huntsman, he didn't believe in protecting the creatures of the forest. He enjoyed the kill, the victory of it. He even boasted that he would kill all the animals on earth. Horrified, the huntress had to defend those under her protection from his threats. She called forth a giant scorpion who snuck upon her partner, striking him dead."
I lick my lips. "In the late winter, I'd watch as the huntsmen drifted out of the sky. I spent nights trying to understand why, after all that had happened, why would the huntress put her partner into the sky. Was it punishment? That he should forever be running in fear of one of the creatures he swore to destroy. Or was it to keep him safe? Maybe she couldn't let go of her once-friend no matter what he did, so she saved his memory forever in the stars. Or was it a reminder? A harsh reminder that the one she trusted most betrayed everything she stood for."
Something warm brushes against my face. Peeta's hand has reached over to wipe away a tear that I wasn't aware had escaped. "The ones we love the most have the greatest power to hurt us," he speaks gently.
Like me. Peeta offered his devotion, he threw himself into my power, and I crushed it. No, not crushed, I took it for granted and killed it with a thousand tiny cuts.
"I'm so sorry, Peeta," I whisper into the darkness.
His eyes widen, "No, Katniss, I didn't mean you. I was thinking of my family."
I don't say anything. Feeling guilty that I felt relief that his comment was directed at his flesh and blood and not at me.
"No matter how many bruises my mother left, I kept on wishing for her to love me the way I dreamed a mother should love her child. I kept foolishly hoping one day I would be a son she would want, and each day I would see the disappointment in her eyes. Her words often stung more than her slaps, but I'd just turn the other cheek and wait for the next."
I reach out my hand across the shingles and grasp his palm.
"My father, I thought he was the best of men. I followed him around the bakery, learning every one of his skills and mimicking his mannerisms. I wanted to be just like him. He loved and encouraged me enough for two parents. But then, when my mother was on a rampage, he would disappear. How could his inaction hurt as hard as her rolling pin? He was supposed to protect me, that's what fathers are supposed to do. Sure, he'd be there to help me off the floor or with a cold towel, but he never once stopped her. Why?" He asks the night sky. "Was I not worth it? Was it my fault? I've asked myself that question my entire life, and now I'll never get to find out the answer. Every one of them is gone, dead and buried who knows where. I wish I could look up to the stars and see them up there, that I could find some piece of them somewhere… anywhere."
"Do you- would you- would it help if you could visit them and say goodbye?" Finding the words is near impossible. I knew I would have to admit to this eventually, but explaining my actions seems so much harder now than it did when the thought of seeing Peeta again was a long shot.
"But I can't. I mean I know they're in the Meadow with the rest of the district, Thom told me, but it's not the same." His defeat is obvious.
I suppose it is time.
"I- I have to tell you something." Swallowing thickly, "I really hope you won't be upset. I just- I just kept thinking about how I would feel if it was my family. And I couldn't just stand by and watch. I had to do something. And I should have asked, I get that, but I didn't know how and there wasn't any time and I had to do something-"
"Katniss," Peeta interrupts, "Please, just say it, whatever it is. You're rambling which is such a strange thing to witness I'm getting freaked."
I take a strengthening breath. "I know where they're buried. It's not with the rest of the district."
"Where are they? Katniss, tell me where my family is." He starts to move, "I need to get down." I follow him through the window to answer his questions on more solid ground.
"They're buried near the Meadow, in a place of their own." I explain simply.
"Show me." He demands.
"Now?" I ask. "Peeta, it's hours past midnight. I swear I'll take you there. We can go first thing." He shakes his head repeatedly. "I need to go now. I'm not tired. Are you?"
"No." I suppose I'm not.
We decide to venture through developing district instead of navigating the woods in the dark. I steal a sweater from Peeta's closet and pick up a pair of lanterns from my porch as we walk towards the Village gates. As we make our way through town, I try to explain my actions of that night as delicately as possible. I try to explain how wrong it felt to leave his family in the hands of strangers and buried lost among other strangers. He doesn't say much, just nods and asks more questions.
