The kids were restless. After they got home from school Meyla and I took them to the only playground in Three Corners. It's never quite busy. Too many families have no time for play. The children managed to burn some energy before it started raining again. Meyla takes them home while I pick up food for dinner.
A little meat, some fruit, and a lot of extra bread. Bread in District 11 is usually rye and crescent shaped because of the sort of grain that is most commonly provided for sale here. I buy the gritty, cheap stuff so there can be plenty. This afternoon, I decided not to worry about the money I had saved up. My salary is sufficient and stable, so long as I can get back to work and overcome my every instinct and Covas' prowling game, the ongoing mystery of which is that I haven't been arrested yet.
Walking through the doorway, with cloth bags loaded full, the sudden noise of children squabbling and playing overpowers me. How in the world do Hannah and Marek manage the noise? Especially considering that their apartment is even smaller than the Silvernale household. Rolls on the table quiet the children down handily, except for Breck who needs his roll torn up. 11's grainy bread is tough; babies don't quite have enough strength in their teeth to feed themselves.
Meyla and Marek set to creating a dinner from the groceries. Hannah is in the living room. I collapse onto the couch beside her. There was a restlessness that stirred my joints when Mason died. Hannah is gripped with paralysis, utter helplessness.
Hannah and I are close. She's five years younger than me. When I left to study in the Capitol for two years, my sister was thirteen, devastated for several weeks with the loneliness of not having her only sibling around. We wrote letters back and forth, our correspondence monitored, of course.
When I returned to District 11, Hannah was sixteen, already a young woman. She was seeing Marek Amaranth; the two of them were wild about having children. Obviously, that worried the parents who refused to allow them to marry until both turned eighteen. Meyla gave birth to Mason that year and Hannah wanted so badly to have a child that she practically became a third parent.
My sister wanted children more than she wanted to breathe, but it was eight extended years before she and Marek had Rue. Hannah and Marek were so thrilled that Meyla and I even discussed having a second child. Mason was a handful, though and his participation in the reaping was only four years away. We decided a son was enough.
Not for the Amaranths. I never knew two people could have so much love in them. Once Rue came into the world the other children followed and Hannah's life overflowed with joy. At times and even now, I wonder if she and Marek will ever stop having children or if age will bring that period of their life to a close.
Rue was very special. Eight years into their efforts, Hannah was anguished, feeling time slip through her fingers like water. When her first child was born it was truly a miracle. The girl was walking and talking before we knew it, always the little darling.
She and Mason were good friends, despite the age difference. Once, when Mason was sixteen, Rue helped him pull a prank on a field crew trying to get a girl, Sandrea, among the workers to take notice of him. It was elaborate and involved a 'borrowed' harvest truck. We parents were adamant that they tell us exactly what happened, to no avail. Mason and Rue kept their vow of silence and the Peacekeepers never came snooping around.
Rue is an amazing big sister, too. She watched her mother, mimicked Hannah's nurturing ways. When Breck was born, Rue held the little guy endlessly. Even though Rue had a lot of growing left, she was finally big enough to manage her siblings.
The grueling field work never bothered my niece. Her sweet voice was always a hit with nearby people and mockingjays. She too had the scarred hands; her soft skin torn, calloused, and tanned under searing sun, and much more harshly since it was every day for her. Rue dealt with this rough life gracefully. Due to long, tiresome days and irate Peacekeeper oversight, most field workers have to sing in order to get through each day. On the other hand, Rue sang because she loved to sing.
I recall a song she performed at Mason's funeral, at least the tune. It was a soft melody that she sang with the breeze. Her pitch was perfect even though she was crying herself. Rue willed her voice to perform with excellence and waited until she rejoined her family to mourn. She heavily mourned Mason's passing; perhaps the concept of death too freshly discovered before realized. My heart growls at me for forgetting the lyrics to Rue's song. I'm so awful at singing and I had never heard the song before, or since, actually.
"Hannah?" My sister looks vaguely at me, through me. "Do you remember that song Rue sang at Mason's…?" I trail off, abruptly feeling self-conscious.
She shakes her head. "Rue wrote that song just for him. She never sang it again." My sister lays her head against my shoulder and sighs. "She's so…"
Hannah doesn't have the will to finish. She could mean anything. Talented, adorable, funny, mature, exceptional... "Yes, she is." I pat Hannah's hand.
That's the life we're witnessing on the screen, tied down like an animal. That's the life the Capitol didn't care about and decided to throw into a dazzling firework-display of murder. Does the Capitol even realize that people in the districts draw breath too?
Meyla announces that it's time for supper and we amble into the kitchen. Marek leans against the counter beside me. There aren't enough spaces on the benches. The Amaranths are used to crowding. The kids squeeze in between the two women.
