Chapter Twenty-Seven
By the time Clark regained consciousness, Snow and the Peacekeepers were gone. The people who had been forced to watch Clark’s flogging had been freed from their handcuffs, and a blanket had been brought from the house to cover Jonathan’s body.
Martha was kneeling in the dirt beside her son, crying at the twin blows of her loss and what had happened to Clark, gently wiping his face with a damp cloth. Matilda and Sid stood nearby, Matilda’s eyes red from crying. When she saw Clark open his eyes and try to lift his head, Matilda’s tears began anew.
“Mom?” Clark looked at Martha through pain-dimmed eyes.
For a moment, Martha forgot her loss in the joy of Clark’s recovery. “Oh, honey, you’re awake! I was afraid that I would lose you, too.” At that thought, her tears returned.
“Mom, what —“ Clark tried to look around, half-hoping that, in spite of the pain, the events of the morning had been a horrible dream.
Trying to compose herself, Martha said, “Just lie still, Clark,” as she slipped another cloth under his face, then encouraged him to put his head back down. “Haver’s gone for the doctor. He took one of the horses, so he should be back soon.”
Clark lifted his head again. “Mom, what … what about Dad?”
Martha’s eyes filled with tears again. “Clark, your father … we think it was a heart attack. The Peacekeepers tried to revive him, but … they couldn’t.”
Clark craned his neck, trying to see. When he spotted Jonathan’s blanket-covered body on the ground, he stared in horror for a moment before looking back at his mother.
“No,” he whispered. “No … it’s impossible. He can’t be … be …”
“I’m afraid he is, Clark. The Peacekeepers tried to help — they really did — but there was nothing they could do. Your father just … he died.”
Clark pressed his hands against the ground, trying to get up. Martha restrained him, pushing him back down gently, being careful not to touch his injured back.
“Clark, no. Stay still. You’re badly hurt.”
Clark shook his head. “I need to … to see him … to see Dad.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Martha told him. “There’s nothing anyone can do.” She stifled a sob. “I wish there were, but there are some things even you can’t help.”
Clark looked around nervously, wondering if Matilda and Sid had heard his mother’s whispered words. Matilda was under the tree where he’d been flogged, gingerly knocking the last bits of the broken glass of the shattered lens from Clark’s glasses. Sid was watching her.
Still crying, Matilda brought the glasses to him. One lens was still intact, so Clark put them on. He looked at Matilda in consternation, not sure what to make of her tears. He was used to her being bitter and cynical or intoxicated — or both. He’d never seen her cry before, and he wondered what had brought her tears on. She hadn’t known Jonathan very well — certainly not well enough to feel so strongly about his death.
Matilda sank to the ground beside Clark, her eyes darting from him to the covered body about twenty feet away. “Damn them!” she wept. “Damn them! Damn Snow and those Capitol bastards all to hell! They never stop! They just take and take and take! You didn’t even have time to get used to being a victor before Snow destroyed your life!”
“Mattie, don’t.” Sid limped over to them, reaching to help Matilda up. “This isn’t helping Clark any.”
“You saw what they did, Sid — what Snow did! Clark didn’t do anything wrong, but that power-mad bastard made him suffer anyway, just like he’s done with every other victor since he became president! It’s not enough to survive when all the other tributes die — surviving just means that you become a pawn in Snow’s power games.” She got up, flinging herself into her husband’s arms. “Remember what he did to us when I tried to stop playing his games?” She started sobbing.
Sid stroked her hair gently. “Shh, Mattie. Of course I remember. But this isn’t the time or the place to go over it.”
Matilda took a deep, shuddering breath. “I know, but I have to say one thing.” She crouched down beside Clark again. “Don’t let them break you, Clark. Don’t! Do what you have to do to survive, but don’t give in. Don’t become like me or Haver. Maybe … maybe one day … things might get better.”
Clark looked at Matilda in surprise. It was the first time he’d ever heard her say anything remotely hopeful.
