Jill and I join the crowd of tributes heading for the dining room off the gymnasium to eat. Perhaps the room isn't only used during hunger games training; there are tables and chairs capable of easily seating several hundred people. There are numerous carts of food manned by avox servants for the tributes' consumption as well. The career tributes, except the boy from 4, gather at a table near the front of the room, chatting raucously as they eat. Most of the tributes sit alone or with their district partners, eating at a much more sedate pace than the careers. I find Jill in the crowd and she follows me to a table with her food. The fox-faced girl from 5 and Thresh from 11 decide to sit with us, and I note that their district partners are alone.
"Hello," Jill says cautiously, staring at the girl from 5. Her eyes aren't quite focused on her food, as if she's juggling several thoughts in her head at once. Her face is a blank mask.
"Do you feel ready for the arena," the girl asks abruptly. Her eyes are fixed on us with a powerful intensity of purpose. I get the feeling that she is not asking if we are ready to kill a bunch of kids, so I don't know how to answer.
"No," says Jill truthfully. "I am not ready. I need to practice my knife throwing more." The girl, Stara, just looks at her oddly.
"How do you define ready," I ask, eliciting a nod from the girl.
"Yes, that is, of course, the pertinent question," she says. Her voice is breathy and sort of quiet, like she doesn't use it much. "How do we play this competition that we must enter? What do we do after the games if we win, and how do we want to be remembered if we lose?"
Of course, these questions have always been the elephants in the room. The Capitol covers it up with glamor or pregame business-training, abundant food, interviews, chariot rides-and we cover it up with brevado or bluster or humor. But it really comes down to kill or be killed, does it not? I say something to that effect, and the other tributes nod. Stara does not seem overly impressed.
"What of human dignity? More than anything that the Capitol does, the Hunger Games is a violation of a human's universal right to dignity. Forcing us to kill other children who would otherwise have been able to live useful lives, under the pretense of settling a seventy-four-year-old feud. The Hunger Games promotes a step backward in our civilization," she says. Her voice is quiet and calm, but intense. The passion in her face is unmistakable. Even Thresh, who's face has always been set in some form of a scowl every time I've seen it, is considering the argument. Jill is completely in awe of the other girl's audacity. I am too, but I keep my face blankso as not to arouse as much interest. Off to my right I can hear Katniss and Pita talking animatedly about something, and then they both start laughing a little too loudly. I and a few other tributes stare at them and Katniss looks down, blushing slightly.
"But we're going to die anyway," Jill says. She sounds kind of resigned. Stara turns away.
The afternoon proceeds in a similar vein to the morning. I continue to learn the intricacies of the spear, and Jill the nuances of the combat and throwing knives. I notice Pita, Katniss's district partner, pummeling a training dummy. Every punch is deliberate and accurate, as though this were simply an academic demonstration, when I know that those hands could just as easily be crushing my body. He has a singular focus to his moves that I could never hope to emulate when it came to doing anything at all.
As I aim at the dummy's heart with my spear I notice the District 3 boy clumsily adjusting the spear in his hands and messing up the correct grip. My blow impacts the dummy right on the red oval that indicates the chest, and I hear a pained screaming sound effect from it. The red oval expands to emulate blood. After a few seconds, the blood disappears and the red spot shrinks back down to an oval so that I can hit it again. And that is what I do for the rest of the training session.
Dinner is served on our floor, with only the Avoxes, Jewel, Bessie and Tyson as company. Bessie asks me about how trainingw ent, and I tell her about my progress with the spear. I am actually fairly pleased, and she nods at me in approval as well. Predictably, Tyson shrugs and says, "Well, it's better than laying down and dying." Then he ponderously lifts a piece of veal to his mouth. With that apathy and sluggishness, I wonder how he was even able to win his games.
"I'm horrible, "Jill says candidly, "with the knives. I only knew how to handle our slaughterhouse knives. And these are so much heavier. And I can't throw at all. I don't know what I'm going to do!" Tyson nods at her. "Get better."
I can't wait for dinner to finish up. The rest of our meal I have to endure Jill complaining about her ineptitude while the mentors try to tell her it will be okay. Bessie even offers to give her some private training, and Jill agrees, but she still looks doubtful. Her self-confidence must have really taken a hit today. All her sarcasm is replaced by self-abasement, I suppose. I just want some peace and solitude before I meet Thresh and Stara on the training center roof in a few hours, as we decided after training was dismissed. The window is closed, providing a welcome relief from the day's exertions. I turn my back to it so that I can more easily resist the distraction of watching the little figures that are Capitol citizens as they scurry to and fro.
