Chapter 1
My toes glide in lazy circles over the dewy grass below me as I tilt my face up to the sun and soak in the warmth. I breathe in, letting the smell of pine and oak wash over me. I've always loved this kind of day. Aperfect day. Today would be perfect, that is, if it weren't for the Reaping tonight.
Some of the glory of the day dissipates at the thought and I open my eyes to find my best friend Gale watching me with the strangest look on her face, head cocked to the side, long dark hair streaming down into her lap, straight black eyebrows drawn down over gray eyes. She's sitting crossed-legged on the very edge of our rock, a stone that's just wide enough to fit both of us.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," she says. "It's just…you know I'll still be here for you, after the Reaping. You're still my partner, even if you can't hunt for a while."
"You mean for five years, maybe more?" I say. I wilt, collapsing down onto the hard surface underneath me, my arms and legs stretching out like a star. "I want to stay a Hunter." I've worked hard for it over the last four years, carving out my place in the tribe, bringing in my share of the game that sustains us and provides trade.
"Not if you want Prim to be a Healer," she says.
I picture my little sister in the blue robes of a Healer. It's the only thing she ever talks about, the only thing she's ever wanted to be. And I could never sacrifice her dream to fulfill my own. At least at the end of my obligation, I could return to hunting, but they select Healers from those who have never taken part in a Reaping.
Gale reaches down and plucks one of the long blades of summer grass, twirling it between her fingers. "And it might be fun, you know. I'd help you. We could raise her together."
I prop myself up on elbows to look at her. What she's said would amount to a Joining, but…Gale couldn't possibly mean that. Beautiful, one of the best hunters, Gale could have anyone in the Tribe if she wanted and although we're hunting partners, she's never hinted at more, at least until now.
I scramble for something to say, but my mind's blank.
"Why couldn't your mother have had you two days earlier, huh?" she says, staring down at her crumpled blade of grass. "Then we'd both have been born on the sixth."
Oh, so that's why she said all that. She's just feeling guilty that I have to go to the Reaping and she doesn't. We dedicate the sixth day of each month to Artemis, the Goddess of the Hunt. Every daughter born on that day is committed to her as a blessed Hunter, exempt from the Reapings. I was born on the eighth of May and Gale was born on the sixth of November two years before that.
"But then," I add. "If I were exempt, Prim would have to go. She'd be the last member of our House."
Prim and I are the only two that bear a firebird on our arms, its flaming tail flicking out at the circle that encloses it. The image of the hawthorn tree circles Gale's arm, but she has three sister who will go to the Reaping in the next few years when they turn my age. The first, her sister Rory, will turn sixteen in four years.
I tilt my head up again, shading my eyes with my hand. From the sun's angle, I can tell that it's already noon. And I suddenly feel the need to get out of this conversation. "I have to get going. I hear the cleansing takes forever." I slip back into my sandals and grab my bow and game bag—nothing more than a few rabbits today—and hop off our rock.
"Katniss," Gale calls, stopping me. "Just don't…get attached to any of them."
I snort. It's true, some of the women like the Reapings, returning summer through winter even after fulfilling their obligations, but I can't see myself being one of them. "You don't have to worry about that."
The cleansing pools lie deep underground beneath our temple. This is all I am told of the Reaping preparations. Everything else is a secret to the uninitiated. I am given directions and a few words to say at the right time, although I don't know when that will be.
I follow the twisty torch-lit way deep into the earth. Instead of getting cooler belowground, it gets warmer, dank, and my tunic sticks to my back. The shadows shift in the fire light, casting strange images on the rough walls, flickering images that remind me of the vague and threatening nightmares I sometimes have, dreams that have me waking with a scream.
Beyond the pant of my breath and the crackle of the torches, I can't hear anything either. For a hunter, all of this is unbearable.
My breath comes faster and I long for my bow or even a knife, just something to clutch here in the dark, but no weapons are allowed in the temple.
The tunnel narrows and shortens until even I have to stoop a little before I come face to face with a solid rock wall.
