Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Even from over a mile away, the cheers of celebration going on in the clearing still ring out, swelling in waves of laughter, chants, and moans. A few remaining women are still picking their consorts for the night of the full moon but, many who have already chosen, take their men right in the field among the trees and the crowd. I let the blond man—really, he's not much more than a boy—lead me back to his home, a round wooden building, thatched with golden straw.
He stoops to build a fire in the hearth, his movements quick and practiced and sure. He still wears only the cloth wrapped around his waist and the muscles of his back stretch and flex as he hunches over the wood. He seems fit. Physically strong.
That's good. It means my daughter will grow up strong as well. I watch the boy a moment longer. Strong…and maybe blonde like my mother and little sister. That would be nice.
The fire catches and in the dance of light and shadows, I see the well-ordered room, the clean woven mats upon the floor, the easel and chair for some kind of craft in one corner, the high four-legged bed against the wall. A gleaming copper bathtub sits behind a folding screen. I walk over to it, trail my hand against the smooth curved lip as the boy works on the fire.
Back home, we mostly visit the public bathhouse adjacent to the temple, but I know for this boy to have so much copper, he must be a part of Panem's small merchant class, those better off than the workers in the fields.
"Would you like a bath?" he asks. I look up to find the boy watching me. "I…I wasn't exactly prepared, but I can go get some water from the well and heat it. Or food. I have food if you would like to eat." He fumbles around on the table next to the hearth, gathering a loaf of bread, some cheese, a knife.
It's traditional, I know, for the man to serve and bathe the woman on the night of the Reaping, but I find myself not wanting to put this off now that I've made my decision. I want this over before I get too nervous.
I march over to the boy, Peeta, tug him down by the neck and press my lips against his, our lips clashing hard enough that my front teeth scrape the inside of my mouth. I go up on tiptoe to drag him closer.
I feel him seize up in shock beneath me, but then his hands are moving, encircling my waist, tracing up the curve of my spine.
It feels strange… strange…but not bad to be wrapped in masculine arms. His body is firm and smells of clean sweat and of hearth-baked bread and of the crisp green of the forest. Kissing…the whole thing is novel. Almost no one but my mother and sister ever touch me. I can't even remember Gale holding me and next to my family, I'm closest to her.
Peeta takes control of the kiss, molding his mouth to mine, somehow making the kisses softer, deeper. He brushes the seam of my lips with his tongue.
Boiling heat pools in my stomach, clawing at me like hunger, but deeper, lower, more insistent. This strange hunger is taking over when panic flares through me.
His touch is too warm, too intimate. This needs to be unemotional, impersonal—just me getting my daughter. And he's not supposed to be in control.
I let my arms drop from his shoulders, but he keeps his hands on my back, holding me close enough that I feel the pounding of his heart in my own chest. Our breath mingles as he stares down at me, dazed, the blue of his eyes only a bright ring around the dark of his pupils. His face and bare chest shimmer with streaks of the gold dust that coat my body.
His hand comes up and he draws his thumb across my cheek and then down the slope of my neck to my shoulder. "I didn't believe anyone would choose me. I definitely didn't think you would choose me."
He looks so young and vulnerable, I almost forgot what a foreign creature he is, forget that I just want this over. "Why wouldn't I? You're strong. You won the fights."
His eyes search mine and then he looks disappointed. "You don't know? About the House of Lark?"
I reach out and touch the House symbol on his arm. The image is distorted since he's had it since he was a six-months-old baby, but I can make out the singing beak of the perched lark, the symbol of daybreak and hope, so different from the fiery bird flying on my own arm.
He looks away from me and swallows hard. "My father has three sons. I have two blood brothers."
At first I don't get what he's trying to say. Why would it matter if he has brothers?
But then I get it what he's saying.
There is one daughter of the House of Lark, an angry, mean-spirited prophetess, completely unsuited to from a House known for joy. She is in my mother's generation. There are none in mine, nor any among the young girls.
"Only male children," I whisper.
"Only sons," he says. "And my brother has a son."
I break out of the shelter of his arms and step back, banging my hip against the table.
No, no, no. I can't have a male child. Male children don't count. It would mean a nine-month pregnancy, six months of nursing the child, and then having to start all over again to provide a daughter for the tribe.
More than a whole year added to my obligation.
My heartbeat doubles and I want to run.
Peeta comes forward, moves to pull me back into his arms. "Katniss, I can't guarantee …"
My hand finds the knife on the table. I raise it level with his chest. "Step back." I have to keep him away from me. I have to figure a way out of this.
