Chapter Twenty-Five
Over the next few weeks, Clark tried to get back into the normal rhythm of life in District 9. But, it sure wasn’t easy.
Clark had hoped that once the Capitolites left, taking their constant reminders of the Games with them, he would be able to sleep more peacefully at night and work easily alongside his parents and neighbors during the day as he had all his life. Unfortunately, their absence brought the opposite effect.
The nightmares continued unabated, even growing worse after the Capitolites departed. Clark feared that now that he was no longer in the public eye, the people in the Capitol would lose interest in him, allowing President Snow and anyone else who might have plans for him to go ahead without risk of outcry. Horrific images filled Clark’s dreams, images of his family and friends murdered, tortured, or turned into Avoxes. Sometimes he dreamed that they’d been thrown into the arena he had survived to be torn apart by exploding mines, burned alive, attacked by wild beasts — or killed by Clark himself as the viewers in the Capitol cheered.
Almost inevitably, Clark would awaken from these dreams with a crash as he fell from whatever spot he had floated to. After landing on and breaking several pieces of furniture, some of which were damaged beyond repair, he moved everything but the bed out of the room. He was still awakened abruptly by falling, but the floor was well-built enough that he didn’t do much damage by landing on it, and if he fell on the bed, he just bounced.
Clark tried tucking himself in tightly enough that he wouldn’t float, but this backfired when he panicked at the feeling of being confined and fought his way free, sometimes tearing or punching holes in the bedding when he did so. He mended it himself, though his mother would have been happy to do it for him and would have done a better job. Bringing his torn sheets and blankets to her would have brought questions, and he didn’t want to talk about his nightmares. It was bad enough that his parents were concerned over whether he was getting enough rest; he didn’t want them to know how violent and disturbing his dreams were, or the
reasons for them.
Things were somewhat easier during the day, but not like they had been before the Games. It was harvest season, so there was plenty of work to be done, and Clark worked alongside his parents and neighbors as he had done all his life, but it felt different now. His neighbors regarded him with a kind of cautious awe — he was one of the few people they had known who had survived the Hunger Games — and a certain amount of bewilderment, not understanding why someone who possessed such wealth would want to do the hard work of harvesting the crops.
As had been the case throughout Clark’s life, the Kents worked cooperatively with the four closest neighboring farms to bring in the harvest. The Irigs, Rosses, Langs, and Harrises all worked as a group to bring in the crops on each family’s farm. Starting with whichever family’s crop was most ready for harvesting, the five families would meet each day and work together to gather it in. The extra hands made the work go more quickly, and everyone brought some food to share, so the noon and evening meals were taken as a group. It was a chance for everyone to get together and added an element of fun to what would otherwise be a tedious task.
Clark found it awkward to work with the Harrises. Rachel avoided him as best she could, though it was difficult. He wondered what she might have said to her family about him, although if it was derogatory, none ever mentioned it. Rachel’s parents treated him somewhat coolly — he had, after all, broken their daughter’s heart — but Clark soon guessed that Rachel had valued their former friendship enough not to say anything that would tear him down in the eyes of the community.
Pete and Lana were also there with their parents and siblings — the work gatherings were one of the things that had led the four young people to become such good friends. It was easier to work with them than with Rachel’s family — not as awkward. With the cameras gone, his friends were more willing to talk to him, though it wasn’t the easy camaraderie that they’d once had. Things had changed, and Rachel would no longer join Pete and Lana if Clark was there.
Clark was tempted to ask them what Rachel had said about him, but decided to leave it alone. He was feeling lonely and isolated in his house in Victor’s Village, which no one but his parents and Rachel had taken the time to visit, and he wanted whatever friendly contact he could get, even if things were different from what they had been before the Games. It wasn’t the same, but it was something.
Though people were confused at Clark’s willingness to do the hard, exhausting work of harvesting the crops, none objected to his help. He was young, strong, and slow to tire, usually doing more than his share. The food he brought ensured that everyone had good meals at noon and at the end of the day. He was still friendly and caring, even if there was a remoteness to him that hadn’t been there before the Games.
Clark wished that the hard work would tire him out enough that he could sleep without dreaming, but that didn’t happen. Working in the sun energized him, rather than draining and exhausting him like it did everyone else. The rhythm of the work was soothing, though, and it felt good to do something that would bring life, rather than celebrate death. As Clark had told Lois before the Hunger Games began, food was something that everyone needed, and he far preferred to do work that would help fill people’s stomachs than spend his time before the cameras, pretending to be happy and proud of his accomplishments in a game that had taken twenty-three lives and left countless more people mourning the loss of their beloved children.