Everyone tensed at the sound of a vehicle, then relaxed when the physician’s truck came into view. Dr. Greenlaw, the only doctor in District 9, got out, Haver following.
“You need to cooperate with the doctor, Clark,” Martha whispered. “You need his help, even if it reveals your secret.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Clark whispered back. “Dr. Wellwood, the tribute doctor, didn’t think I was strange. I look just like everyone else.”
Dr. Greenlaw knelt down next to Clark, examining his flayed back. He muttered something unflattering about Thread, then looked up. “Please get the stretcher from the truck,” he told Haver.
Clark looked up at the doctor. “They need help, too,” he said, nodding towards Matilda and Sid.
Sid shook his head. “We can wait,” he told Clark and Dr. Greenlaw.
Haver came back with the stretcher. He unfolded it, locking the braces, and put it on the ground beside Clark. Then he reached to help the young victor onto it, but Clark shook his head.
“If you have trouble carrying Matilda, you sure won’t be able to lift me.” Clark didn’t know his exact weight, but he knew that he was quite a bit heavier than he looked, and Kryptonite exposure did nothing to change that.
Clark was feeling a little stronger with the Kryptonite gone, especially since he’d been lying in the sun for an hour, but he was still in excruciating pain from the flogging, and he’d lost a fair amount of blood. He struggled, trying to get up, but soon collapsed back onto the ground.
He’d never been in so much pain — not when he was a small child and had fallen from a tree and broken his arm, not when he’d been locked in the hovercraft with Platinum’s Kryptonite token on the way to the arena, not even when he’d unearthed a large piece of Kryptonite while plowing at age sixteen, leaving him in a coma for almost twenty-four hours and with a pounding headache for more than six hours after he’d awakened.
Trying not to cause him any more pain, Dr. Greenlaw and Martha lifted Clark and quickly put him on the stretcher. Together, Sid excluded because of his ankle, the four of them lifted the stretcher and carried it into the house, Sid limping along in their wake.
At Martha’s direction, Haver pulled the quilt and blankets off the narrow bed Clark had slept in before he was Reaped. Dr. Greenlaw and Martha hoisted Clark onto the bed, where he lay on his stomach atop the worn sheets.
“Mom …” Clark lifted his head from his pillow, looking anxiously at Martha. “What about Dad? You can’t leave him there in the dirt …”
Martha blinked back tears. “We won’t, honey. Once you and Sid are taken care of, Dr. Greenlaw and I will put him in the truck for the doctor to take to the morgue.”
“I always take care of the living first,” Dr. Greenlaw added. “There’s nothing I can do for your dad — a Peacekeeper stopped and told me what happened before Haver arrived — but I should be able to help you.”
“I’ll go with him when he takes your dad into town,” Haver added. “I have to get your horse from the stable there anyway,” he told Martha, “so I’ll make sure everything is taken care of.”
Martha nodded, looking down and stroking her son’s hair comfortingly. “Thank you, Haver,” she said softly. Gently, she took Clark’s glasses and put them on the windowsill, opening the curtains to let the sunlight in. To those in attendance, it looked like she was giving the doctor more light for his examination, but Martha was hoping that the sunlight would help heal her son.
Dr. Greenlaw examined Clark, concluding that his ribs were badly bruised, but not broken, and although the cut above his eye had bled a lot, it was shallow and would heal on its own. Everyone knew that facial and scalp wounds bled profusely. Clark’s left eyelid was swollen nearly shut and his cheek was bruised from where Thread had punched him, but the eye itself wasn’t damaged and nothing was broken. His wrists were bruised from fighting the handcuffs, but they would also heal on their own. Martha had cleaned the cut above Clark’s eye while he was unconscious, so the doctor had her apply a little antibiotic ointment and a band-aid to it and concentrated on the young man’s back.
