Chapter Thirty
In the days following Jonathan’s funeral, Clark and Martha tried to put their lives back together and go on without him. For the first couple of days, there were other things to focus on, as Clark’s house in Victor’s Village was crowded with the members of the extended Kent family, making for a bittersweet family reunion.
Jonathan’s relatives couldn’t stay for long, though. All of them were farmers, and even this late in the year, there was still work to be done and animals to tend to, and they could only ask their neighbors to take care of their farms for them for so long. By the morning of the third day after the funeral, the last of them had left.
With the Kents gone, the house in Victor’s Village felt bigger and emptier than ever, and Clark dreaded the moment when his mother would move back to the farm. He was completely healed from the flogging—by the end of the day of his father’s funeral, the last of the lingering discomfort had disappeared, and the physical scars had disappeared by the following morning, making it appear that the flogging had never taken place.
Once everyone had left except Martha, who had decided to stay for a few more days for the sake of both her son and herself, Clark allowed himself to get some sleep, something he hadn’t permitted himself to do while his house was full of guests for fear that they would see him floating. His rest was short-lived, though, as he was soon awakened by his most terrifying nightmare yet, one that sent him crashing through the window of his bedroom and to the ground two stories below.
Martha was in the kitchen when she heard the sound of breaking glass and looked through the window to see Clark tumble to the ground. Dumping the bread dough she was kneading back into the bowl, she hurried out the front door and around the side of the house, stopping about fifteen feet from her uninjured but disoriented son in case he lashed out.
Clark sat up, looking around in bewilderment when he found himself on the ground amongst shards of broken glass. He looked up at his mother’s concerned face and shook his head to bring himself back to reality.
“Clark, what happened?” Martha approached him cautiously.
He looked around, still a bit disoriented from the dream and from waking up in such an unexpected place. Shaking his head again, he said, “I don’t know.” Slowly, he got to his feet, brushing away the bits of glass that clung to his clothes.
Clark looked up at the shattered window and down at the pieces of broken glass. Looking at Martha, he finally said, “I think I was floating in my sleep. I must have flown straight into the window.”
“Another nightmare?” Martha asked. Since Jonathan’s death, Clark had been having a lot of nightmares.
Clark shrugged, looking away. “Yeah.” He hated the fact that his nightmares disturbed his mother — she had enough on her mind without having to deal with his bad dreams, too.
Martha stepped forward, giving Clark a hug. “After what happened, it’s understandable that you’re having some nightmares. Just give it time, honey. They’ll go away eventually.”
Absently, Clark hugged her back. “Sure, Mom.” He hadn’t told her about the nightmares he’d been having since he came out of the arena, and he didn’t intend to. Those nightmares had only grown more intense and frightening since his father’s death, and he had no idea what to do or how to stop them. He looked up again at the broken window. “I wish I couldn’t fly.”
Martha’s heart broke for Clark at his words. Ever since he’d discovered that he could fly, it had been one of his favorite activities. Clark loved being able to take off into the sky, to explore without the bonds of gravity that kept everyone else attached to the ground. Flying had always been a joy for him, but now, because his nightmares made him float in his sleep and sent him crashing to the ground, the ability to fly was bringing him nothing but misery.
Fortunately for Clark, no one but Martha had seen him fall out the window. His bedroom window faced away from his neighbors’ houses, and by the time they and the groundskeeper came over the investigate the sound of breaking glass, Clark and Martha were both staring up at the broken window and trying to decide what to do.
Haver was the first to arrive. He looked at the broken glass scattered on the ground, then up at the window. “What happened?” he asked, looking at Clark and Martha in concern.
Clark thought quickly. He couldn’t reveal what had actually happened — a normal person was entirely capable of falling or jumping out a second-story window, but they would almost certainly be injured if they did so.
“Uh … it was a bird,” he told Haver. “A bird flew into the window and broke it.”
Haver looked up at the window, then back at Clark. Plenty of birds flew into windows, but they were seldom capable of breaking them. Raising an eyebrow skeptically, he said, “That must have been quite a bird.”
