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Chapter Twenty-Eight

By the end of the second day, Clark thought he was feeling strong enough to return to Victor’s Village. He’d spent most of the day outside in the sunlight, coming inside only when Dr. Greenlaw had arrived to check on him and insisted that staying outside in the chilly fall air wasn’t the best thing for him.

When Dr. Greenlaw had examined Clark, he had found that he was beginning to heal — somewhat faster than expected, but then, Clark was an otherwise healthy young man. When Dr. Greenlaw had left, Martha had helped her son back outside, where he’d spent the day lying on the pallet she’d made for him, soaking up the sunlight, dozing intermittently, and trying to avoid thinking about what had happened.

By evening, Clark had decided that he was ready to make the three-mile walk back to his house. That morning, Dr. Greenlaw had said that he was progressing well enough that he wouldn’t be back unless things took a turn for the worse. That had been evidence enough for Clark that he was well enough to return to Victor’s Village. When Martha had helped him into the house late in the afternoon and changed the dressing on his back, she had admitted that he was doing better, but she still wasn’t happy at his insistence that he was ready to return to his own house.

“I think you need to stay here for at least one more night,” she told him.

“I’m a lot better, Mom,” he told her. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Martha looked at him skeptically, staring at him until Clark looked away.

“Okay, it hurts a little,” he admitted.

“More than a little, I think. If it only hurt a little, you wouldn’t have dug your nails into the headboard so hard you left marks when I was putting the new dressing on.”

“I’m just … getting my strength back,” Clark insisted. “I’m okay, Mom, and I need to go back to my house.”

“It won’t hurt you to stay here another night.”

“What if someone checks?”

“Haver told you that the Peacekeepers seldom check to see whether the victors spend their nights at home. Besides, I’m sure what happened is all over town by now, and the Peacekeepers are well aware of how long it takes to heal from a flogging.”

“Mom, I can’t stay here! I’m … I’m back in the public eye, and if Snow thinks I’m defying him, he might …”

“He’s the one who had you flogged. Besides, he left District 9 yesterday. He isn’t here to watch you.”

“The Peacekeepers can report to him if I don’t do what I’m supposed to. I’m not going to risk your life — or anyone else’s — by staying here another night.”

“You’re not ready to move.”

“Yes, I am. I’m not a child, Mom. I have to do what needs to be done.”

“Trying to walk three miles when you can barely make it across the room isn’t smart.”

“I’m an adult, Mom, with my own house. You can’t stop me.”

Martha looked angrily at him. “No, legally I can’t stop you from doing whatever you want, even if it’s likely to leave you lying in the road, unable to move and easy prey for any animal that’s tunneled under the district fence!”

“Mom, I’m fine. I can make it home just fine. Nothing’s going to happen to me!”

“Clark, you’re not invulnerable right now! You may be healing faster than a normal person, but you’re not completely healed yet — far from it, in fact! Your back is a mass of scabs, with just a little new skin starting to appear. I’ll agree that the cut above your eye and most of your bruises have healed, but you’re still not ready to go home!”

“I’ll take the mare and bring her back in the morning. I should be completely better by then.”

“If you’re completely better in the morning, you can go home.”

“I have to go back tonight! You don’t know what Snow is capable of doing if I defy him!”

“I think I have a fair idea,” Martha told him, “but right now, you need to recover from what he already had done to you.”

“Mom, I have to go now. There’s still a little light left.”

“If you leave now, it’ll still be dark by the time you get to Victor’s Village — if you get there. We’ll discuss this further after dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.” Clark crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Martha defiantly.

“If you’re not hungry, then you definitely aren’t ready to leave. I’ve never known you to lose your appetite, except for when Kryptonite made you sick.”

“Mom!” Clark could smell the food cooking, making his resolve weaken. “Fine!” he grumbled. “I’ll eat dinner first — but I’m eating at the table.”

“That’s fine. Dinner should be ready in a few minutes.”

Clark was annoyed to find that he was weaker than he’d thought — walking from his bedroom to the table took more energy than he expected. He wasn’t about to admit it to his mother, though.

Martha wasn’t fooled by Clark’s pretense that he was fine. She didn’t miss how he gritted his teeth in pain when he leaned back in his chair and after that sat forward, nor did she miss how hungry he was. Clark had always been capable of eating everything on his plate, no matter how much he was served, but he didn’t usually look for more. He didn’t need as much food as other people, and he understood that what they did have needed to be conserved.

When Clark was recovering from Kryptonite poisoning, however, he needed a lot of food to make up for the energy his body had expended keeping him alive. Martha could only imagine what torture it had been for her son in the arena when he was recovering from being exposed to the District 1 girl’s token — there had been so little food available, though he’d done his best to make up for it by staying in the sun as much as possible.