I glare at the stone and swipe at the sweat on my forehead. Did I miss another passage in the dark? I look back down the corridor, but there's no way I could have. Even in the dark I would have sensed another opening.
"Katniss," a voice calls from somewhere in front of me. "Do you come here of your own free will and of your own volition?"
No, I think, but I ground out the given words, "I was born a daughter of the Twelfth Tribe. I shall die a daughter of the Twelfth Tribe. I volunteer as tribute."
There's a pause on the other side of the rock wall. "Well said." The voice sounds amused, as if it knows just how involuntary those words were. "Step forward and place your right hand on the stone."
Cautiously, I place my hand against the smooth gray-black stone of the wall in front of me. It compresses under my touch and then the whole wall grinds and splits in front of me to reveal a woman in a simple black sheath, a black cord looped around her waist. Even in the near darkness, her eyes are kind.
A fire pit in the center of the room illuminates her. Beyond the fire, I can just make out a steaming pool of water. A hot spring must feed the cleansing pools.
"I am Cinna," she says. "Welcome, daughter of the Tribe." She leads me over to a narrow stone bench with a silver goblet perched on top. The woman, Cinna, picks up the goblet. It's much smaller than a regular wine vessel, a decent swallow and it'd be gone.
"Drink this and then disrobe and Venia will help you with the cleansing." She gestures to what, at first just looks like another shadow, but it transforms into a women who slinks up to us on long, lean legs. Swirling blue and gold tattoos cover her skin.
There should be two dozen or more women attending the Reaping tonight, but there's no one else in the pulsing room. "Where are the others?"
"New initiates are prepped separately from the main group," Cinna says, pressing the goblet into my hand. "The others can be quite…boisterous."
"And I'm the only one this month?" I ask. I look down into the cup she's given me. The liquid is dark, almost black.
"Yes," Cinna murmurs. "Now drink."
I hesitate. "What is it?"
"It is only wine. A kind of purifying wine," she says.
I take a tiny sip. The wine is bitter, almost burnt tasting, sending a fiery spike down my throat and into my stomach. I sputter through the rest of it and put the glass back on the bench before taking a deep breath and striping off my tunic and pants. You learn early in the Tribe not to be shy about nudity, but it feels odd to be standing here exposed while the two of them are clothed.
But, before I finish undressing, Cinna has disappeared and it's only Venia there. "Let's get you cleaned of all that forest dirt," she says.
I roll my eyes a little and hope that in the dark, she didn't notice. The people that work at the temple or as artisans look down on those who work in the field, even the Hunters, though the forest is the holy realm of Artemis. It's a stupid prejudice. Besides, if the elders call us all to take up the shield of Warriors, who will be better prepared? War hasn't happened in two lifetimes, but it might.
Without bothering to take off her own tunic, Venia leads me to the edge of the pool and we both wade into the shoulder-deep water. The heat of the water melds with the heat of the wine in my belly.
At that moment, two very strange things happen.
First, my mind seems to drift up and away from my body, blown like a leaf from a tree. I see myself go limp in the water as Venia holds me up, balancing me against her shoulder as she lifts one naked arm and scrubs my skin with some kind of stiff brush and a grainy substance that looks like salt, but foams and bubbles like soap.
Second, time bends and folds in on itself and the me below is no longer in the pool, but another woman, not tattooed like Venia, but dyed a pea-green, is rubbing my body with oil and dusts me in what looks like gold.
It's strange, this new kind of seeing, but for some reason, most likely having to do with the wine, I'm not overly worried about it, just vaguely curious. I explore the curved ceiling of the cave as the women below pamper and prepare my body. The hot and cold air wafts up and whirls around me and I almost see a face in the steam: a face with steady, piercing eyes…
I come back to myself, mind and body uniting as the green-dyed woman braids my hair into an intricate crown.
"Back, are we now? Just in time for the Reaping," the woman says. "I'm Octavia, by the way." She finishes the braid. "You can take a look at yourself."
She leads me to a mirror sandwiched between two torches for light and I see the full effect. A dress like the firebird on my arm in the colors of flame. It shimmers as flame does, as well.