"You know, Kip. Hannah and I really appreciate all you've done for us." Marek bites into one of the tough rolls.
"It's no problem, Mark. We'll help you get through this."
He looks at me inquisitively. "Did you get through it?"
I look down at my feet and whisper, "No... There's no light at the end of this tunnel." My plate clanks as I set it down, dishing up another spoonful of sliced fruit. "I remember when my folks died, you remember that?"
Marek nods. Of course he remembers. Hannah was worse off than I was.
"Well, you know, our father died, Hannah and mine. And then Mom died a few months later because she-things weren't the same without Dad. The truth is-it doesn't feel great thinking about it, even six years later..." I take a bite of juicy orange. "Over time, you start to remember other things, besides the loss. You know, you remember things they taught you and the times you had with them."
His toe nudges the floor miserably. "What if…" Marek tilts his head looking down. "What if the time you had was just not enough?"
I spear a grape with my fork, savoring its flavor. The grave in my throat croaks an answer, "With Mason…" I could tell Marek. He would understand, given the situation. I could say that I felt robbed because Marek feels that. I feel abused, like a doormat for the Capitol's flunkies. I feel enraged and empowered to make the disregard for my son really harm the Capitol's stranglehold.
But the truth is, I love my wife and I haven't had a chance to figure out what's more important. The magic that my wife creates in me is intense, consuming and I really want to surrender myself to that bond we once shared, give my heart back to my wife so she can clean away the hate and anger I have harbored within myself.
"The pain; it hasn't improved and it probably never will, but that doesn't mean you have to hang on to it, become a... prisoner to grief. You have to move past the depression for the people you love. Hannah is going to need you and you have five other children who need their father to provide for them and love them."
Marek absorbs my words like a sponge. "How are you and Mey doing, by the way?"
That's a question I really can't answer, yet. I don't have to because Wren rescues me from it. "Uncle Kippy? Can I have more fruit?"
"How do we ask, Wren?" Marek chides her lightly.
"Pleeeasssee?"
"Well, sure you can, sweetheart." I put two big spoonfuls onto her plate and hand it back.
After dinner the entire family plays word games, although I occasionally glance in at the screen. No major change. Evening falls over District 11 so the kids will be going to bed soon. Another night of one couple per couch doesn't sound like a great idea to my spine, so when the kids go to bed, Meyla and I put out two blankets on the carpeted floor of our bedroom. We'll suffer the sturdy floor and let each of the Amaranth adults stretch out on a couch.
After the kids are put to bed, we deposit ourselves in front of the broadcast, everyone feeling queasy from the images. The arena's afternoon is on the verge of descending into evening. Katniss is already nearing third fire site. I wave the other adults in, uneasily. Hannah and Marek shouldn't have to watch their oldest daughter die. Any parent would have to see the replay, knowing it would be the most horrible thing they've ever witnessed. If someone could show me a video of Mason's murder, I'd use it as evidence and get that two-faced Covas to open the case up!
The corner-screens disappear, and the entire image is halved. On the right Katniss stalks toward the firewood pile Rue never lit. On the left, Rue continues struggling to free herself from the net, without luck. The television has been muted all day.
My thumb punches the button; Rue's voice floods the room. Not the whimpering of a trapped girl, but her singing voice, singing the four notes she relays to the other workers, letting them know that quitting time has arrived. In the arena, a few mockingjays listen and warble the tune back.
Katniss arrives at the clearing and stares at the pile of kindling, her shrewd eyes betray racing thoughts. Marvel watches her from his branch. The boy doesn't move.
Katniss resolves something in her mind and she haunts back into the woods, ever cautiously. She pokes around looking for tracks until she hears Rue's melody relayed by a mockingjay. The Girl on Fire smiles and moves toward it, cooing the notes back. Quite surprising, Katniss Everdeen has a beautifully melodic voice.
Marvel climbs down and pulls a spear off his back. As he steps into Rue's view, my niece shrieks in terror. Hannah moans, Meyla's fingers squeeze my knee. Katniss hears Rue, breaks into a dash straight toward the trap! Marvel will surely catch her mid-run with his menacing spear.
Panicked, Rue screams, "Katniss! Katniss!"
Katniss shouts back, "Rue!" Her voice strains with sudden hysteria. "Rue! I'm coming!"
She dashes into the clearing and I know it's over for both girls. My hand squeezes Meyla's. Marek wraps his arms around his wife and holds her shaking form.
Then Marvel makes a mistake that destroys our world. His thrown spear swims across the screen in slow motion, my eyes wince reflexively. But it doesn't pierce Katniss. Marvel's spear sinks into Rue's stomach with nauseating force.