There was plenty to eat at the Kent farmhouse, however, and although Clark had eaten good-sized meals at breakfast and lunch that day, he still needed extra food — not only was he recovering from Kryptonite poisoning, but his body was working hard to heal the severe injuries he’d received when he was flogged. He ate everything on his plate, everything left in the pots on the stove, the stale leftover cornbread, a quart of fresh milk, several chunks of cheese, two apples, and three chocolate bars from his parents’ October parcel before he decided he was full.

Martha watched him eat with a hint of amusement. She was well-aware of how much teenage boys and young men could eat when given the chance — she’d grown up with three brothers, and Jonathan had been only nineteen when they’d married — but Clark, when he was truly hungry, put them all to shame.

Clark looked away, a bit embarrassed, when he saw his mother watching him. His eyes fell on the third chair at the table, which was conspicuously empty.

Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to get out of there. Every place Clark looked reminded him of his father, something he couldn’t handle at the moment. The house in Victor’s Village held far fewer memories — he’d been living there for less than two months, and had seldom stayed there long enough to do more than sleep, anyway.

“I … ah … I’ll help you with the dishes, and then I’ll head for home,” Clark told his mother.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Martha told him. “You need to go lie down and get some rest. I saw how hard it was for you to walk across the room.”

“I’m fine, Mom, and I’ve had plenty of rest.” Clark got to his feet, wobbling slightly. He straightened, trying to look like he was strong enough to make his way home.

“If you’re better in the morning, you can go home. Right now, though, you need to lie down and let your back heal.” When Clark hesitated, Martha added, “You don’t even have a shirt on, and it’s chilly out there.”

“I’ll borrow one of Dad’s shirts.”

“Tomorrow, if you’re better, you can have one of your father’s shirts. Right now, you need to go lie down. I can take care of the dishes myself.”

“Mom, you don’t understand!”

“I understand perfectly,” Martha told him, finally starting to break down as, with tears in her eyes, she said, “I understand that I lost my husband yesterday, and now my only son is determined to go for a walk that might kill him.”

“It’s not like that, Mom!” Steeling himself against his mother’s tears, Clark crossed his arms over his chest. “I have to go back to Victor’s Village. I have to follow the rules. The lives of you and a lot of other people depend on it!”

“And what will happen to us if you collapse by the side of the road and die? As long as you’re alive, President Snow will keep us alive as leverage. If you die …”

Clark shook his head. “After the flogging, Snow told me that if I disobeyed him again, someone else — maybe you, maybe one of my friends or mentors, maybe a complete stranger — would be flogged and then executed or made into an Avox. I don’t know what it was I did, but I do know I can’t afford to take any chances!” He turned and headed for the door, trying to ignore how weak he still felt.

“Clark.” Martha caught up to him easily and grasped his arm to stop him. “You can’t walk home. You’ll never make it.”

“I survived the Hunger Games, Mom. I can survive a three-mile walk in District 9.”

“You weren’t this badly injured in the Games … and most of the time, you weren’t alone.”

“I’ve roamed all over District 9 at night. I was fine.”

“That was when you were healthy and uninjured. And even then, you sometimes found predators or large farm animals roaming loose, or people trying to harm one another.”

“Mom —“

Martha put up a hand to stop him. “Since you’re so determined to come back to your house, I’ll take you. I’ll walk over to the Irigs to get the truck and give you a ride home. Then I’ll stay with you until you’re better. Most of the fall work is done, so I’ll go home in the morning and evening to take care of the animals, then come back to you.”

Clark leaned against the doorjamb, a look of relief on his face. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll do the dishes while you go get the truck.”

“I want you to lie down and rest. You may be healing faster than most people who were flogged, but you’re still nowhere near recovered. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Mom, I can —“

Martha pointed in the direction of Clark’s room. “Now, Clark.”

“I can help …”

“You’ve been plenty of help since you came home, and you’ll be plenty of help again when you’re better, but for now, you need to rest and concentrate on healing.”

Clark thought for a moment, then nodded, moving slowly in the direction of his bedroom. He didn’t like admitting how much it had taken out of him just to get up for dinner. He probably would not have been able to make it back to Victor’s Village on foot, and even riding a horse it would have been an iffy prospect.

He was frustrated with how long it was taking to recover. He’d never been so seriously injured before, and he was unused to even being able to be injured. He’d been invulnerable — or close to it — from the time he was thirteen, except for when he’d been exposed to Kryptonite. He hated feeling so weak and helpless — he was used to being able to lift anything, to running for miles in a fraction of a second, to flying — and barely being able to make it across a room on his own was a painful reminder that he wasn’t invincible. It also brought home to him the fact that no matter how strong and powerful he was, Snow had more power, and could destroy him and everyone he cared about in the blink of an eye.

