• Название:

    The Hunger Games


  • Размер: 1.74 Мб
  • Формат: PDF
  • или
  • Сообщить о нарушении / Abuse

Установите безопасный браузер



  • Название: The Hunger Games
  • Автор: the Bat-mac

Предпросмотр документа

The Hunger Games

file:///Users/priscillahopeswann/Shared/suzanne%20collins/Suzan…ames%20(html)/Suzanne%20Collins%20-%20The%20Hunger%20Games.htm

7/24/09 12:43 PM

Page 1 of 273

The Hunger Games

7/24/09 12:43 PM

PART I
"THE TRIBUTES"

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out,
seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress.
She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she
did. This is the day of the reaping.
I prop myself up on one elbow. There’s enough light in the bedroom to see
them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother’s
file:///Users/priscillahopeswann/Shared/suzanne%20collins/Suzan…ames%20(html)/Suzanne%20Collins%20-%20The%20Hunger%20Games.htm

Page 2 of 273

The Hunger Games

7/24/09 12:43 PM

them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother’s
body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still
worn but not so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as
the primrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too.
Or so they tell me.
Sitting at Prim’s knees, guarding her, is the world’s ugliest cat. Mashed-in
nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Prim named him
Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. I le
hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still
remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home.
Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I
needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to
let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he’s a born
mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed
Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.
Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.
I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. Supple leather
that has molded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid up
into a cap, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to
protect it from hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese
wrapped in basil leaves. Prim’s gift to me on reaping day. I put the cheese
carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.
Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crawling with coal
miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women with
hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying
to scrub the coal dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces.
But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses
are closed. The reaping isn’t until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.
Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates
to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the
woods, in fact enclosing all of District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with
barbed-wire loops. In theory, it’s supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a
day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods — packs of wild dogs,
file:///Users/priscillahopeswann/Shared/suzanne%20collins/Suzan…ames%20(html)/Suzanne%20Collins%20-%20The%20Hunger%20Games.htm

Page 3 of 273

The Hunger Games

7/24/09 12:43 PM

day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods — packs of wild dogs,
lone cougars, bears — that used to threaten our streets. But since we’re lucky to
get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it’s usually safe to touch.
Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the hum that means the
fence is live. Right now, it’s silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I
flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that’s been loose for
years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to
home I almost always enter the woods here.
As soon as I’m in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a
hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the flesheaters out of District 12. Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added
concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow. But
there’s also food if you know how to find it. My father knew and he taught me
some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even
to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to
run.
Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching carries the
severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons. But most
are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted
by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods,
carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. My father could have made good
money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly
executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to
the few of us who hunt because they’re as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is.
In fact, they’re among our best customers. But the idea that someone might be
arming the Seam would never have been allowed.
In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples. But
always in sight of the Meadow. Always close enough to run back to the safety of
District 12 if trouble arises. “District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in
safety,” I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in
the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.
When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the things I would blurt
out about District 12, about the people who rule our country, Panem, from the
file:///Users/priscillahopeswann/Shared/suzanne%20collins/Suzan…ames%20(html)/Suzanne%20Collins%20-%20The%20Hunger%20Games.htm
Page 4 of 273

The Hunger Games

7/24/09 12:43 PM

out about District 12, about the people who rule our country, Panem, from the
far-off city called the Capitol. Eventually I understood this would only lead us to
more trouble. So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an
indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts. Do my work
quietly in school. Make only polite small talk in the public market. Discuss little
more than trades in the Hob, which is the black market where I make most of
my money. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky
topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games. Prim might
begin to repeat my words and then where would we be?
In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself. Gale. I can
feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to
our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects
it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Gale
says I never smile except in the woods.
“Hey, Catnip,” says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told
him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I’d said Catnip. Then when this
crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it
became his official nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because he
scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn’t bad company. But I got
a decent price for his pelt.
“Look what I shot,” Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it,
and I laugh. It’s real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our
grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in
the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with
saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.
“Mm, still warm,” I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of
dawn to trade for it. “What did it cost you?”
“Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning,”
says Gale. “Even wished me luck.”
“Well, we all feel a little closer today, don’t we?” I say, not even bothering
to roll my eyes. “Prim left us a cheese.” I pull it out.
file:///Users/priscillahopeswann/Shared/suzanne%20collins/Suzan…ames%20(html)/Suzanne%20Collins%20-%20The%20Hunger%20Games.htm

Page 5 of 273

The Hunger Games

7/24/09 12:43 PM

His expression brightens at the treat. “Thank you, Prim. We’ll have a real
feast.” Suddenly he falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Effie Trinket, the
maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the
leaping. “I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!” He plucks a few blackberries
from the bushes around us. “And may the odds —” He tosses a berry in a high
arc toward me.
I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet
tartness explodes across my tongue. “— be ever in your favor!” I finish with
equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out
of your wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds
funny in it.
I watch as Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my
brother. Straight black hair, olive skin, we even have the same gray eyes. But
we’re not related, at least not closely. Most of the families who work the mines
resemble one another this way.
That’s why my mother and Prim, with their light hair and blue eyes, always
look out of place. They are. My mother’s parents were part of the small
merchant class that caters to officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional Seam
customer. They ran an apothecary shop in the nicer part of District 12. Since
almost no one can afford doctors, apothecaries are our healers. My father got to
know my mother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal
herbs and sell them to her shop to be brewed into remedies. She must have really
loved him to leave her home for the Seam. I try to remember that when all I can
see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned
to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father’s sake. But to be honest, I’m
not the forgiving type.
Gale spreads the bread slices with the soft goat cheese, carefully placing a
basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. We settle back in a
nook in the rocks. From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the
valley, which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to dig, fish
iridescent in the sunlight. The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze.
The food’s wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the
file:///Users/priscillahopeswann/Shared/suzanne%20collins/Suzan…ames%20(html)/Suzanne%20Collins%20-%20The%20Hunger%20Games.htm