“It was pretty big,” Clark agreed.
“Where is it now?” Haver wanted to know.
“It … ah … it flew away.”
“It hit the window hard enough to break it, then flew away?”
“Yes.” Clark looked from Haver to Martha. Both were staring at him — Haver with disbelief and Martha with worry. “It did!” he told them defensively.
“You have a piece of glass in your hair,” Haver told him.
Clark brushed at his head to get rid of it. “Clark, be careful! You’ll cut yourself!” Martha told him warningly.
Suddenly remembering that he had to hide more than his ability to fly from Haver, Clark stopped, looking at his hand. “I’m okay,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t hurt myself.”
Before either Martha or Haver could respond, Sid came slowly around the corner of the house on his crutches. “What happened?” he asked anxiously. “Was it Peacekeepers?”
Clark shook his head. “No. Just a bird.”
“A bird?” Sid looked at the broken window, then back at Clark. “What kind of bird can break a window?”
“Um …” Clark tried to think of a bird that would be big enough to do so much damage. “A groosling.”
“A
groosling?” Sid looked at Clark disbelievingly. “How did a groosling get up there? They can’t fly.”
“I … uh …” Clark looked from the two men to the broken window.
Martha turned away as though looking for something. “Stop,” she whispered to Clark. “You’re digging yourself into a hole.”
At that moment, the groundskeeper came through the back gate of the yard and around the corner of the house. Looking at the glass on the ground and the broken window above, he asked, half-jokingly, “Did someone jump out the window?”
Clark gritted his teeth. “It was a bird!” he told the groundskeeper.
“A
bird?” the groundskeeper asked. “What were you doing with a bird that size in the house? Not that it’s forbidden, mind you, but —“
“It was
outside,” Clark told him. “It flew into the window …”
The groundskeeper looked at the amount of glass on the ground and the way some of the shards in the window pointed outward. “No … the window was definitely broken from inside.”
Clark shook his head. “No,” he insisted. “It broke from the outside.”
“It was a groosling,” Haver added, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “It broke the window and flew away.”
“Grooslings can’t fly …” The groundskeeper trailed off as he looked at everyone. Shaking his head, he said, “Never mind. I’ll clean this glass up and fix the window.” He had long since learned that victors could be a bit odd, and it was best not to ask too many questions — or to say too much to one’s superiors about them.
When the groundskeeper had left to get his tools and a container for the glass, Sid looked at Clark, still a bit anxious, and said, “You’re sure it wasn’t a Peacekeeper who broke the window?” He saw no reason why Clark would try to protect the Peacekeepers if they were responsible for the damage, but after the visit from Snow and the Peacekeepers the week before, he wanted to be sure.
Clark looked at Sid strangely, wondering why he was so afraid that a Peacekeeper had broken the window. Like Haver had said, they seldom came to Victor’s Village, and he saw no reason why they would break windows — if anything got broken, it was most likely to be doors.
“No, it wasn’t a Peacekeeper,” Clark told Sid. “I haven’t seen one of them around here since the day of the funeral.”
Sid looked relieved. “I wanted to be sure,” he said. “Last week, when Snow and the Peacekeepers came to Victor’s Village looking for you, one of them broke a window in our house when Matilda and I didn’t open the door quickly enough.”
Clark gave Sid an astonished look. “Wouldn’t it have made more sense for them to just break down the door?”
“Matilda was injured by breaking glass during her Games,” Haver explained, “when her last opponent burst through an old, cracked window in their urban arena. She barely survived that last fight, and since then, few things can scare her more than breaking glass. I’m sure Snow is well aware of that.”
Sid nodded. “And now, in addition to that, Matilda’s terrified that the Peacekeepers and Snow will come back. When she heard the glass break, she grabbed a knife and hid under the kitchen table. She didn’t want me to go investigate, but she wasn’t willing to come out from under the table to try to stop me.”
Haver shook his head. “We’ve all been a bit jumpy since that day. Do you want me to help you talk her out from under the table?”
