The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

by Suzanne Collins

  Two crackers seemed a small price to pay for Jessup’s protection. “I’ll get you more to eat as soon as I can. And it looks like people are going to be allowed to send food into the arena. It’s official now.”

  “That’d be good. More food would be good.” She leaned her head forward and rested it on the bars. “Then, like you said, it might make sense to sing. Make people want to help me.”

  “At the interview,” he suggested. “You could sing the valley song again.”

  “Maybe.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “They showing this in all Panem, or just the Capitol?”

  “All Panem, I think,” he answered. “But you won’t get anything from the districts.”

  “Not expecting to. Not the point,” she said. “Maybe I will sing, though. Be better with a guitar or something.”

  “I can try to find you one.” Not that the Snows had any instruments. Except for the Grandma’am’s daily anthem and his mother’s long-ago bedtime songs, there’d been little music in his life until Lucy Gray appeared. He rarely listened to the Capitol radio broadcast, which mostly played marches and propaganda songs. Those all sounded the same to him.

  “Hey!” The Peacekeeper waved at him from the path. “That’s too close! Time’s up anyway.”

  Coriolanus rose. “I better go if I want them to let me in again.”

  “Sure. Sure. And thanks. For the crackers and all,” said Lucy Gray, grasping the bars to struggle to her feet.

  He reached through the bars to help her up. “It’s nothing.”

  “Not to you maybe,” she said. “But it’s meant the world having someone show up like I mattered.”

  “You do matter,” he said.

  “Well, there’s a lot of evidence to the contrary.” She rattled her chains and gave them a tug. And then, as if remembering something, she looked up at the sky.

  “You matter to me,” he insisted. The Capitol may not value her, but he did. Hadn’t he just poured his heart out to her?

  “Time to go, Mr. Snow!” the Peacekeeper called.

  “You matter to me, Lucy Gray,” he repeated. His words drew her eyes back to him, but she still seemed distant.

  “Look, kid, don’t make me report you,” said the Peacekeeper.

  “I’ve got to go.” Coriolanus started to leave.

  “Hey!” she said with a certain urgency. He turned back. “Hey, I want you to know I don’t really believe you’re here for grades or glory. You’re a rare bird, Coriolanus.”

  “You, too,” he said.

  She dipped her head in agreement and headed back to Jessup, her chains leaving a trail in the dirty straw and rat droppings. When she reached her partner, she lay down and curled up in a ball, as if exhausted by the brief encounter.

  Twice he tripped on his way out of the zoo, and he recognized that he was too tired to come up with any good solutions to anything. It was late enough now that his arrival at home wouldn’t seem suspicious, so he headed back to the apartment. He had the misfortune to bump into his classmate Persephone Price, the daughter of the infamous Nero Price, who’d once cannibalized the maid. They ended up walking together, since they were neighbors. She’d been assigned to mentor Mizzen, a sturdy thirteen-year-old boy from District 4, and so had been present when he and Clemensia had been called from class. He dreaded any discussion of the proposal, but she was still too distraught over Arachne’s death to talk about anything else. Usually, he avoided Persephone altogether, because he could never help wondering if she had known the ingredients of her wartime stew. For some time, he’d felt afraid of her, but now she only inspired disgust, no matter how many times he reminded himself of her innocence. With her dimples and hazel green eyes, she was prettier than any girl in his year, with the possible exception of Clemensia . . . well, pre-snakebite Clemensia. But the idea of kissing her repulsed him. Even now, as she gave him a tearful hug good-bye, all he could think of was that severed leg.

  Coriolanus dragged himself up the stairs, his thoughts darker than ever at the memory of the poor maid collapsed from hunger in the street. How long could he expect Lucy Gray to last? She was fading fast. Weak and distracted. Injured and broken. But most of all, slowly starving to death. By tomorrow, she might not be able to stand. If he didn’t find a way to feed her, she’d be dead before the Hunger Games even began.

  When he reached the apartment, the Grandma’am took one look at him and suggested a nap before supper. He fell on his bed, feeling too stressed to ever sleep again. The next thing he knew, Tigris was gently shaking his shoulder. A tray on his night table gave off the comforting smell of noodle soup. Sometimes the butcher would give her chicken carcasses for free, and she’d boil them into something wonderful.