The doctor’s expression was grim as he looked at the damage. “You’re lucky to be alive,” he told Clark. “That sadistic bastard, Thread, beat a man to death during the Games — he’d tunneled under the electric fence and gone fishing. He got caught when he brought the fish home — it was mandatory viewing time when he got back into town and a Peacekeeper wanted to know why he wasn’t anywhere near a television or one of the screens in the town square. The Peacekeeper looked in the sack the man was carrying and found the fish. When the judge pronounced him guilty, Thread was all too eager to carry out the punishment.”
After Martha carefully removed the last tattered remnants of Clark’s shirt, Haver brought in a pan of soap and hot water and Dr. Greenlaw began to clean the wounds on Clark’s back. Clark groaned in pain and bit down on the pillow to keep from screaming. When he tried to jerk away from the doctor, Martha, with Matilda’s help, held him in place.
“I know it hurts,” Martha told Clark, “but Dr. Greenlaw is trying to help you. You need to stay still.”
Clark bit down harder on the pillow and tried to stay still, but it was so painful that Haver had to step in and assist the two women to hold him down. Clark was sweating, even in the cool October air — something he almost never did.
Martha bit her lip. “Should I make him some willow bark tea?” she asked Dr. Greenlaw.
The doctor shook his head. “That won’t be strong enough. I’m going to give him a shot of morphling. I wanted to clean his injuries and assess how bad they were before I gave him anything — sometimes wounds bleed a lot, but the actual damage is minimal. Unfortunately, that’s not the case here.”
He rummaged in his bag, pulling out a syringe and a vial of clear liquid. After filling the syringe, he quickly cleaned a spot on Clark’s arm and injected the morphling.
Martha watched, wondering if the drug would have any effect on Clark. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have had the slightest effect on him — but under normal circumstances, nothing could have been injected into him, either.
Within seconds, Clark relaxed as the pain began to fade. He wasn’t surprised that the morphling had worked. After exposure to Kryptonite, he was vulnerable to the same things as anyone else.
Dr. Greenlaw went back to work on Clark, trying to save as much of the damaged skin as he could. He applied a layer of healing ointment and then lightly bandaged Clark’s back.
“Try to keep him as still as possible,” he told Martha. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning to see how he is. If he gets worse, come get me immediately.”
Martha nodded, then turned to her son. “Clark, honey, how are you feeling?” she asked.
“Okay,” Clark mumbled drowsily. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“The morphling should keep him comfortable for a few hours.” Dr. Greenlaw measured out a few pills, put them in a small plastic bag, and handed them to Martha. “These are morphling tablets. Give him one every three to four hours as needed.” He also handed her a tube of ointment and a roll of bandages. “Change the dressing in the evening. I’ll apply further treatment in the morning.”
Dr. Greenlaw went out to the main room to see to Sid, Matilda and Haver following him, leaving Martha alone with Clark. She sat on the edge of the bed beside him.
“How does your head feel?” she asked. Martha was well-acquainted with the aftereffects of Kryptonite exposure in her son.
“It doesn’t hurt, either,” Clark mumbled in a drowsy tone.
“What about your stomach?”
“Not so good, but I don’t think I’m going to throw up anymore. I really just want to sleep now.”
“All right.” Martha removed Clark’s shoes, then picked up one of the worn blankets Haver had tossed aside and covered Clark’s lower body with it. “Sleep well, honey. If you need anything, just call.”
Clark nodded, closing his eyes and slipping into a drugged sleep. Martha left the room quietly, leaving the door ajar. This had been one of the worst days of her life, and it wasn’t even half over.
*****
It was early evening before Haver returned with the horse. He had returned to town with Dr. Greenlaw, riding in the back of the truck with Jonathan’s blanket-wrapped body and Matilda. Sid, who Dr. Greenlaw suspected had a broken ankle, had ridden up front.
Several hours had passed before Dr. Greenlaw had had a chance to examine Jonathan’s body and fill out the paperwork — he had taken care of Sid first and given him and Matilda a ride back to Victor’s Village, then taken care of several other patients.