*****

An hour later, Martha parked the truck in front of Clark’s house in Victor’s Village. She got out and hurried around to the passenger side to help her son.

Although the journey by truck had been easier than walking or riding a horse would have been, Clark had still found it uncomfortable. He hadn’t been able to sit back against the seat because of the pain in his back, so he had been jostled and bounced every time the truck hit a rough spot. Martha had driven slowly and carefully, but the dirt road was rutted and full of potholes, and many were so large as to be unavoidable.

Clark got out of the truck slowly and carefully. With Martha’s assistance, he made his way to the front door of the house — then froze, realizing something.

When he had left the house the previous morning, he had placed the key under the flowerpot. Now it was lying on the doormat.

Slowly and painfully, Clark bent down and picked up the key. He looked from it to the lock, wondering who had used it. If it was someone in need of shelter, he didn’t mind, but if it was Snow and the Peacekeepers …

“Is everything okay?”

Clark and Martha looked up at the sound of Haver’s voice. The older victor was standing on his front porch, having been alerted to their presence by the sound of the truck. Sid and Matilda were there as well, also looking concerned.

“Did anyone come into the house while I was gone?” Clark asked.

Haver shifted uncomfortably. “It was the first place Snow and the Peacekeepers looked for you. When you didn’t answer their knocks on the door, one of the Peacekeepers found the key and went inside. When they still didn’t find you, they started questioning us.”

“I’m sorry,” Clark told him. “I didn’t know they were coming.”

“It’s not your fault,” Haver replied, “and when the Peacekeepers come to question or arrest someone, they don’t usually say anything ahead of time. If they did, they’d have a hard time catching people.”

It is my fault, Clark thought, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he cautiously put the key in the lock.

“I’m surprised to see you back here so soon,” Haver remarked. “I would have thought you’d have stayed at the farm for a few more days.”

“I had to get back,” Clark said. “I can’t risk getting into trouble by not sleeping here.”

Haver shook his head. “The Peacekeepers know what happened. They do make allowances for things like this, especially now that Thread isn’t here to rile them up. Besides, like I said, they seldom check. Nothing much happens here, and if they do come around, it’s usually a thinly disguised excuse to get some magic grass.”

Clark shook his head. “I can’t take any chances — not right now. Besides, I’m better than I was yesterday.”

“Not by much,” Martha said, watching how Clark supported himself against the wall.

Matilda snorted. “Men! You’re all the same. ‘I’m fine. Nothing can hurt me.’ Sid tried to tell Dr. Greenlaw that he was okay, too — but look at him. Those damned Peacekeepers —“ When both Haver and Sid gave her a warning look, Matilda shut her mouth, realizing that she shouldn’t say anymore.

“Do you need any help?” Haver asked Clark and Martha.

Martha glanced at Clark, then shook her head. “I think we’re okay for now. Clark is not as recovered as he seems to think he is, but I don’t think he’s in any danger. He just needs to rest and let himself heal, and now that he’s here, he’ll have less to worry about. I’ll go home in the morning and evening to take care of the animals, but otherwise I’m going to stay here until he’s fully recovered.”

Haver nodded. “Well, if you need anything, there should be a phone book in the study. I’m listed, and so are the Teigs, as is Dr. Greenlaw.”

“Thank you, Haver.” Martha nodded, then looked at Clark as he returned his attention to the door, unlocking it and pushing it open.

As soon as Martha and Clark stepped inside, they recoiled at the strong smell of muttation roses. The living room door was propped open and the scent was emanating from there.

A large bouquet of unnaturally sweet roses sat in a vase on a table in the living room. It would have been beautiful had it not been for the fact that many of the roses were in colors never found in nature — and those had the strongest scent.

A note was propped against the vase. Picking it up, Clark scanned it quickly.

Mr. Kent,

I do hope you enjoy the flowers. They are among the rarest in existence,
much like yourself, and like yourself, I know their secrets and control them.
You’ll never know where you might find them, but it could be anywhere.

They are, of course, yours to do with as you please, but I suggest you add
them to the funeral bouquets you will soon be purchasing. They will serve
as a fitting memorial and, perhaps, a reminder to you.

President Coriolanus Snow



Clark stared at the bouquet for a moment, rage growing within him. It wasn’t enough that Snow had had him flogged and refused to tell him why, or that he’d threatened everyone Clark cared about. It wasn’t even enough that the strain of seeing Clark so badly hurt had led to Jonathan Kent’s death.

Snow would not allow Clark to forget for a moment that, in spite of his superhuman strength and abilities, he was helpless against the Capitol’s power and could be used as Panem’s president saw fit. Snow could find him anywhere — no place was safe. Even his house, with locks on its doors, wasn’t secure.