"And as a final touch," Cinna's soft voice calls. She lowers a half mask over my eyes. "This mask was created from the feathers of a true firebird."
They have made me a creature of fire and feathers. The calm I felt as I floated in the air remains with me and, for the first time I know I can succeed at the Reaping…succeed in any way I desire. I can fulfill my obligation or I can break all of the rules. The choice is mine. No one can restrain such a creature as they have created.
At sunset, I am lead back up to the world of the living and out to where all the other women who will take part in the Reaping wait in the forest. This part of our lands is beyond my normal hunting grounds, a walk of at least a day, but the tunnel through the cleansing pools cut the time to less than an hour. The others who now stand around me are beautiful in their finery, but none outshines what Cinna has transformed me into.
At the head of the group stands Snow and Trinket, the Joined couple who rule over us. Snow, with her long white hair coiled up into a bun, matches her name, icy cold, frozen. She clutches a long staff, shaped into a sacred snake. Her mate, Trinket, does much of the presiding now that Snow has gotten older. She wears a headdress of pink flowers.
"Welcome, welcome," Snow starts in her raspy voice. "One mile from here is the clearing where the Reaping will be held. As we all know, to the victor goes the spoil—the first one there receives the privilege of first choice." She points to the left, along the trodden path. "Go."
Before I know what I'm going, my feet are pounding the ground and I'm sprinting, the tiny bells wrapped three times around my bare ankles tinkling as I go. I'm the fastest runner in the tribe and I make it to the clearing a full minute before any of the others.
Annie makes it second. Usually, she is a very quiet girl, the same age as Gale, but tonight, she is Aphrodite, her face and breasts hidden by seashells, the skirt wrapped around her waist the iridescent pale green of sea foam.
The others drift in, barely running, until Snow makes it at last, leaning hard on her staff. Her wrinkled hand reaches out and pats Annie's face. You can tell she's trying not to squirm under the touch. "Ah, the impatience of youth," Snow says and the other women let out a smattering of laughter. "Which of you won?"
Annie points to me.
"Yes, our newest," Snow says, turning to look at me. Her hand strikes out, grabbing my marked arm and pulling it closer to her face. "And from the House of Firebirds. You know, the firebird is said to bring either a blessing or a curse. Let's hope your winning first choice is a herald of good."
Her eyes are sharp, as cold as the jeweled eyes of her snake staff. I don't say anything, but look down, and try to force down the queasy feeling growing in my stomach. I don't like being the center of attention. Thankfully, the other women are turning towards the clearing.
Torches, seemingly lit by themselves have begun to glow in a circle around the tree line. Someone beats a drum in a slow rhythm, the sound thumping and pounding in my chest.
Other figures appear on the far side of the clearing, stopping a few yards in front of us. My heart hammers along with the beat of the drum.
Men. I've never seen a man before. Of course, I have seen some of the months-old male babies before they take them away, but never a fully grown man.
The men are bare except for a cloth wrapped around their waists. Some are broad and some slender, but all their chests are flat. Most have shorn hair. They pair off, slowly circling their partner before slamming in to each other, heads pressed together, lifting and shoving.
"What are they doing," I ask Annie.
"They fight to show their strength," she whispers back to me. "So we can choose the most fit."
"It's stupid," I say. What is strength? Generations of the Twelfth Tribe ruling over the men of Panem prove that physical strength is nothing. Cunning, intelligence, skill—those qualities tipped the scales in our favor.
Beside me, Annie shrugs, her eyes fixed on one of the fighters. The man has a shock of hair the color of bronze and, even as untrained as I am in judging male beauty; I know he's gorgeous. He laughs as he fights, flipping the other man over with a flourish. A lot of the other women are watching him, too.
I finally connect this man to some of the whispering I'd heard at home. Although he's only been eligible for the Reaping for three seasons, he has already sired four children—all daughters for the Tribe. I think his name is Finnick.
The man who lost to Finnick goes back to the far side of the clearing where the defeated are gathering. The victors find other partners and keep battling each other, working through the ranks. It takes over an hour for the men to whittle themselves down to the last two and some of the woman begin to pass around wine and food as they watch the fights.