Though he was glad to help with the harvest, Clark sometimes had to remind himself that he was safe, that the Games were over. Far too many things reminded him of his experience. Hunting grooslings in the early morning with his father reminded him of hunting them in the arena — and of the starving mountain lion who had inadvertently revealed his invulnerability to President Snow. After he and his father collected the dead birds and brought them back to the house to prepare for eating or preserving for the winter, Clark would stare at his parents with a haunted expression on his face, wondering what Snow had planned for them if he didn’t obey.
When Jonathan or Martha saw him looking at them like that, they would ask him what was wrong, but Clark always shook his head and insisted that everything was fine, sometimes mentioning that hunting wasn’t his favorite activity and he felt sorry for the birds. He could tell that they didn’t quite believe him, but they didn’t push him.
Clark was often startled by loud or unexpected noises, and would freeze, using his superhearing to listen for any signs of danger. His parents began keeping a close eye on him when they were working with their neighbors, fearing that he would inadvertently reveal his extraordinary abilities. They also learned to keep enough distance between themselves and their son at such times that he couldn’t unintentionally lash out and injure them — at one point Clark, startled by his father’s tap on his shoulder, whirled around and knocked the scythe from the older man’s hand, separating the blade from the handle and sending both flying a fair distance. People had stared at them in shock, though Jonathan had made an excuse about the scythe being worn-out to explain the fact that it had come apart. Fortunately, the pieces of the tool hadn’t flown so far as to raise questions about how Clark had managed to throw it such a distance — he’d managed to restrain himself at the last moment, protecting his father from injury and protecting himself from having his unusual strength noticed.
Clark was embarrassed by the incident, but it didn’t stop him from being startled by sounds that previously wouldn’t have bothered him.
I’m home. I’m safe, he told himself over and over, but he didn’t quite believe it. He knew that people were staring at him, whispering about him — he could hear every word, despite his attempts to block it out — but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from overreacting. Even when his superhearing picked up on something that actually was dangerous — a rattlesnake coiled in the wheat field, directly in the path of his father’s friend Wayne Irig, the buzz of its rattle drowned out by the sound of the scythes cutting the grass — Clark still felt foolish for reacting as he did.
*****
Things came to a head one morning two weeks after Clark returned home to District 9. Clark was helping his father with the chores, forking down hay for the livestock, when he uncovered a nest of rats. In the early morning sunlight coming through the window, the light brown creatures bore a strong resemblance to the venomous muttations that had been sent to attack him in the arena. When he heard Jonathan coughing from below — something the older man had been doing more and more often since Clark had returned from the Games — something in Clark snapped. In his mind, he was once again in the arena, fighting the unnatural animals created by the Capitol to punish him for showing compassion to Becky.
The first stab of Clark’s pitchfork wiped out most of the rats. The few survivors scattered, running in panic. Clark was too fast for them. In a flash, he grabbed two of them and crushed them in his hands, then threw a third against the wall of the hayloft. Tossing his glasses aside, Clark used his X-ray vision to look through the hay for more. In less than a minute, half a dozen more rats and several mice were skewered on the pitchfork, and a black widow spider, the only venomous creature actually in the hayloft, had been wrapped in her own web and crushed between Clark’s fingers.
“Clark! What’s going on up there?” Jonathan called, hearing the noise coming from the hayloft.
Clark heard him, but only vaguely, as though in a dream. With a final stab of his pitchfork, he killed one more rat — and also broke through the floor of the loft. With a crash, two floorboards, half a ton of hay, the pitchfork, several dead rodents, and Clark fell to the barn floor.
Clark didn’t think to use his ability to fly to slow his descent, so he landed hard. Though he wasn’t hurt, the fall jarred him from his panicked thoughts, returning him to reality. He sat up, shaking his head and looking around.
“Clark! Are you okay?” Jonathan hurried over to his son.
“I … uh … yes, of course I’m okay. Falling doesn’t hurt me.”
“You don’t usually fall.”
Clark thought of a number of times recently that he’d fallen while sleeping, but didn’t mention them. Instead, he said, “I must have hit the hayloft floor too hard with the pitchfork. I’ll fix it before we go over to the Langs’ farm.”
Jonathan looked at Clark skeptically, his eyes landing on the pitchfork on the floor beside him. Half a dozen rats and mice were skewered on it. The sticky remains of the spider web — and the crushed spider — still clung to Clark’s hand. His hands were bloody from crushing the rats, and more blood had spattered on his face and clothes.
“What’s that all about?” Jonathan asked.
Clark stared silently at the pitchfork for a moment, then answered, “Well … um … there were some rats up there — and some mice — and I didn’t want them to contaminate the hay. A-and there was a black widow — they can be dangerous.”