Peeta hold his hands up like he's trying to calm some wild animal. "You don't have to do this."
I wave the knife toward the other corner with the chair and easel. "You're going to go sit over there until I say you can move. Go. Now."
He makes a show of going to sit down, keeping his hands up the whole time. "I've got to say, this is not how I imagined my first Reaping."
"Shut up," I say. "Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?"
"Yes, but I didn't believe it until today." He shakes his head. "You're right, I need to learn to shut up."
I should be glad he talks so much, if he hadn't told me, we'd be lying together right now, his seed might have already taken root inside me. A sharp pang of something like longing cuts deep inside me. I ignore it.
My feet pace a tight circle before I go over to his bed and climb up. The bed is narrow, barely wide enough for two slim people. I sit cross-legged facing the boy, still clutching the knife.
The women tell stories of crazed men, monsters who molested unwilling women in the times before the birth of the Twelfth Tribe. These are ancient, dusty tales, but the warning has been drummed into me: men are dangerous.
We watch each other across the room.
Peeta picks up a long, thin paintbrush from beside the easel and starts weaving it in and out between his fingers. It's a practiced move, he's not fully conscious that he's doing it. Gale always says I do the same thing with arrows when I'm worried.
"Are you some kind of artist?" As far as I know, they don't have artists in Panem. The men here mostly grow food. They spend the year working to exhaustion in the fields of wheat and grapes and in the orchards tending fruits and olives.
The paintbrush stops moving in his hand. He lays it down along with the others on the easel. "No, I draw the signs for my father's bakery and for the amphorae at the winemakers."
I picture the wine vessels we buy from Panem. It's one of our principle trades. We provide them with fresh meat and fish and luxury items, they supply us with grain and wine.
Instead of the plain clay vessels marked with a thumbprint we usually get, the batches of wine have become more like the crafted amphorae that are sold for decoration, hand painted with images of grape vines, dancing figures, famous scenes.
The last time I was in the market, the woman who runs the crafts stall grumbled that if the men had so much time on their hands, they should plant another field instead of taking business from her.
I pluck at the soft cushions lining his bed and stare.
He stares back with piercing blue eyes until he can't hold my gaze anymore and those eyes drift away from my face.
The silence pulls bow taunt.
"Would it be so bad to have a son?" he asks. It's an explosion of words, just this side of civil.
"Not a son," I say, correcting him. "A male child wouldn't be my son."
He shakes his head. "What I mean is, not everyone can have females or both the tribe and Panem die out."
I don't say anything. It's obvious he's right, but that doesn't mean I want to be martyred for the tribe or Panem. I'm already sacrificing years of my future for Prim, I won't give them a second more.
"Look," Peeta says. "If you don't want to stay here, I can go talk to Coin. Maybe there's someone left you won't find so objectionable."
He gets up and starts for the door.
I watch him go. Maybe it's for the best. I'm thinking I can still get this whole thing done tonight, but then fatigue seeps in and I know it's too late. I don't want to go through all of this again with some new man, a man who's already been rejected by everyone else, a leftover, bent over, gnarled man who is at least three times my age, maybe even their old drunken Reiter. My stomach heaves up into my throat at the thought.
"No, don't!" I call out before he can leave. "It's not that I object to you or even to a male child. It's just that don't want to take part in any of this. What I want is to go home to my family."
His hand freezes on the door and he turns back to me. "Do you have someone else? Someone at home?"
I say yes automatically, my mind on Prim, before I realize he means something different, not a sister, but a lover. For some reason, Gale pops into my mind, but that's not right, either. We're not together, despite her strange words…was that only this morning?
It doesn't matter, anyway. Most of the women of the tribe partner off eventually, but they are still obligated to take part in the Reapings. It must be the same with the men.
"Why," I ask. "Do you have someone?"
"No." He rubs at the gold dust staining his face. It doesn't come off, but smudges all around his eyes, highlighting the bright blue. "You can stay here, if you want. I won't hurt you or try anything, but I'm going to need at least half that bed.
"What?" My hand finds the handle of the knife still at my side. He can't mean…
"I can't spend all night in that chair." He shrugs. "You can take a crack at it, if you'd like, but I my leg can't take it." He gives his left thigh a pat and I notice the long scar along the length of it, a puckered and frowning slash mark, pink against his pale skin.
Compared to the right, the left is slightly withered too, as though he's sat for a while in a bathtub. Seeing this, his victory during the fights is more impressive. He must be incredibly strong.
