Deep in the meadow
I was, apparently, right – Capitol citizens can only stomach blood when it is on a screen because when Clio rushes into the room, mere seconds after Johanna's departure, she comes to an abrupt halt and presses a hand to her heart and another to her temple as if she's feeling faint. I realise that her eagle eyes have spotted the trickle of blood running down the back of my leg and pooling on the floor under my bare heel. You would think that I was bleeding to death from the amount of fuss that she makes and the number of questions that she asks – I simply tell the truth and say that I was disorientated in the dark and bumped into something sharp but this doesn't seem to be enough, even when I hide the offending cut with a wad of make-up sponge to soak up the blood. Visibly swallowing down her nausea, she summons three medics, which seems a little overkill but nonetheless who spend what seems like an inordinate amount of time stitching and bandaging the small cut. Then Clio spends an equally long time erasing its presence with layer after layer of make-up. It feels pretty pointless really, because when I finally get to see my dress it's a green floor length number with a pattern of apple blossom and butterflies. My legs and the offending wound are completely covered.
All of this takes so much time that we're forced to skip lunch and I barely make it downstairs in time for the parade. The moment I step up next to Chaff on the chariot, the horses begin to move us towards the doors and I grab onto the side to stop myself tipping out backwards.
'Easy,' Chaff steadies me with the stump of his arm. 'I thought you weren't going to make it.' When I glance at him, I see that he is grinning good-naturedly at me. He's dressed in a dark green jumpsuit, made of realistic leaves and vines and, to me, the outfit looks a little strange and undignified on an adult. He's also not sober, not by a long shot but he isn't flat out drunk either. As we pass through the doorway, I look down at my slipper-clad feet, so that the cameras won't be able to get a good shot of my face. It's unlikely that anything I say will be heard over the roar of the crowd which is growing louder by the second as we come out into the open, but the Capitol probably has sophisticated lip-reading software and I don't want to risk this getting out.
'There was a power cut in my corridor during remake.' Chaff doesn't respond verbally but I feel his foot find mine in the bottom of the chariot. 'I had a surprise visit. Did you know?' There's so much more that I want to add but I'm out of time – we're fully in the open now and I'm forced to raise my head again or it might be suspicious.
'Nice dress,' I glance up sharply at Chaff's response, 'pretty similar to the one you wore last year.' A burst of coughing interrupts his reply and he raises the stump of his arm in front of his face, as if to be polite. 'I didn't know about the power cut but I'm not surprised.' Another burst of coughing. 'You needed to know how things stand. Was it Finnick or Johanna who told you?' He lowers his hand again.
I glance past him to where the first row of Capitol citizens are gathered, waving and screaming at our approach and resist the urge to scowl at them.
'That wasn't me,' I snap. 'It wasn't me in the chariot last year.' I look forward and catch a glimpse of a large screen, which is showing a replay of each of the chariots leaving the remake centre. 'A tree nymph could be misinterpreted as District Seven though, I suppose.' I lift my hand and give the crowd lining the road a half-hearted wave. They roar in response and I have to swallow down a wave of irritation.
Chaff reaches his remaining hand across his face, as if attempting to catch one of the roses that are being tossed from the crowds on either side of us. I recognise the move for what it is and lean towards him, trying to make it seem natural, as if I was simply adjusting my balance in the chariot.
'We're going to get you out. You and Katniss Everdeen.'
It's perhaps not surprising that the rest of the chariot ride passes in what feels like the blink of an eye. I mechanically wave at the crowds surrounding us, my mind working overtime as I try to make sense of what Johanna and Chaff have just told me. There's a plan to break out of the arena. The districts are rebelling. It's so enormous that I'm having a hard time focussing on what's going on around me. Even after I catch a glimpse of myself on one of the huge screens, mounted on the side of a tall, sugar-pink tower block, and see the vacant expression in my eyes, I am unable to snap out of my trance. I hope if anyone important notices my preoccupation, it will be put down to the aftereffects of my head injury and not seen as suspicious. It isn't until the doors of the Training Centre snap shut behind us and I can shakily descend from my chariot that I come back to earth with an abrupt bump as Haymitch Abernethy saunters over to where Chaff and I stand. He hands Chaff a large hipflask and then turns to me.
'Hello Maya Stone.' His voice is only slightly slurred and he looks well, less paunchy and less pasty and more sober than I've ever seen him. His grey eyes are shrewd as he stares at me and I wonder how much he knows. 'How's life been treating you in District Eleven?' I open my mouth to answer him but at that moment the doors open again and the District Twelve chariot wheels in, the horses coming to an abrupt halt just behind ours. Katniss and Peeta are mesmerising in their glowing costumes but this isn't what has me sidestepping around Haymitch and walking swiftly towards them. Katniss has barely stepped off her chariot when I throw my arms around her in a tight hug.
'Thank you. Thank you for everything that you did for her.'
'The families?' I know that she must've been worrying about the aftereffects of her incendiary words in our square last summer.