Haver had waited patiently, taking the time to speak discreetly with the Head Peacekeeper, who was the brother of one of the District 2 victors with whom Haver was acquainted. The man had already heard about what had happened at the Kent farm that morning and was furious, but he’d had no control over the actions of President Snow and could do nothing.
It was almost sunset by the time Dr. Greenlaw had finished with Jonathan and given Haver the paperwork that Martha, as the wife of the deceased, would have to sign. Haver had taken his time riding back to the Kent farm, not eager to face the grieving widow or her injured son.
By the time Haver had released the horse into the corral, it was almost dark. Taking the folded papers from his pocket, he walked to the front door of the house and knocked.
No one answered. Frowning, Haver looked at the windows — no lights were on, and there was no smell of smoke from the chimney. Quietly, he opened the door and stepped inside.
“Martha? Clark?” He felt around for the light switch and was relieved when the ceiling light came on — electric power wasn’t always reliable this far from town. When his eyes had adjusted to the brightness, he looked around.
Martha was sitting at the table, her head resting on her arms, sound asleep. Her face was tear-streaked and a cloth handkerchief was clutched in one hand.
Haver shook her gently, not wanting to scare her. “Martha?”
Martha sat up, startled. “Haver?! What … what’s going on? What time is it?”
Haver squinted at the small clock that sat atop the television. “It’s a bit past seven.”
Martha jumped up. “I should have taken care of the livestock two hours ago! They’ll be hungry and the cows need milking. I need to make dinner, and check on Clark …”
“I’d help you with the livestock,” Haver said, “but to be honest with you, I wouldn’t know where to start. I grew up in a factory family. I do know how to cook, though — I’ve been doing it for years. I can check on Clark, too — I need to talk to him anyway.” He set the papers on the table. “Dr. Greenlaw needs you to sign these, but it can wait. He’ll pick them up tomorrow when he comes to check on Clark.”
Martha nodded, looking at Haver gratefully. “Thank you, Haver. I can’t believe I let the time get away from me like that.”
“You’ve had a rough day, to put it mildly. Go ahead and take care of the animals — I’ll fix something for you and Clark to eat.”
“Fix enough for yourself, too — it’s a long way back to Victor’s Village.” Martha took a lantern from a shelf beside the door and lit it. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the barn. What did you do with the mare?”
“I took the saddle and bridle off and put her in the corral.”
“Okay. I’ll take care of her.” Martha stepped outside, shutting the door behind her.
Haver went to Clark’s room and looked in on him. Clark was lying on his stomach, his head on the pillow. He looked up when Haver opened the door.
“How do you feel?” Haver asked.
“I’ve been better,” Clark responded wryly, moving carefully until he was lying on his side. He was a long way from being healed, but sleeping in the sunlight for a few hours had done him some good.
“Your mom is taking care of the animals. I’m going to cook something. Do you feel up to eating?”
“I think I could eat everything in the house,” Clark answered.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Haver answered drily, “but I think I can make something you’ll like.”
By the time Martha came back into the house, a simple but nourishing soup was bubbling on the stove and a pan of corn bread baking in the oven. The Kents were well-supplied with food now that Clark was a victor.
Haver turned to look at her. He didn’t know how long it was supposed to take to tend to the livestock, but she had been gone long enough that he was growing concerned.
Martha saw him looking at her and turned away, embarrassed. Her eyes were red from crying and her clothes were grimy and stained with Clark’s blood. She didn’t know Haver well and didn’t want to show her grief so openly to a near-stranger.
“The food’s almost ready,” Haver said matter-of-factly, turning back to the stove.
“I’ll eat later … I need to take a tray to Clark. He slept through lunch and must be starving by now. I was going to fix him something earlier, but then I sat down at the table for a moment and the next thing I knew, you were shaking me awake.”
“I’ll take it to him,” Haver told her. “Like I said, I need to talk to him.” He looked at her searchingly. “Did you eat lunch today?”
Martha shook her head. “No. I wasn’t hungry, and there were … other things … that needed to be done.”