"How did it happen?" I ask.
His face gets a closed off look—cool, guarded. "A wild dog."
I don't ask any more questions because I can tell I won't get any answers. "It's fine. We can both sleep here." I pat the cushion beneath me until I see the gold dust flake onto the fabric.
Peeta sees it too. "I could still draw water for a bath."
"If you have a basin of water that would be fine." I say.
He points to the little area hidden by the folding screen. A mirror, a clean cloth, a square of soap, and a small wooden basin filled with water sit on a shelf next to the copper tub. When I hear him moving somewhere on the other side of the room, I slide out of my dress and lay it against the tub where the fabric still glows faintly with the colors of fire.
I dip the washcloth into the water and squeeze out the excess. I rub the soap across the towel until the whole thing foams and I smell the sweet scent of lavender. I scrub at my face, my arms, everywhere I can reach without getting the floor too wet. I stop when I recognize my face in the mirror.
Something flies over the top of the screen and lands at my feet. It's an overlarge, sleeveless tunic, worn soft with repeated washings.
"Thought you may like something to sleep in." Peeta's too-close voice carries through the wood. The tunic falls to my knees.
I emerge to find that he's changed as well. He has on a tunic like the one he gave me as well as a pair of loose pants. The cushions on the bed have been either changed or flipped over. The hearth fire has been dampened down to smoldering logs.
He climbs into the tall bed and I climb in after him. If this were me and Gale, we would each have enough room to lie here without touching. Peeta swamps me and I have to lie nearly on top of him for both of us to fit.
Somehow, we get all the arms and legs comfortably tucked in. Lying on his chest, I can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feel his breaths start to slow. It's not half bad, having a living mattress.
I'm gliding toward sleep when Peeta asks a question. "What are you going to do about next month's Reaping?"
"I'll do what I have to do for the tribe," I say. "Maybe research a little more next time."
My mattress rumbles under my head and chest while he laughs and then it stops. "You shouldn't have to go, not if you don't want to."
"I don't have a choice." Every woman, except the exempt, must provide at least one daughter for the tribe or die in the attempt.
"What happens if you can't have kids?"
"They declare you barren, but only if you've gone to the Reaping for a whole year and born no fruit."
"You could come here every month, if you wanted. I wouldn't mind."
I prop myself up to look at him. His face is sincere, thoughtful in the dying light. "But they might think it's you, not me. It would ruin your chances to have a son or sire a child for the tribe."
"It doesn't matter. I never had much of a chance anyway, with two brothers."
"Why would you help me?"
His hand wanders up, warm, pale fingers trace the House symbol on my arm. I start to jerk back, but his touch is just a quick graze across my skin. "I knew your father…I mean sire. He was of the Singers. Even the birds stopped singing when he sang. Everyone respected him; most people liked him, too."
"How'd he manage that?" Part of me doesn't want to hear about that half of my blood, but, another part is curious about the man who gave me my dark hair and gray eyes.
"A lot of it was the singing, but also because he was a bit of a criminal."
I feel my eyebrows rise and Peeta gives another chuckle. "Not a bad criminal. He didn't murder anybody or steal or anything like that. He would go out into the forest and hunt. He made himself a bow and everything."
The men of Panem aren't allowed to have weapons of any kind and they aren't allowed in the forest. No man is to enter the sacred realm of Artemis without leave of Snow.
"And he was good, too. A natural." Peeta's eyes flit away from mine, lost somewhere in the past. "He used to say that he knew when you came of age because the quality of the meat got so much better. He always said you took after him."
So, I got my skill with a bow from him along with my features. And he thought of me, too, wondered what I was like. There's a shaky feeling inside that I don't want to examine too closely because it might be tears. I don't want to cry in front of this boy over someone that shouldn't even matter to me.
The elders deemed my game good enough for trade when I was twelve so he must have been alive four years ago.
"How did he die," I whisper.
Peeta's face takes on that closed-off look again. "No one knows. He disappeared two years ago. After a month of searching, Coin declared him dead."
"But he might not be dead. He may have just… disappeared into the forest."
"I guess that's true," Peeta says quickly. He settles back down to sleep and I curl up against him. Again, his hand traces the House symbol on my arm.
"If you ever change your mind, tell me" he says quietly. "I would be proud to bear the symbol of his House."
I want to be irritated at his words—this is the symbol of my House, not my sire's—but I'm too tired to work up a strong emotion and so I float to sleep against the rhythm of Peeta's heartbeat.