Sid grimaced, but nodded. “Would you? Sometimes she’ll listen to you when she won’t listen to me. You can move a bit faster than me, too, if she starts swinging that knife.”
“Would it help if I talked to her?” Clark asked. “That day your window got broken … they were looking for me, so maybe if I talked to her and she saw that I was there and okay …”
Plus, he thought,
if she tries to stab me, I’ll probably be able to avoid the knife, and it can’t hurt me anyway.Sid looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he told Clark. “Matilda feels guilty about betraying you to Snow, and if you were to show up when she’s in this state … well … I’m not sure what she’d do.”
“She did it to save you. The Peacekeepers would have killed you if she hadn’t.”
Sid nodded his head. “They probably would have, but that doesn’t make her feel any better. Maybe you don’t know this, because you’re so new to being a victor, but there’s something of a code of loyalty amongst victors. They don’t betray each other or tell the world each other’s secrets — and that loyalty is especially strong between victors from the same district.”
“I know,” Clark told him, “and I was angry at first that she’d told Snow and the Peacekeepers where to find me — though they would probably have figured it out sooner or later. The location of the Kent farm isn’t exactly a secret. When I saw you, though, I knew why she’d done it, and I forgave her. I … might have done the same thing.”
“You might want to tell her that,” Haver interjected, “but not when she’s like this. Speaking of which …” He looked at Sid. “We should probably try to get her out from under the table before she decides to come out on her own and go looking for the person who broke the glass.”
“She occasionally flashes back to the arena,” Sid explained to Clark, “even after thirteen years, especially after something happens to upset her. Mostly she’s fine, but sometimes something happens to trigger those old memories, and it’s like she’s back in the arena. Unfortunately, that sometimes means she feels she has to defend herself. She’s never harmed anyone, so far as I know, but it’s best not to take that risk.”
Clark nodded understandingly, remembering the morning he’d gone after the rats in the hayloft. He’d never mentioned it to anyone — only his father had known about it — but he knew exactly what Sid was saying and empathized with Matilda. It was disheartening to know that the memories of the arena could still cause so much pain after so many years, but he did understand, as only a fellow victor could, what she was going through.
Sid turned awkwardly on his crutches, heading towards the corner of the house. “Wait for me out front; I’ll be along in just a moment,” Haver told him. When Sid had disappeared around the side of the house, Haver glanced at Martha, then turned to Clark and said quietly, “I know it’s been rough for you since you became a victor, especially with you losing your dad. If you ever want to talk, have a beer or two, watch sports from the Capitol on television or anything, just come by.”
Martha nodded approvingly, but Clark shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t jump out the window,” Clark told Haver. “I’m fine.”
Haver looked at Clark, at the bits of glass still clinging to his shirt. Clark didn’t appear to be injured in any way, but Haver didn’t believe his story about a groosling breaking the window for a minute, and he was reasonably certain that the groundskeeper was right — the window had broken from the inside. Something didn’t add up, but Haver wasn’t sure what it was.
“A person can get pretty isolated in one of these houses,” Haver told Clark. “The offer stands — come by anytime.” With that, he turned and followed Sid.
As soon as Haver was out of sight, Clark focused on the wall of his house, looking through it, then through the other walls, through Haver’s house, and into Matilda and Sid’s house, ready to rush over and help if need be. Matilda was crouched under the kitchen table, partially concealed by the tablecloth. A large, wicked-looking knife was clutched in one hand.
When Haver and Sid stepped into the kitchen, Matilda tensed, her hand tightening on the knife. Sid and Haver kept back from the table, keeping a chair between them and the frightened woman.
“Mattie?” Sid called softly. “Mattie, there’s no danger. Come on out.”
“Who’s that with you?” Matilda demanded to know.
Clark winced at her voice. He had never heard her sound so hostile.
“It’s Haver,” Sid responded.
“Prove it, you —“ Matilda spat out a long string of profanities.
“Matilda, it’s me,” Haver said. “There’s no Peacekeepers. They haven’t been here in days.”