Page 6 of 273

The Hunger Games

7/24/09 12:43 PM

The food’s wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the
berries bursting in our mouths. Everything would be perfect if this really was a
holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Gale, hunting
for tonight’s supper. But instead we have to be standing in the square at two
o’clock waiting for the names to be called out.
“We could do it, you know,” Gale says quietly.
“What?” I ask.
“Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make
it,” says Gale.
I don’t know how to respond. The idea is so preposterous.
“If we didn’t have so many kids,” he adds quickly.
They’re not our kids, of course. But they might as well be. Gale’s two little
brothers and a sister. Prim. And you may as well throw in our mothers, too,
because how would they live without us? Who would fill those mouths that are
always asking for more? With both of us hunting daily, there are still nights
when game has to be swapped for lard or shoelaces or wool, still nights when
we go to bed with our stomachs growling.
“I never want to have kids,” I say.
“I might. If I didn’t live here,” says Gale.
“But you do,” I say, irritated.
“Forget it,” he snaps back.
The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave Prim, who is
the only person in the world I’m certain I love? And Gale is devoted to his
family. We can’t leave, so why bother talking about it? And even if we did . . .
even if we did . . . where did this stuff about having kids come from? There’s
never been anything romantic between Gale and me. When we met, I was a
skinny twelve-year-old, and although he was only two years older, he already
looked like a man. It took a long time for us to even become friends, to stop
haggling over every trade and begin helping each other out.
file:///Users/priscillahopeswann/Shared/suzanne%20collins/Suzan…ames%20(html)/Suzanne%20Collins%20-%20The%20Hunger%20Games.htm

Page 7 of 273

The Hunger Games

7/24/09 12:43 PM

haggling over every trade and begin helping each other out.
Besides, if he wants kids, Gale won’t have any trouble finding a wife. He’s
good-looking, he’s strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can
hunt. You can tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he walks by in
school that they want him. It makes me jealous but not for the reason people
would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.
“What do you want to do?” I ask. We can hunt, fish, or gather.
“Let’s fish at the lake. We can leave our poles and gather in the woods. Get
something nice for tonight,” he says.
Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of
people do, out of relief that their children have been spared for another year. But
at least two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure
out how they will survive the painful weeks to come.
We make out well. The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier
prey abounds. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best
of all, a gallon of strawberries. I found the patch a few years ago, but Gale had
the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.
On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black market that operates in
an abandoned warehouse that once held coal. When they came up with a more
efficient system that transported the coal directly from the mines to the trains,
the Hob gradually took over the space. Most businesses are closed by this time
on reaping day, but the black market’s still fairly busy. We easily trade six of the
fish for good bread, the other two for salt. Greasy Sae, the bony old woman who
sells bowls of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our hands in
exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin. We might do a tad better
elsewhere, but we make an effort to keep on good terms with Greasy Sae. She’s
the only one who can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog. We don’t hunt
them on purpose, but if you’re attacked and you take out a dog or two, well,
meat is meat. “Once it’s in the soup, I’ll call it beef,” Greasy Sae says with a
wink. No one in the Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog,
but the Peacekeepers who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.
file:///Users/priscillahopeswann/Shared/suzanne%20collins/Suzan…ames%20(html)/Suzanne%20Collins%20-%20The%20Hunger%20Games.htm

Page 8 of 273

The Hunger Games

7/24/09 12:43 PM

When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back door of the
mayor’s house to sell half the strawberries, knowing he has a particular fondness
for them and can afford our price. The mayor’s daughter, Madge, opens the
door. She’s in my year at school. Being the mayor’s daughter, you’d expect her
to be a snob, but she’s all right. She just keeps to herself. Like me. Since neither
of us really has a group of friends, we seem to end up together a lot at school.
Eating lunch, sitting next to each other at assemblies, partnering for sports
activities. We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine.
Today her drab school outfit has been replaced by an expensive white dress,
and her blonde hair is done up with a pink ribbon. Reaping clothes.
“Pretty dress,” says Gale.
Madge shoots him a look, trying to see if it’s a genuine compliment or if
he’s just being ironic. It is a pretty dress, but she would never be wearing it
ordinarily. She presses her lips together and then smiles. “Well, if I end up going
to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don’t I?”
Now it’s Gale’s turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is she messing
with him? I’m guessing the second.
“You won’t be going to the Capitol,” says Gale coolly. His eyes land on a
small, circular pin that adorns her dress. Real gold. Beautifully crafted. It could
keep a family in bread for months. “What can you have? Five entries? I had six
when I was just twelve years old.”
“That’s not her fault,” I say.
“No, it’s no one’s fault. Just the way it is,” says Gale. Madge’s face has
become closed off. She puts the money for the berries in my hand. “Good luck,
Katniss.” “You, too,” I say, and the door closes.
We walk toward the Seam in silence. I don’t like that Gale took a dig at
Madge, but he’s right, of course. The reaping system is unfair, with the poor
getting the worst of it. You become eligible for the reaping the day you turn
twelve. That year, your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice. And so on and
so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your
file:///Users/priscillahopeswann/Shared/suzanne%20collins/Suzan…ames%20(html)/Suzanne%20Collins%20-%20The%20Hunger%20Games.htm

Page 9 of 273

The Hunger Games

7/24/09 12:43 PM

so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your
name goes into the pool seven times. That’s true for every citizen in all twelve
districts in the entire country of Panem.
But here’s the catch. Say you are poor and starving as we were. You can opt
to add your name more times in exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a
meager year’s supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each
of your family members as well. So, at the age of twelve, I had my name entered
four times.