“So … instead of setting traps for the rodents, you skewered them on your pitchfork — and, from the looks of it, crushed them with your bare hands — thereby getting blood everywhere, which also contaminates the hay.” Jonathan looked at his son. “Clark, what —“
“I’ll clean it up.” Before Jonathan could say another word, Clark grabbed the pitchfork and flew through the hole in the hayloft floor. Faster than the eye could see, he cleaned up the dead rodents and the blood-stained hay and flew the whole mess out to a patch of dry, bare ground. Using his heat vision, he incinerated the hay and rodents, then blew the ashes away.
A few minutes later, Clark returned to the barn. He’d stopped at the faucet outside the barn and scrubbed off the blood, making himself somewhat more presentable. Putting on a smile that was a little too bright and cheerful, he walked over to where Jonathan was tossing hay into the stalls.
“I think there’s enough hay down here now,” he told his father. “I’ll take care of the stalls in the other half of the barn.”
“Clark.” Jonathan looked at him seriously. “What happened up there?”
Clark’s smile faded slightly, but he was determined to keep up the pretense that nothing was wrong. “I got rid of some rodents. That’s all. They won’t get into the feed anymore.”
“For someone who feels sorry for the rodents that get caught in traps, you sure seemed eager to kill them.”
Clark’s smile disappeared. “They’re gone, okay?! That’s what matters!” Sullenly, he picked up a large armload of hay and walked to the other side of the barn, trying not to think of what had just happened.
The incident had scared him. Logically, Clark knew that the rats and mice in the hayloft were just that — ordinary rodents, not muttations. For a brief time, however, he hadn’t been able to tell the difference. All he’d seen were the unnatural, venomous creatures that had attacked him and his fellow tributes, ultimately killing Lumen and Mayson and forcing Clark to put Lois out of her misery. For those few minutes in the hayloft, all Clark had wanted to do was destroy the muttations, even though they weren’t real.
He’d been completely out of control — and that was something he could never afford to be. He was too strong, too powerful, too dangerous. He was just grateful that it hadn’t occurred to him to use his heat vision — had he set the hayloft on fire, the whole barn would have gone up in flames.
Thinking about his heat vision reminded Clark that he’d tossed his glasses aside. When he retrieved them, he found that he had cracked one lens, but he had done that enough times before that it took him only a moment to repair it. Floating back down to the barn floor, he resumed his work, avoiding looking at Jonathan, who was watching him with concern.
“Clark, have I ever told you about my grandfather — your great-grandfather — who fought in the war during the Dark Days?”
Clark looked at Jonathan in confusion. “Uh … I don’t think so …”
“The Capitol couldn’t destroy everyone who fought against them — that would have left no one to do the work — so he and a lot of others were allowed to return home after the districts were defeated. He was a good man, well-respected in the community — but there were times when he’d find the memories from the war overwhelming. He never talked about it much, but sometimes — not often, just once in a while — something would happen to remind him, and it would be like he was back in the war. I never quite understood it, but I think my grandmother did. She lived through the Dark Days, and though she didn’t fight in the war, she knew what it meant to live through a time where there was no safe place and no way to be sure that you or anyone else would survive through the day. She told me once that sometimes things happen that are very hard to forget, and that I should hope I never had to experience them. They both died before your mother and I found you, but I’ve never forgotten what my grandmother said. It’s too bad they’re not here anymore — I think you would have liked them.”
Clark finished putting the hay in the stalls and leaned his pitchfork against the wall. He looked at Jonathan, understanding what he was saying.
“Haver said that only a victor can understand another victor … maybe it’s sort of the same thing. It’s hard to understand something you haven’t lived through.”
Jonathan nodded. “Your mother and I haven’t been through what you have, but if you ever want to talk, we’ll listen.”
Clark looked down. He didn’t know if he could ever talk to his parents about the Games — they’d seen it, of course, but they hadn’t been there. Mostly, he just wanted the memories to go away, though he knew they wouldn’t. In time, they might fade a little, might be pushed into the background as new experiences brought new memories, but for now they were too fresh in his mind.
“Sure, Dad,” he finally said. “But … please don’t tell Mom about … that.” He pointed to the gap in the floor of the hayloft. “I … I don’t want to scare her.”
Jonathan looked at Clark searchingly for a moment before nodding. “I won’t say anything.” He turned toward the door, then looked back at his son. “Breakfast should be ready by now. Are you coming?”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Clark said. “I think I should repair the hayloft first. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes.” He followed Jonathan to the door, heading in the direction of the tool shed. Before he walked away, he turned to his father for a moment. “Dad … thanks.”
“I think you’ll be okay, son. Just give it time.”
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