Buildings now stand where rubble previously lay. The empty structures are in pristine condition and eerie in the moonlight. Nothing is recognizable. We walk through this foreign land like it is a completely different district and not the one where we both were born. Eventually the rows of buildings trickle down to nothing but flattened dirt.
My feet freeze when we meet the Meadow. It's unrecognizable. Where there once was an open field of tall waving grass and steadfast weeds is a bulging mound of dark soil as far as the eye can see. It's so big. There are so many. These are our neighbors, our friends. A whimper leaves my throat as I stumble back.
"We need to go around." Peeta is still staring, deaf to my words. "Peeta," I call, then give up and pull his face away from the grim sight. "Come on, Peeta. We'll stick to the trees from here." I lead him away and into the perimeter of the woods. A large hand slips into mine and stops my stride. His voice shakes as much as his hand. "Thank you for not leaving them there." My left hand joins the other so both can squeeze back. "We're almost there."
The two willows are dressed in a coat of spring leaves. In the sunlight, we would see the branches decorated with hanging catkins promising new life. I part the curtain of drooping branches and let them fall closed behind us once inside the willows embrace. Peeta kneels at the untouched blanket of river stones that I laid here months prior. We don't say a word. When he starts to weep I kneel next to him. He needs a reminder that he doesn't have to do this alone.
"They're really gone." He rubs his hands across his wet face. "I knew that, but still, somewhere inside me," he says jabbing into his chest, "I felt like they were only just away for a little while, busy with their lives, never ones to visit. But they're not away. They're gone." He inhales with force. "Will I carry this- this aching inside me for the rest of my life?" His voice drops to a whisper as his head drops to my shoulder. "What do I do, Katniss?"
"I don't know." I answer honestly. Prim's birthday would have been in two days and I already want to crawl under my covers and hide. I know when it comes that's exactly where I'll be: tucked in her bed wondering why I'm still here when she is not. I understand that I should be grateful to still be alive and I should live a good life in her honor. But how do you grieve and still be gracious?
"I feel that ache everyday - like stones piled on top of my chest. A stone placed for every death. Some days I can manage the weight of them all, then other days, her single death outweighs them all."
I tilt my head onto the top of his. "I don't think those stones will ever go away. I'm not sure that they should. I hope, instead, that we find a way to be stronger- strong enough to withstand their weight, strong enough to carry them with us."
When we return to the village, instead of separating at my door I tug his hand to bring him inside. Half the night is gone already and I'm not about to let him spend the rest of it alone. As he falls asleep, I don't want the only thing he thinks of to be a grave. At least I have something I hope might offer solace.
I get him to take off his shoes and sit down on my bed while I bend down and reach into the darkness under my bed and pull out a well-worn bag. I climb up beside him and place the bag between us. "I wanted you to always have something of home."
His brows crease as he leans forward and lifts the cloth flap. "O- oh," he breathes tremulously. His hands wrap around the handle of the twisted whisk. In his hands, it doesn't seem as unusually large as it did in mine. His thumbs and forefingers work the metal, trying to bend it back into shape. He looks up at me, opens his mouth, and then closes quickly. He lays the whisk next to him with care before returning to the bag.
Next he withdraws the shard of ceramic. He wipes it against his shirt, removing the remaining ash and dirt, revealing its warm coloring. He places it delicately beside the whisk and returns to the bag.
"Do you know what this is?" He gasps as he holds the old brick tenderly. I nod. How many hours did he spend using those ovens? He closes his eyes, curves his neck, and brings the brick to his forehead, rocking back and forth with emotion. Suddenly he straightens and places it neatly in a row next to the other treasures.
Last is the mysterious metal box. "I found it but I don't know what's inside." I hand him a knife to use to pry at the distorted seam. "It was yours to open."
"I don't recognize this," his raspy voice mumbles.