Clark suspected that even if he had taken the key with him, Snow still would have gone inside the house. The Capitol assigned the houses to victors and gave them the keys — which meant that officials like Snow could get copies of the keys if they wanted. The fact that the key had been left on the doormat instead of under the flowerpot was almost certainly not accidental — it had been done to show Clark just how insecure he was. Had he taken the key with him to the farm, something else would have been done to show him that people had been in the house — perhaps the door would have been left ajar, or a window left open.

Martha took the note from Clark and read it, her eyes widening. Clark stared for a moment longer at the bouquet. Then he grabbed the vase off the table, throwing it into the large stone fireplace. The glass shattered, water and roses spilling across the hearth.

Clark yanked his glasses off and flung them onto the table, the single surviving lens cracking. He focused on the foul-smelling blossoms, trying to set them on fire.

Nothing happened.

Frustrated, Clark concentrated, trying to use his heat vision, but it was no use. Between the Kryptonite exposure and his injuries, his unusual abilities were absent, and there was no way of knowing when they might return.

Furious, Clark gave up trying to burn the roses and instead stomped on them, grinding them into the stone hearth. Ordinarily, he would have been able to pulverize the flowers easily, crushing them into an unrecognizable pulp, but now they just broke, the bruised and crushed petals releasing an even stronger smell. Pain flared in his back, but he went on stomping the roses, leaning against the mantel for support.

“Clark! Stop!” Martha tugged at his arm, finally drawing him away from the fireplace and toward the couch.

Clark sat down, swiping at the tears on his cheeks, dimly aware that he was sobbing. Martha sat beside him, gently pulling his head down to rest on her shoulder.

“Useless … couldn’t do anything … can’t even burn those damned roses …”

“You will,” Martha told him quietly. “Things will get better.” She bit her lip, fighting back tears. Right now, Clark needed her to be strong.

“No … Matilda’s right. Things never get easier. I can’t help anyone … can’t save anyone. Not Dad, not Becky … not Lois. I can do so many things, but … it’s never enough.”

“You’ve helped a lot of people, Clark, even if they didn’t know it, and you made your father’s and my lives so much richer and happier than they would have been otherwise. From the moment we found you in that rocket, I knew you were meant to be our son. Your dad was so proud of you — you grew up to be a fine young man. Even in the arena, you tried to do what was right. No one could have saved Becky — she was too far gone — but you made her last days much happier than they would have been otherwise. You did everything you could for Lois. And as to your father — you didn’t choose to be flogged. It isn’t your fault that he was forced to witness it, and it isn’t your fault that he had a heart attack.”

“It is my fault, Mom,” Clark told Martha. “I did something that made Snow angry, something I wasn’t supposed to do — but I’ll be damned if I can figure out what!” Clark wrapped his arms around his mother. “I’m sorry, Mom, and I’ll never stop being sorry.”

Martha shook her head, not knowing what to say. Clark blamed himself, and she didn’t know how to change his mind.

After a moment’s thought, Martha said, “You can burn those roses — even without heat vision. I’ll get some tinder and kindling, and you can light the match.”

Clark nodded, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Martha stood, walking slowly toward the fireplace. She took a stick from the pile of wood beside the hearth and gingerly pushed the roses into the fireplace, then started setting the tinder and kindling atop them.

Clark was more than happy to set the fire, and together they stood and watched the unnatural blossoms burn.

When the flowers had been reduced to ashes and only a few small embers still burned in the fireplace, they went back to the couch. Clark held the small family portrait that he had used as a token in the arena in his hand. Since Jonathan had insisted he keep it after the Games, Clark had placed it on top of the mantel. It was one of the few personal items he had added to the house.

“Dad told me to keep this,” Clark told Martha, “because I carried it through the Games. He said that after the harvest was over, we could get a new family portrait taken, but we never got around to it — and now it’s never going to happen.”

Martha looked at the portrait, remembering the day it had been taken. Clark had just turned twelve and was eligible for the Reaping, and in spite of the cost, she and Jonathan had decided to have a family portrait taken so they would have something to remember Clark by if he was taken from them. Clark had a wide grin in the photo, while Jonathan and Martha, more aware of the seriousness of Clark’s twelfth birthday than their son, had been more somber, their smiles tempered by the knowledge that their only child could be taken from them and killed for the Capitol’s entertainment.

“No,” Martha said. “No, we’ll never have another family portrait like this one taken, though you and I can take one together. I wish we’d made the time for a new one — this is the most recent picture of our family, and a lot has changed since you were twelve.” She dug into her pocket for a handkerchief, wiping her eyes.

“Everything has changed,” Clark agreed, putting his arms around his mother.

They sat there for a long time, each lost in their own thoughts as they remembered the man who had been a husband, a father, and a friend to so many people.

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