Not a third of a second later, Katniss' arrow buries into Marvel's neck, bursting out the other side, almost leaving his flesh. The boy sinks to the ground, blood gushing from the wound. He was moving to retrieve the spear. Katniss was impossibly swift. Not quick enough. Katniss howls at Rue, "Are there more? Are there more?" She spins in circles drawing another arrow, nock to string.
"No! No!" Rue manages to reply each time and finally Katniss hears.
She pushes Marvel off my speared niece to examine the wound. The shaft is buried deep enough to pin Rue to the ground. My eyes blur with tears.
Katniss clasps Rue's hand in her own, kneeling down beside the poor girl. "You blew up the food?" Rue's words are weak, damp. My own face burns in a frown.
"Every last bit."
"You have to win."
"I'm going to, going to win for both of us now." Katniss looks up at the sky, her image twisted with honest anguish, not being able to help someone you care for. She only knew Rue for a day and that was enough. My niece has that effect on people.
"Don't go."
Katniss gingerly lifts Rue's head onto her lap, caressing her face. "Course not. Staying right here."
Rue's lips move but the sound is too quiet and weak.
Katniss grimaces but then she clears her throat and begins to sing Rue a lullaby:
Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes
And when again they open, the sun will rise.
Rue's lips curl up gently in a split second. She gazes at Katniss as the Girl on Fire continues.
Here it's safe, here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you
Rue's eyes close and Meyla weeps into my shoulder, taking my own hand in hers. My heart stops as I watch this wonderful girl stolen away forever. Katniss sings on, with the same compassion that Rue often demonstrated.
Deep in the meadow, hidden far away
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away.
Katniss breaks down as she struggles to complete the last few lines. Her voice shudders with sorrow. Her cheeks, bruised and thin, sparkle with the evening glow.
Here it's safe, here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
She finishes and looks at Rue's limp form. Mockingjays strike up the lullaby and sing in unison as the notification flashes up on screen that Rue has died. Hannah wails. Marek's lips twist into a miserable frown as quiet tears slip from his eyes.
Katniss leans over, gently kissing Rue's forehead. She lays the body down and stands up to look at the pitiful, limp form of my sister's dearest miracle. Then she collects supplies from the dead Career and picks up the backpack she gave Rue the day before. Katniss stares at my niece once more, fresh tears welling in her eyes.
I wonder what is going through her mind. What could the Girl on Fire be thinking at a time like this? The callous part of me insists that she's just one death closer to winning the games. Of course, Rue told Katniss to win the games and with Rue gone, this mockingjay-clad girl, whom Scipio states has stirred up real feelings of humanity in Panem, seems as good a choice as any to have a victory this year.
Katniss' sorrowful contemplation abruptly peaks and she hurries into the woods. Flowers are growing on a gradual incline. She picks them and lays them across Rue's body. The weeping in my living room quiets as we watch. We can't believe what we are seeing!
She lays flowers over the wound and decorates Rue's tiny body with the little blooms, they glow white, pink, and orange in the receding light. Soon, my niece has stems woven in her hair and surrounding her face. Katniss steps back and whispers, "Bye, Rue." She does that odd three finger salute from the mouth, and then leaves the clearing.
The shot holds showing Rue's now dazzling appearance, even in death looking beautiful and innocent, undeserving of what became of her. Then the Gamemakers cut back to Katniss so the aerial drones can collect the dead. My niece's eyes blaze in my mind, joined by the fresh memory of her deceased form wreathed with flowers. A commemoration by someone the Capitol forced to be her enemy.
The Hunger Games are supposed to divide the districts. Yet this girl shows... defiance, even rebellion! After volunteering for her sister, Katniss was made all the more human to the people of the Capitol when Peeta confessed love for her. It told the Capitol's Hunger Games acolytes that Katniss is human, that she can be loved and so they have come to adore her.
And now Katniss made Rue unforgettably beautiful as she covered the scars of Panem's cruelty. To change the Capitol, it isn't enough to see that we bleed and die. Scipio wants them to see that we love, that we have worth. Katniss Everdeen is doing more to showcase the humanity of the tributes than anyone ever has; almost as if District 12's tributes were trained.
No one from 12 would volunteer for the reaping, certainly not at that age with a young sister to care for. Besides, the Games are stupendously chancy anyway. There couldn't be any underground orchestration of encounters within the arena. And if Katniss isn't being orchestrated and she didn't know she was going to volunteer in the reaping, the only alternative is that someone rigged the reaping in order to produce Katniss and Peeta as tributes.
And that would be untenable! Who among the underground would be willing to sacrifice people so flagrantly? People join the underground because the Capitol throws life away carelessly, not so they can do the same. If someone was to set up District 12's reaping so that this girl would be a tribute, that person would have to overcome the greatest moral objections in their being. It would destroy them, I think.