I can't relax enough to eat.
The last two seem about evenly matched and the fight drags into the night, until the full moon floats high overhead.
One is Finnick, a little dusty with a bruise blooming on his cheek, but still grinning. The other is blond, a little shorter than Finnick, but more broad-shouldered. He might be younger, too. The way he keeps glancing over at the women makes me think this is his first Reaping.
When his eyes finally light on me, he loses him grip on Finnick entirely and the two break apart, breathing hard.
"Keep starring, I can wait," Finnick says, head bowed, hands on his knees while he catches his breath.
Everyone laughs, but the boy seems to take it as some kind of permission because, for a long moment, he does stare. He stares until I feel myself blush under all the powder and paint. Now that it's dark, the outfit glows just as brightly as the actual fires illuminating the clearing.
The boy finally seems to tear his gaze away from my flickering and back to Finnick. After that, the fight's not even anymore. The boy seems to have gained a second wind and makes quick work of Finnick, pinning him down long enough for one of their leaders to name him victor.
The men form a line based on their rank in the fighting with the blond boy at the front. Their leader, a man named Coin, walks up to Snow. He looks severe, his graying hair cropped closely to his head. He hands Snow a golden scythe. It's much smaller than I imagine a real one would be, no larger than a hand axe.
"Here is your harvest, reap from it what you will," Coin says. These must be ceremonial words, but nothing can disguise the not-so-subtle bitterness in his voice. Snow walks past him, effectively ignoring Panem's leader. She hands the scythe to me.
"You first, my dear," she says. Snow turns to the gathered crowd and says in a loud voice that belies her age, "Katniss, of the House of Firebirds chooses first! Which Houses must step back?"
"None," a man, who'd been slumped on a tree stump the whole night, calls. He hadn't taken part in the fighting, but sat drinking from a goblet he kept refilling from a jug now lying tumbled over and empty in the grass. "There are none in our land with blood connections to that House."
This man must be Panem's Reciter, a man who memorizes the dizzying web of families and history to guard against too close relations. The Twelfth Tribe keeps written records, but the men of Panem don't have that skill.
This means my sire is dead. It means that he had no male children, no brothers of his own. For some reason, a diffused wave of sadness passes through me at the thought. It's ridiculous, really. I mean, I never met the man. A sire isn't part of you. Not like my sister and mother.
I walk down the long line of bare-chested men. Most of the men at the front of the line are younger; the others are older, probably part of my sire's generation. A few are even older than that.
I study the family symbols on their arms. Before they are given away at six months, male children are tattooed with the House of their matron. Later, if they become sires or fathers, they are marked with the emblem of those Houses as well. Some of these men have enough House symbols to cover their entire arm.
Think! What do I want? It's hard because I don't want to be here at all. I want to be back in my part of the forest, hunting with Gale or better yet, at home with my sister and mother eating stew made from one of the rabbits I shot this morning. This whole thing's too much like shopping for a goat in the market.
If I listen to the gossip, picking Finnick would be a sure bet. He would sire a daughter and all this could be over in five years. I'd have fulfilled my obligation and given a daughter over for training. I head back toward the front where Finnick is standing next to the blond.
I'm about to name Finnick when I notice he's doing what I used to do when I didn't want an instructor to call on me. Unlike the other men who puff out their chests the minute I get near them, Finnick is hunched down, studying his dusty feet with intensity.
I scowl at him. I know I may not be as beautiful as he is—most people aren't—but he doesn't have to make his rejection so clear. It's not as if I'm particularly eager to have him, either.
I'm tempted to pick Finnick out of spite, but then, defeated and mentally exhausted, I turn to the blond who took first place in the contest and hold the scythe out in front of him. His face bleaches white with shock, but his piercing eyes find mine. I note that they're a bright blue.
"This is your choice?" Snow asks.
I nod.
"What is your name?" Snow asks him. His eyes flit from me to the old woman behind me. "Peeta of the House of Lark."