'They're fine. They're all fine.' I take a step back and look up at her. I can see that she does a double take when she looks at me – she's not seeing me at all, she's seeing Rue.
Chaff breaks the moment by pushing past me and embracing Katniss full on the mouth and, almost at the same moment, I am distracted by Finnick, who appears out of nowhere, clad only in a skimpy golden net that's been knotted strategically around his groin. There's so much of him on view that I don't quite know where to look, so I settle for staring at his curling golden hair.
'That was quite the performance, the song, the flowers.' He says, as if we're continuing a conversation that we've already been having even though it's been a whole year since I've spoken to him. 'The perfect touch of rebellion.' I rack my brains as to what he's talking about and it hits me like a tonne of bricks, crushing my chest and pushing the air out of my lungs. Drawing in my next breath is almost impossible because the last time that I saw Finnick was just after Katniss had sung Rue to sleep - to death.
'I believe that is yours.' The abrupt change in topic comes as a surprise and I simply stare at him until he points to a trailing green ribbon on the floor behind me that has clearly come off my costume. Numbly, I bend to pick it up but Finnick gets there first. Crouched side by side with me, he murmurs.
'I hear that you sang your own song of rebellion too.' I hear my own intake of breath as I remember singing Crow on the cradle over Rue's grave. 'You know the plan?' He breathes in my ear.
'Yes.' I snap, yanking the ribbon out of his hand and straightening up. 'Thank you.'
Then there's a capitol attendant next to us, firmly directing us to disperse towards the elevators. I end up in same elevator as Chaff and Haymitch, who spend the entire ride upwards guffawing loudly over Chaff's kiss. I'm about to snap that it's bordering on mild sexual assault when the lift doors slide open on our floor and I see that Seeder is standing in the hallway waiting for us. When she opens her arms, I don't hesitate to walk straight into them. There's nothing left to say so she simply holds me tight and I hold her and we stand like that for what feels like a very very long time.
The following morning, I head down to training alone because Chaff is still asleep having stayed up late drinking with some of the other tributes and mentors. It turns out he isn't the only one skipping the morning's training session as only about half the tributes have bothered to show up. Atala, the woman who runs the training sessions begins the session promptly, clearly unfazed by the poor attendance. The rules are the same as they were two years ago – we can cover as many stations as we like as per our mentors' instructions. The only thing that we are not to do is engage in combat with another tribute. When I glance around at the assembled tributes, I think I realise properly for the first time that I'm surrounded by adults. These aren't the usual quaking children, having their first shaky lesson with a knife or an axe – they are all seasoned killers whatever shape they might be in now.
Feeling slightly nauseous, I head over to the edible plants section where the trainer remembers my interest in medicinal plants and immediately digs out his tattered book so that I can borrow it again. Seeing as I aced his test two years ago, I'm surprised to find that the one he gives me this year is different – many of these plants are ones that I've never heard of before – plants with huge rhubarb shaped leaves that have a bulbous tubular root system just under the soil that can store water and nutrients, tangled vines which are chewy but surprisingly nutritious, a large lily-like plant that tastes of honey and blackberries, strange nuts that look completely different but taste a bit like our hazelnuts. I remember Chaff's instruction two years ago when he told us that the edible plant section could offer a hint as to the type of arena we are heading into and wonder if my new found knowledge might serve me well in the coming weeks.
I'm going back into the arena. It's as if someone has punched me in the chest. Of course, no one actually has, it's just that a crippling wave of pure panic has risen up inside me and is threatening to drown me. I want to cry and scream and punch things. The hatred that rises up inside me towards everyone that had a hand in it and the sheer unfairness is so intense that my knees literally give way and I sink to the floor of the gym. Then, of course the trainers converge on me and I immediately have to make it look like the action was deliberate and that I need to do up my shoelaces. I'm not sure anyone is particularly convinced by my acting skills but it's not as if I've ever been great shakes at faking things.
I end up at the knot-tying station with Finnick who, for once, seems to understand that pure, undiluted panic is currently circulating my body instead of blood and lets me sit in silence, fiddling with a rope. He politely ignores my shaking hands and my rapid breathing and we tie knots together for the best part of an hour until I can face the other tributes again. Then, I end up at the shelter making station with Katniss. After the hug and our brief conversation yesterday, neither of us seems to know how to act around the other and we aren't great at small talk. Our attempt to talk is stilted and awkward.
At lunch, I find myself sitting between Katniss and Finnick. There are huge numbers of fancy Capitol dishes lining the tables around the walls of the canteen where we eat but I find myself craving the taste of home and fill my plate with a crescent shaped bread roll from District Eleven, an apple and some salad. Katniss's eyes flick towards the bread on my plate before she resumes her conversation with Peeta. It isn't until I have sat down that she speaks.
'Was it you who authorised the bread in the arena last year?' Her voice is low and she is staring at her plate of beef stew rather than at me. It takes me a minute to find my voice and when I do it's so quiet that she has to lean in to hear it.
'No, that wasn't me.'