“
You need to eat every bit as much as him,” Haver told her firmly. “Clark needs you to keep up your strength.” Haver had seen dozens of grieving families in his life — he’d attended the funerals and funded the wakes of nearly every tribute he had mentored. Martha had lost a husband, not a son, but the sorrow was just as strong.
When Martha was seated at the table with soup, corn bread, and a cup of chamomile tea in front of her, Haver took a tray of food to Clark. The young victor was lying down again, but he struggled to sit up when Haver came back in, gritting his teeth at the pain in his back.
Haver set the tray on the chair Martha had left beside the bed and helped Clark sit up. When the young man was sitting up as comfortably as he could be under the circumstances, Haver retrieved his own meal from the main room, then sat down beside him.
Watching Clark eat like he’d never seen food before, Haver remarked, “You might want to slow down a little. You were pretty sick this morning.”
“I’m better now,” Clark told him, but slowed down anyway, if only to keep Haver from asking any questions.
“I have to admit that it did my heart good to see the look on that bastard’s face when you got sick on his shoes. I don’t think he was expecting that.”
Clark didn’t smile or even look up. Instead, with a plaintive note to his voice, he asked, “Haver, what rule did I break?”
Haver, shaking his head, frowned. He’d spent hours trying to figure that out. “I don’t know, Clark. All I can think of is the fact that you covered the camera before Lois died. You’re not the first victor to be punished for breaking some unwritten rule in the arena — the victor of the last Quarter Quell, Haymitch Abernathy, was forced to watch his whole family and his girlfriend be executed because he used the force field — which he was technically never supposed to find — as a weapon. His last rival threw an axe at him and he ducked, then let the force field bring it back and bury it in her head.”
Clark’s heart sank. “The force field?” He’d known exactly where the force field in his arena had been — he’d been able to hear it. The rocks and sticks he’d thrown at it had shown Lois where it was, even when the electrocuted bodies of birds hadn’t made it obvious. He thought of the District 8 boy and how he’d touched the force field with his knife. Clark hadn’t pushed him towards it, had tried to keep him away from it, but it might not have looked that way to President Snow.
“I suppose it’s possible that you got too close to it, but … something tells me it’s more than that. Snow doesn’t usually do his own dirty work. I’ve never heard of him coming to one of the districts before. It’s known that he vacations at the resorts built around the old arenas, but he’s never stopped in one of the districts. It came as a total shock to me to see him in Victor’s Village this morning.”
Clark had a good idea of why Snow had decided to oversee his punishment for whatever it was he had done. Panem’s president didn’t want anyone else to know Clark’s secrets, and if he had told one of his lackeys to expose Clark to Kryptonite, there would have been questions. As far as most people knew, Kryptonite was a harmless, pretty stone — and for most people, it was. Only Clark was affected by it.
By confronting Clark himself, Snow had been able to expose him to the dangerous stone with no one the wiser — except Clark and his parents. Their reactions to the stone had also proven Snow right — Jonathan and Martha Kent had not brought him into the world. They had tried to protect their suddenly weakened son, but had not been affected by the Kryptonite themselves.
Still, it didn’t answer the question of what Clark had done, or why Snow had chosen to punish him personally instead of his loved ones — or why he had refused to tell Clark what he was being punished for. Clark had gone over his actions in the Games many times that day, but only two things seemed plausible — Lysander’s death and the way Clark had kept the audience from witnessing Lois’s death.
Snow might have found something suspicious about the way Clark had covered the camera in those last moments — and if Snow had figured out what Clark had done, he now knew something else about him, something else that he might use for his own purposes. It would also explain why he had spared Clark’s family and friends — if he’d destroyed them, he would have had no leverage to control him. There would still be the strangers Snow had mentioned — if he hadn’t destroyed them, as well — but they might not be enough to get Clark to obey him.