“Why should I believe you?!” she snapped.
“Look at the floor. Do you see any feet but ours?”
“They could be hiding in the next room, or outside.”
“Why would they do that?” Sid asked.
“Because they’re —“ Matilda let loose with several more profane terms.
“I agree, but they’re not here, Mattie. No one is here except you, me, and Haver.”
“Then who broke the glass?!”
“Clark did,” Haver told her. “He was moving furniture in his house and hit the window with a chair. The groundskeeper is already fixing it.”
Clark frowned. Haver obviously didn’t believe his story about the groosling, and didn’t think Matilda would, either.
“I don’t believe you,” Matilda said.
“It’s true,” Sid told her. “Clark and his mom were doing some cleaning, taking advantage of the warm weather we’re having, and a window got broken. That’s all.”
“Then why could I hear it? That’s two doors down!”
“We were eating breakfast with the window open, remember? It’s still open.”
“Matilda, come out from under there,” Haver told her firmly. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Matilda swore at Haver and moved away from him and Sid, smacking her head on the underside of the table. She cursed loudly, then crawled out from under the table on the opposite side from the two men. Still holding the knife in a death grip, she went to the window and peered out cautiously.
When she saw nothing, Matilda came around the table. Sid and Haver scrambled out of her way, but she ignored them, listening at the kitchen door and then looking cautiously into the hallway.
When Matilda still saw nothing, she went to the front door, once again listening and then opening it cautiously. When she saw that no one was there, she stepped outside, her grip on the knife not loosening.
Only after she had walked slowly around the entire house and seen no one but the groundskeeper heading towards Clark’s house did Matilda relax. Clark continued to watch, not quite sure that she was no longer a threat, as she went towards the two men who had followed her outside.
“Mattie …” Sid approached her cautiously.
Matilda sidestepped him and went up the steps toward the porch. “I’m fine!” she snapped when Sid and Haver followed her. “There’s nothing to worry about, remember?” She stalked into the house.
“Matilda, give me the knife,” Haver said, following her into the kitchen.
“Get it yourself.” Matilda slammed the tip of the knife into the kitchen table.
Clark jumped in surprise when he saw this. He looked more closely at the table, which he realized was scarred with knife marks — apparently, this wasn’t the first time Matilda had stabbed it.
“Leave me alone!” Matilda screamed, loud enough that Clark winced at the sound and even Martha looked startled. District 9’s lone female victor yanked a drawer open and pulled out a bottle of pills. “I’m fine! I don’t need your help! Either of you!” She opened the bottle and took out two small morphling tablets. “Why don’t you mind your own business?!”
“Mattie, that isn’t going to help.” Sid tried to take the pills from her, but she scurried out of his way and popped them into her mouth, washing them down with a mouthful of coffee.
Matilda slammed the pill bottle down on the table, then stalked from the room. “Just leave me alone!” She hurried up the stairs and into one of the bedrooms, throwing herself down on the bed and curling up into a fetal position.
Convinced that Matilda was no longer a threat and not wanting to spy on the Teigs any longer, Clark closed his eyes, stopping his X-ray vision. “It’s okay,” he told Martha. “She’s … calmed down now.”
As the groundskeeper came around the corner of the house, Clark turned away, heading around the corner and towards the front door. After witnessing Matilda’s terrified reaction, something he’d observed before and after his Games made sense to him. There had never been any knife sharper than a butter knife at any of the meals he’d eaten with his mentors, and now he knew why — no one wanted to risk Matilda getting hold of one. It hadn’t been a universal ban — there had been steak knives available at the lunches the tributes had eaten together, despite the risk of them turning on each other prematurely. It was victors with a history of violence that the Capitol wanted to keep sharp objects away from, lest they turn on those around them.
Clark sympathized with Matilda, but as he walked into the house and up the stairs to get his glasses, he realized that her continuing suffering from her Games, even after so many years, disturbed him on a personal level.
Would he himself still find the memories of the Games so disturbing after so many years?
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