I joined the underground hoping to find justice for my son, wondering for months when it will be served, if at all. If Scipio asked me to, I would provide it myself. But it would be against those who are guilty of grievous crimes: Jura Penrose and Volente Covas. I could never sentence to death a tribute because it might be more convenient and sway public opinion in the Capitol that one child dies as opposed to another. That's what we need to fight against!
My lip hurts until I realize I've been biting it. On the screen Katniss wanders, broken, partially stumbling. It's doubtful that she's fatigued since she spent most of the day waiting. It's grief. Or anger. Even mourning, the Girl on Fire surely knew that decorating flowers over Rue meant as much on the broadcast as it did to her sorrow.
The Gamemakers follow her for several minutes. Then a parachute floats down in front of Katniss. She looks at it numbly before removing its contents. It's one of those rye rolls, similar to the ones we had for dinner. Her face brushes with understanding as she looks up, moving to where the final rays of evening still seep through the leaves. The shot switches as though Katniss is going to make a speech. She only says one line, "My thanks to the people of District Eleven," holding up the bread.
"District Eleven?" Meyla looks at the screen. Her eyes glisten. Hannah and Marek are weeping quietly. "That came from us? From Seeder?"
"Seeder must have thought it would be a nice gesture, given how Katniss sang to Rue and... the flowers..." I drift off into a grungy grunt.
Marek is leans forward, head in his palms, elbows on his knees. His back shakes with silent seizures of heartbreak. Hannah's moans bite at me, matching my own shaking soul.
I should be grieving, except only thing that I feel is fury. Not at Marvel. It's clear that if the boy had gone after Katniss first, both girls would be dead. Marvel was doing what the people of District 1 taught him to do, sickening though it might be for my family.
The Capitol should pay for this travesty! I don't know what anyone expects by Katniss' display of affection and humanity. It would be stupid to think the people of the Capitol will be moved in any real way. They probably feel superficially awed, and the fact remains that there will be no call to end their entertainment, despite its human cost. This year's drama will likely encourage a new brand of intrigue expected from future seasons.
My head shakes, hanging. Meyla moves away from me to help my sister out of the room.
Scipio has to understand what is accomplished here. He said the Games would be different this year and they are to some degree. This won't make a difference in the grand scheme of things, not to the people who have some real power, some real ability to change the system or to abolish it.
The underground should strike and let the Capitol know that we will no longer tolerate this abusive amusement. If we stand up soon, with the spur of this outrage rallying people to reclaim their dignity, there might be a chance at success!
My feet tap on the hardwood floor, knees refuse to keep still. Anger flushes my system with adrenalin. I have to move, to take a walk.
The air is quiet outside. There are only soft songs tonight, those written to memorialize our cherished departed. Even those who never knew Rue must have been moved by what happened on the screen.
I pass two young people on the street. Both the boy and the girl wear mockingjay pins carefully crafted to mirror Katniss Everdeen's. They're better quality than the homemade tokens I've seen on a few people, even a few adults. Someone must be stamping these things out of brass, although the original appears to be real gold. I wonder if the stylist that made Katniss' costumes from the fire came up with the pendant.
A devious smirk presses across my lips as I think about people all over Panem wearing mockingjays, the symbol of the Capitol's greatest blunder during the Dark Days, the icon of the Girl on Fire who is becoming beloved, so vulnerable, yet strong., insolent, except when loving, battered, but persevering. She's Panem's citizens.
Can Scipio ignore this opportunity? If Katniss is killed, then everyone with a mockingjay is going to venerate her in their own way. The underground ought to take advantage of this circumstance. And what if she wins?
Katniss may win. Her skill with a bow is undeniable. Although Marvel was a scant few yards away, the shot was a lethal, pure, controlled reaction. The boy wasn't even on his knees before Katniss had another arrow ready for other attacking Career tributes. How many are left? Not a lot; perhaps a quarter of the original twenty-four. That sounds about right. Two Careers, massive Thresh, Peeta who seems to be fighting off death every single minute, Verona who adjusts her diet strangely, and Katniss Everdeen. Half of the field could easily dispose of Katniss. It's really just a matter of how the encounters take place.
After the display with Rue, the poetry of making her beautiful and valuable, the sweet song that told Panem how precious my niece is, the Gamemakers will surely do what they can to destroy Katniss. Hopefully, it's too late. The combat was on live broadcast during the time of day when everyone watches and the Gamemakers neglected to edit out the tenderness that reminds us that it's not just kids assaulting each other. It's someone's daughter and someone's son, thrown away for nothing more than petty pleasure and power.
Scipio was right. The time is soon to come. It has to be now!