Revenge for Lysander’s death was the other plausible reason for what Snow had done to Clark. Lex Luthor was a tremendously wealthy and powerful man, and Clark had seen both men on television together, so it was obvious they knew each other. Most parents who lost children in the Hunger Games could only mourn them and try to move on, but Luthor had the power to take revenge. He might well have convinced Snow to punish Clark for killing his son — despite the fact that killing other tributes was legal in the arena, and despite Clark’s obvious shock and remorse when he’d realized what he’d done.
If Clark had been flogged in retribution for Lysander’s death, it would also explain why Snow had refused to tell him what he’d done. If word got out that some tributes were more valuable than others, it might make kids afraid to fight them in the arena, making the Games less interesting — and also destroying the illusion that the tributes in the Games all had a chance to come home. If people lost what little hope they had that their children might survive the arena, it would make it harder to force them to give them up and increase the chance of rebellion.
“Whatever it was I did, I’m glad I was the one who was flogged and not someone else.” Clark picked up his mug of tea, staring blankly at it. “The rest of you are okay — except Dad.”
“No one laid a hand on your father, Clark, except the Peacekeeper who tried to revive him. Dr. Greenlaw believes he had a heart attack, and that he probably died fairly quickly — he didn’t suffer.”
“That’s what Snow said — the heart attack part, anyway.” Clark took a gulp of the now lukewarm tea. “Dad always seemed so strong, though — why would he have a heart attack today?”
Haver shook his head. “There may have been things going on that you didn’t know about.”
Clark thought about the strange herb in Jonathan’s tea, and the way the older man had been slowing down — even during the harvest, he’d worked less than he once had, allowing the others to take up the slack, though in the past he’d always done his share and more. Clark had noticed, but he’d been caught up in his own troubles, and he hadn’t wanted to believe that what he was observing was real. So many of the things that scared him had turned out to not be real — why couldn’t his father’s heart condition have been one of them?
Before Clark could say anything, Martha knocked on the half-open door and came inside. “How are you doing, honey?” she asked Clark.
Clark set down his empty mug and looked up at his mother. “Okay, Mom,” he told her. “I could use some more food and tea, if there is any, before I go back to Victor’s Village.”
Martha and Haver both looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “You’re not going back to Victor’s Village tonight,” Haver told him. “You can barely sit up — there’s no way you can make it three miles, even on horseback.”
Clark shook his head. “I have to go there for the night. It’s required.”
“Absolutely not, Clark!” Martha told him. “You’re staying here, and any Peacekeeper who says anything will have to go through me.”
“Mom, it’s the law.” Clark tried to get up, nearly dumping the tray before Haver took it from him. He got his legs over the side of the bed, but nearly fell when he tried to stand.
It surprised him, and was an indication of just how weak he was, when Martha was able to push him back down. “You’re not going anywhere,” she told him.
“I talked to the Head Peacekeeper earlier,” Haver said. “He knows what happened today, and he doesn’t expect you to go home tonight … and believe it or not, they don’t usually check anyway. Speaking of Peacekeepers …” He waited until he had Clark and Martha’s full attention. “… Thread’s gone. He packed up his belongings from the barracks and left with Snow and his entourage this afternoon, wearing a new uniform indicating a higher rank. Where he’s gone is anybody’s guess, but he’s not in District 9 anymore, and not many people will miss him.”
“I can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone,” Martha said, “but I pity whatever district winds up with him next.”
Haver looked from Martha to Clark. “Will you two be okay on your own? I could sleep in front of the fire if you needed me here.”
Clark and Martha glanced at each other, thinking the same thing. If Clark regained his unusual abilities during the night and started floating, or was startled and broke something he shouldn’t have been able to break, they didn’t want Haver to see it.
“We’ll be fine,” Martha told Haver. “Clark told us you have back problems, and I don’t want to make them worse by making you sleep on the floor. You can ride the mare if you like — you can bring her back in the morning and ride back to Victor’s Village with Dr. Greenlaw. Just put her in Clark’s backyard to graze — there’s nothing there she shouldn’t eat.”
Haver shook his head. “I’d rather walk. After a day like today, a long walk is what I need before bed.”