My mind wanders to what Stara said, about the Hunger Games being an outlet by which the Capitol sought to take away human dignity. How many times have I watched people pleading for their lives? How many times have I seen an attacker growling like a feral beast during or after a kill? On the other hand, how many times have I seen a tribute stare death bravely in the eye? With a jolt, I realize that the heroes I had read so much about were heroic not because of the abilities they had, or even because of how they changed their worlds for the better, but because of the way they faced their fate when they thought it to be sealed. That is why even the heroes who did not end life in peace and comfort, such as Theseus, are so well-loved. I realize that that is why I came to respect Old Boone so much after his passing.
"But he's the only friend I have here," I say. I had just given Garbull an impassioned speech about everything I had done with Old Boone, and was hoping against hope that he might be saved. Garbull looked at me, and then at the ground, and then at the house.
"I mean," he says in a puzzled tone, "I just don't get it. It's a cow. It's a cow that gets sick too often. I've spent far too much money on treating it. Like I know that you can calm animals down. But it's just a cow. There are tons of other cows to replace it with. I know that that silver stripe of fur might look handsome or something, but really, what is it but a genetic mutation-"
"But he's Old Boone," I corrected him. "He, not it." I don't add that I feel like Old Boone was the only cow that truly understood me because Hefra and he refused to listen. I felt like he already knew that and was trying to create an excuse for getting the cow killed so I could be even more miserable. Finally, he sighed.
"Until next month, Dal," he said, dropping the garden trowel he was using. "Next month. Then you'll find another cow or wish you had."
I made that month special. I devoted as much time as I could at Old Boone's side. Some days we went out to explore without the other cows. One of those times we came across the mountain and the hedge, but I was so tired that we lay down to watch the sunset, a scene of rare beauty amidst the normalcy of chain-link fences and stone partition walls and huge, surly slaughterhouse buildings.
The day after, I devoured a large breakfast and walked back to the cliff with Old Boone in tow. I decided to attempt the treacherous climb that day and had brought a long cowhide rope with me for the purpose. When the rope was secure, I began to climb, slowly at first in case my recovering leg gave out. It did not, though it throbbed painfully when I put weight on it. Beside me Old Boone struggled along, and though he was fairly agile, old age was working against him. Several times I found myself hanging in midair with only two grips and had to look around quickly to find the nearest hand- and footholds for the others. My nerves and muscles were tensed to burning by the time Old Boone and I made it to the top of the shelf and found a fairly flat rock to sit down and catch our breaths. I was surprised at how far in the sky the sun had moved; it must have been almost lunchtime.
Old Boone looked at me, then pointed his head back down the cliff. I thought he was wondering why I was here and not at home, and why he was also. For a while, I struggled to figure out why I have not yet climbed down. I told him, "because I feel right here." Nature rules here; I saw the sun shining on a grove of coarse mountain vegetation and reflecting off the water of a small streamlet. A small animal drank from the streamlet and scurried away. In the distance I could make out the silhouette of one of the slaughterhouses against the sky, but its drab gray color could not compete with the natural beauty nearby. I also heard the sounds of water running slowly through the streamlet, the leaves in the hedge rustling slightly as the wind gusted pleasantly against my face, the distant growl of a wild animal chasing prey. I failed to hear the then-universal sounds of cattle lowing or people shouting that I had always thought of as general ambient noise. Now that it was gone The true ambient noise emerged from hiding.
After several minutes of listening and watching and smelling Nature's beauty, Old Boone turned his head away from the cliff face and moved farther forward, toward all the new edible plants he could not wait to enjoy. I asked him to come back down the cliff face with me so that we would be back in time for dinner. He was not happy about this, and I wondered why for a second before realizing that he knew that by staying here, he could avoid the gruesome death that awaited him at the slaughterhouse. Loading day, when the cattle are loaded up to be taken to the feedlot before their final meal, was in two days. With a shock, I realized that he was sad that he would die, yet accepted the fact that I might lead him to his death. I saw him in a new light, and I realized he was far too noble to die.
My choice was hard: I could leave him here, or I could enjoy a few more days of his company before having to watch him die. The choice, though hard to bear, was obvious. I decided to leave him, and as he ventured forward, I turned away to conceal my tears. I might never see him again if he decides to range far, especially considering my weak leg. The climb up here would be far too taxing for me to do it regularly. As I gripped the rope to begin the descent, Old Boone turned toward me and I felt his gratitude for saving him from a horrible end at the slaughterhouse. His thoughts were hopeful and content, and as I began to climb down, I felt his mind in the back of my own as he searched for a place to sleep. That contented feeling, even though I am conflicted about seeing him for the last time, has been accessible to me ever since.
The Hunger Games is a slaughterhouse, where 23 humans are killed while a gleeful crowd watches them go. But at least I can end my part in the games on my own terms. And I will. I can feel Old Boone in my mind, lowing approval, as he crops some healthy grass with more gusto than I've ever seen him have while eating. It is probably because the grass, unlike the Capitol-supplied feed, is natural. I have never felt so like Old boone, yet no I know the answer to Stara's question. I am ready.