'But you were Rue's mentor last year?' I nod miserably and pick up the bread roll and start tearing it into tiny pieces.
'When she died, was killed, I… I left the mentor suite and I never went back even though Thresh was still fighting.' The words sound pretty hollow, me admitting that I was a terrible mentor. The bread roll has been reduced to crumbs and my fingers start on the salad, tearing the greenery into tiny shreds. Katniss doesn't reply and I suddenly wonder if she's silently judging me. 'Rue was my best friend before either of us ended up in the Games.' The words burst out of me before I can stop them. I push my plate away and make as if to stand up but Katniss's hand is suddenly in mine, pulling me back down. She still doesn't speak but the tight squeeze of her hand around mine conveys more than any number of words.
After that, although we still don't talk much, there is a certain camaraderie between us and we cross paths several times over the next three days. Without being too obvious about it, I also try to spend time with the tributes from the districts that Johanna mentioned during the power cut, the ones who are supposedly in on the plan. I spend a couple of hours at the fishing station with Katniss and Mags and a whole afternoon with the morphlings from District Six, on the camouflage station – they took up residence here on the first morning and they've barely moved since. I learn that their names are Denver and Sofia but neither of them is really up for much in the conversation line and we work in silence for the most part. I wonder if it's true that they know about the rebel plan to break us out of the arena. Even if this is true, neither of them seems to be in a fit state to actually execute any complicate instructions. On the afternoon of the second day, I join Peeta, Johanna and Finnick on the obstacle course which seems to be even more intimidating than it was two years ago. We take it in turns to cross the course, timing each other in a competitive but friendly way. It's not as if I've had much of an opportunity to hone my tree-climbing skills since winning the games but I find that the ability to climb and jump from rope to rope isn't one that you lose easily and I think I do pretty well, coming in second only to Finnick, whose such an amazing physical specimen that he could probably beat us all with one hand tied behind his back.
The Gamemakers appeared on the morning of the first day of training. Of course, there's the usual never-ending buffet of food for them on the raised platform but they wander among us at intervals with clipboards, taking loopy handed notes in a nauseating violent ink and consulting with our trainers. I try to ignore them as much as possible. I have no wish to provoke them as they will ultimately have the last word in the arena but I also find it impossible to be civil towards them. Even so, on the final morning I am just leaving the knife work station to go to lunch when I accidently overhear a conversation between the new head Gamemaker, the toadlike Plutarch Heavensbee, and the trainer who has just spent the last two hours honing my knife throwing skills. As I turn away, the two of them are joined by the tall, female Gamemaker who seemed to be the most invested in my individual performance two years ago. Maybe she doesn't see me or maybe she just doesn't care because she begins spouting a lot of stuff about 'how she always likes to support the small ones.' Her affected Capitol accent is so strong that it takes me a second or two to realise that she's talking about us tributes.
'I know you do, Vera,' Plutarch Heavensbee replies, giving her a well-meaning and supportive thump on the back. 'It's a pity that little girl from Eleven didn't escape from the Careers last year.'
Once again, I feel as if I've been punched in the stomach because they're talking about Rue. The hatred I feel for them is so intense that I find myself frozen in place, my muscles locked tightly, my heart-rate doubling as adrenaline thrills through my body. After about ten seconds of this, Plutarch notices me and chuckles.
'Better get to lunch, Maya or all the food will be gone. Off you go now.'
You have absolutely no idea how much I hate all of you.
The words echo around my head, so loudly that it surprises me that Plutarch can't hear them himself. Mechanically, I turn on my heal without acknowledging him and make myself walk over to the canteen door. I grab a plate of lamb stew and another of chocolate custard and sink down at a table between Chaff and old Mags from District Four. It's lucky that nobody tries to engage me in conversation because I don't think I'd be capable of forming a coherent answer.
After lunch, we are all called in individually for our private sessions. This year, it seems a little pointless because none of us have any secret skills and we are all fully aware of what the others are capable of. At first, I'm still so utterly saturated with pure loathing and hatred that I don't notice the number of tributes in the room getting gradually smaller and smaller. But gradually these feelings diminish and I'm left feeling exhausted and sad. I miss Rue. I miss my brother. By the time, I'm called in to demonstrate my skills, I feel utterly defeated.
'Welcome Maya Stone, you have fifteen minutes to display your chosen skill. Your time starts now.' For what seems to be a very long time, I stare at Plutarch Heavensbee and he stares back at me, a strange, almost-knowing expression on his face. Then, without any prior thought or planning, my mouth opens of its own accord and I begin to sing.
Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your eyes
And when they open, the sun will rise
I hear a gasp from one of the Gamemakers up on the raised platform and know that at least one of them has realised the significance of my choice of song but I don't look away from Plutarch Heavensbee.
Here it's safe, and 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
Silence follows the last notes of my song. I hear an imaginary cannon. I give a mocking bow and walk out of the room.
I'm so sorry for the long wait – thank you to anyone who is still reading. You can thank the new Hunger Games films for the me picking up this story again. Merry Christmas from a very damp Wales!