Martha followed him to the front door. “Take this,” she told him, handing him the flashlight Clark had given to her and Jonathan. “You need to see where you’re going.”
Haver took the flashlight. “Thanks. I’ll return it as soon as I can.”
“There’s no hurry. We’ve still got the lantern.” Martha thought for a moment, then went on. “Haver … thank you for all you’ve done today. I’m sorry you had to witness what happened this morning.”
“Every year, I hope I’ll be able to get a kid home from the Games,” Haver said. “This year, Clark actually came home … and then this happened. I don’t know why President Snow had Clark flogged. Matilda and I monitored him constantly in the Games, and we saw nothing that should have provoked such a violent reaction. He did what he had to do, and he made it home. What Snow did … I just don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I,” Martha said. “Jonathan and I watched the Games as much as we could, even when it wasn’t mandatory viewing. Clark tried to be a decent person, even in the middle of the Games. He’s been hurting since he came home because of the things he had to do and the people he couldn’t help.”
“Maybe that has something to do with it. Snow doesn’t have a decent bone in his body … and chances are he can’t stand seeing decency in anyone else.”
*****
Hours later, Martha was awakened by the sound of Clark shouting and thrashing around in his sleep.
“Mom, Dad, run! Don’t worry about me … go! You don’t know what he’s got planned! Kill you … Avoxes … torture … poison rats …”
Martha got out of bed, hurrying towards Clark’s room.
“Dad … no. You’ll be okay. Just get up!
Get up! Get —“
There was a crash as Clark fell out of bed, followed by a cry of pain. Martha fumbled for the light switch, only to find that the power was out again.
“Clark, stay still. I’m going to get a candle.” Martha felt her way through the dark, finding the shelf where the candles and matches were stored. Quickly, she put a candle into a holder and lit it, then made her way back to Clark’s room.
Clark was huddled on the floor in a tangle of blankets, whispering to himself. “My name is Clark Kent. I live in District 9. I won the 66th Hunger Games. My parents are farmers. Wait … not anymore. Only Mom is. Dad is … Dad is …”
“Clark?” Martha set the candle on top of the old dresser and hurried over to him.
“Mom?” Clark shook his head to clear it. “What …”
“You were having a nightmare, honey. Come on. Let me help you get back in bed.”
“It wasn’t a nightmare,” Clark insisted as Martha helped him off the floor. “It was real. Snow … he threatened you … and Dad … and now … now …”
“Clark, it’s not real. It’s just a dream.” Martha managed to get him back onto his bed and picked up the covers, putting them over him.
“The
dream wasn’t real, but what it was about … Mom, President Snow knows about me. He knows what I can do. He knows about Kryptonite.”
“Clark, I know. I saw him open the watch with the Kryptonite in it.”
Clark went on, not listening. “I did something stupid … in the Games … and I didn’t die. I ate a handful of poison berries, enough to kill every tribute … and I didn’t even get sick. Lois threw her share of the berries away, but I didn’t … and now he knows … President Snow knows about me … he showed me a video of things I’d done … eating the berries, running next to a train, flying over the Capitol …”
Shocked at this revelation, Martha blurted out, “Flying over the Capitol?!”
Clark looked up at his mother. “Mom … I’m sorry. You and Dad … you told me to stay away from the Capitol, but I didn’t listen. I was curious … and one night I hit a force field and set off a camera … and now Snow knows that I can fly. I don’t know what he wants … but he threatened you and Dad … and Pete and Lana and Rachel … Haver and Matilda … the Rasens … even some strangers …” Clark’s voice was growing increasingly hysterical.
“Oh, Clark. Oh, honey …” Martha sat down on the edge of the bed, stroking Clark’s hair and wishing she could take him in her arms and cradle him like she had when he was a little boy, but he was too big for that now. “Shh … you’re safe now … he’s not going to hurt you …”
“But he will hurt
you!” Clark insisted. “And everyone else … and there’s nothing I can do … no safe place … I don’t even know what I did wrong in the arena … how can I obey him if I don’t know what he wants?!”