After several minutes of exertion, the lid flings open revealing a stack of aged documents. Worn letters, government documents, a marriage license – Peeta examines each as he finds them. He spends a significant amount of time smiling at a series of around two-dozen paper cards with what looks like recipes handwritten upon them. It's the Mellark family's version of my plant book. The recipes are filled with words I've never heard of, but they are clearly the efforts to preserve his family traditions.
His sharp inhale draws my attention. In his hand is a photograph of what must be him and his two brothers. The eldest looks to be six or seven and is standing stiffly with a proud seriousness. The second looks to be just past toddling and has a devilish glint in his eyes. And the youngest, Peeta, is propped up, chubby legs not yet walking, joyfully gumming his fist in his mouth. The photo shows three boys with identical features but hugely varying dispositions.
I can't help but smile at the slobbering infant version of my boy sitting beside me. "I can't imagine how my father was ever able to afford a real photo," he reflects. "It being only of the three of us and hidden away makes me think he didn't want my mother to know of the extravagance." Looking at the photograph, I am sorry I don't know more about his brothers. "Will you tell me about them?"
He leans his back against the headboard and waves me over to join him. "Rueben was the eldest. He always had that look," he points to the adolescent face, "always quiet and dignified. We weren't close, with so many years between us, but I always wished I could be as smart as him. He left home as soon as he could, I couldn't have been much older than ten at the time. He hated the bakery and made sure to fall in love with the grocer's only daughter so he could change trades."
He points to the younger brother. "Simeon was the ladies man. I can't remember how many girlfriends he had over the years, some at the same time." He snorts in humor, "He was brilliant with bread but a disgrace with decorating. That's how I got so good. We planned on sharing the bakery some day, splitting the work to match our talents. Simeon would give me hell about everything, but especially about you. He'd tease me nonstop but he wouldn't stand for anyone else doing so. Well, except mother. It was as if he knew that if he never said anything he'd be in the clear, so I was on my own. At least I could bear the brunt for all of us."
I shake my head in disgust. I never trusted the middle Mellark. He always made me feel uncomfortable, winking at me whenever he passed by. He and Gale also had some unspoken competition at the slagheap. To me, his constant smiles warned of conceit. Then, his actions during the Reaping, sealed my opinion. For his older, stronger brother to abandon Peeta is unthinkable. I know my expectations are not entirely reasonable, but to me, it was the greatest form of a betrayal of his duty. I am sure he believed Peeta would never survive. My stomach turns. It's not just that he knew he would be killed, almost crueler, he knew Peeta would be thrown into a death match alongside the girl he'd apparently loved for over a decade. He saved his own skin at the expense of both his youngest brother's life and his youngest brother's heart.
"Don't blame him, Katniss." He turns to me, "I can imagine what you're thinking. But me and my brothers, we were never like you and Prim. I use to watch you with her in awe. When we were young you were everything I wished my siblings would be. I watched you proudly showing off your baby sister and spied you taking her on adventures and telling her stories. Then when we were older, you were everything I wished my mother would be. You loved your sister so fiercely. You were often sad, but when you saw her, your eyes would light up, just for a little while. How I," he inhales and then exhales painfully, "I spent nights wishing for a mother who would protect me the way you protected Prim. I don't think you understand how unusual that is. You and your sister's relationship was special. My brothers never could have lived up to those impossible standards."
My face starts to crumble, my emotions spilling forth. The splinters in the dam crack bigger and bigger before collapsing entirely. I feel my body gathered into thick arms. This isn't right, after this evening he shouldn't be comforting me. It's supposed to be the other way around. I try and force myself to calm down, to shove my feelings back into the box where I keep them locked. His hold is so inviting, but I shouldn't be lured by melting into it. I should be strong.
As I try to distance myself, the limbs of my captor tighten. I barely hear the words but I'm certain they were said. "Stay with me."
I surrender, unable to fight that request more than any other. I simmer in the warmth of his protection. We lay, nested into one another, and as my consciousness begins to drift away, I wonder if we are burrowed together in 12 or on another train headed into the unknown.