Martha wished there was a simple answer, but there wasn’t. Everything Clark had just told her was new to her, and she didn’t know what to tell him.
“Mom … why didn’t you tell me what was wrong with Dad? I knew something was wrong, but you wouldn’t tell me anything … not even what that extra herb in Dad’s tea was.”
“It was a preparation of foxglove. Adra gave it to him with strict instructions for its use. Your father … he’s had trouble with his heart for several years. It gradually got worse, but he insisted that there was nothing to worry about. Then, during the Games, he was so worried about you and his stress level was so high that he had a heart attack … just a minor one, but it was enough to show him that it was something he couldn’t continue to ignore. Adra is as skilled at healing as she is at midwifing, so I got her to take a look at him, and she prescribed the foxglove. It seemed to help, but his heart was already damaged. Then, yesterday morning … your dad was so distressed at seeing you so badly hurt that he had another heart attack, and there was nothing anyone could do.”
“You should have taken him to Dr. Greenlaw.”
“We didn’t have the money. You know the Capitol requires him to charge a certain amount — more than what we could afford. And even if he had gone to see Dr. Greenlaw, we wouldn’t have been able to afford the expensive Capitol medicines.”
“But Dr. Greenlaw does help people who can’t afford the Capitol prices sometimes. Becky told me that he came to see her once — and the Rasens are poorer than we ever were.”
“He does help people who can’t afford the regular prices — when he can get away with it. During the Games, the Peacekeepers are on alert for any lawbreaking. It’s very hard to get away with anything then. Most people use healers, Clark, and don’t go to the doctor for anything but the worst illnesses and injuries. Adra did the best she could.”
“You should have taken him to someone else. If Adra is as good at healing as she is at midwifing, she’s not very good. She couldn’t save any of your babies.”
Martha’s hands stilled. Clark looked up at her, wishing he could take his words back. He knew how much his parents had grieved for their lost children.
“Adra has brought hundreds of babies into the world successfully, and she’s helped many people recover from sicknesses and injuries that might otherwise have killed them,” Martha told Clark. “My babies died inside me before I even went into labor. Unless I’d been constantly monitored — something not even Dr. Greenlaw has the machinery for — they couldn’t have been saved.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Clark mumbled. He looked up at her again. “But why didn’t you take Dad to Dr. Greenlaw after I came home? I had the money.”
“You’ve been under such a strain since you came home, Clark. We didn’t want to make things worse. You had enough on your mind without having to worry about your father, too.”
“But I did worry, Mom. I knew something was wrong … but you and Dad said there was nothing to worry about.”
“I’m sorry, Clark. Maybe we should have told you … but at the time, it seemed like the right decision.”
Clark put his head down, his mind racing.
My fault. It’s my fault. I was too much of a mess after the Games for them to tell me something so important. If I’d hidden things better … or acted like a normal person who’s won the Games … they would have told me, and I could have gotten Dr. Greenlaw to see Dad. If I hadn’t done whatever it was I wasn’t supposed to do in the arena, Snow wouldn’t have had me flogged, and Dad wouldn’t have gotten so upset that he had a heart attack. He’d still be here.“Mom?”
“Yes, honey?”
“I’m kind of tired … I think I just want to sleep now.”
“All right, Clark.” Martha stood, pulling the quilt up to Clark’s waist. “Do you need anything before I go? Water, a morphling pill, anything else?”
Clark shook his head. “No … I’m okay. I just want to rest.”
“That’s probably the best thing for you now. In the morning, I’ll make a pallet on the porch and help you out there so you can get more sunlight, but for now, you need sleep more than anything else.”
Clark nodded, closing his eyes. He listened as his mother walked away, closing the door softly behind her.
After a while, he opened his eyes, looking at the moonlight coming through his window. Though he lay still and silent so as not to disturb his mother, for Clark, sleep was a long time in coming.
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