  “Coryo,” she said. “Satyria has called three times, and I can’t think of any more excuses. Come on, eat some supper and call her back.”

  “Did she ask about Clemensia? Does everyone know?” he blurted out.

  “Clemensia Dovecote? No. Why would she?” Tigris asked.

  “It was so awful.” He told her the story in all its gory detail.

  As he spoke, the color left her face. “Dr. Gaul made the snakes bite her? Over a little white lie like that?”

  “She did. And she didn’t care at all whether Clemmie survived,” he said. “Just shooed me out so she could get her afternoon snack.”

  “That’s sadistic. Or completely demented,” said Tigris. “Should you report her?”

  “To who? She’s the Head Gamemaker,” he said. “She works directly with the president. She’ll say it was our fault for lying.”

  Tigris thought it over. “All right. Don’t report her. Or confront her. Just avoid her as much as possible.”

  “That’s hard as a mentor. She keeps showing up at the Academy to play with this rabbit mutt and ask a lot of crazy questions. One word from her could make or break my prize.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “And Arachne’s dead, and Clemensia’s all full of venom, and Lucy Gray . . . well, that’s another really awful story. I doubt she’ll make it to the Games, and maybe that’s for the best.”

  Tigris tucked a spoon into his hand. “Eat your soup. We’ve gotten through worse than this. Snow lands on top?”

  “Snow lands on top,” he said with so little conviction they had to laugh. It made him feel a bit more normal. He took a few bites of soup to please her, then realized he was starving and made short work of it.

  When Satyria called again, he almost launched into his confession, but it turned out that all she wanted to do was ask him to sing the anthem at Arachne’s funeral in the morning. “Your heroics at the zoo, combined with the fact that you’re the only one who knows all the words, made you the faculty’s first choice.”

  “I’d be honored, of course,” he replied.

  “Good.” Satyria slurped something, causing the ice to clink in her glass, then came up for air. “How are things with your tribute?”

  Coriolanus hesitated. To complain might seem childish, like he couldn’t handle his own problems. He almost never asked Satyria for help. But then he thought of Lucy Gray buckling under the weight of her chains and threw caution to the wind. “Not well. I saw Lucy Gray today. Just for a minute. She’s very weak. The Capitol hasn’t fed her at all.”

  “Since she left District Twelve? Why, that’s been, what? Four days?” Satyria asked, surprised.

  “Five. I don’t think she’s going to make it to the Hunger Games. I’m not even going to have a tribute to mentor,” he said. “A lot of us won’t.”

  “Well, that’s not fair. It’s like telling you to do an experiment with broken equipment,” she responded. “And now the Games will be delayed at least another day or two.” She paused, then added, “Let me see what I can do.”

  He hung up and turned to Tigris. “They want me to sing at the funeral. She didn’t mention Clemensia. They must be k
eeping it a secret.”

  “Then that’s what you do, too,” said Tigris. “Maybe they’ll pretend the whole thing didn’t happen.”

  “Maybe they won’t even tell Dean Highbottom,” he said, brightening. Then another thought hit him. “Tigris? I just remembered, I can’t really sing.” And somehow, this was the funniest thing either of them had ever heard.

  The Grandma’am, however, thought it was no laughing matter, and the following morning she had him up at dawn so she could coach him. At the end of every line she’d poke him in his ribs with a ruler and shout, “Breathe!” until he couldn’t imagine making any other choice. For the third time that week, she sacrificed one of her darlings to his future, pinning a light blue rosebud to his carefully pressed uniform jacket and saying, “There. It matches your eyes.” Looking sharp, with a belly full of oatmeal and a rib cage dotted with bruises reminding him to inhale, he set off for the Academy.

  Although it was Saturday, the entire student body reported to homeroom before they assembled on the front steps of the Academy, divided neatly and alphabetically by class. By virtue of his assignment, Coriolanus found himself in the front row with faculty and distinguished guests, first and foremost President Ravinstill. Satyria gave him a quick overview of the program, but the only thing that stuck in his head was that his rendition of the anthem opened the ceremonies. He didn’t mind public speaking but had never sung publicly — there was little occasion to in Panem. It was one reason that Lucy Gray’s song had caught people’s attention. He calmed his nerves by reminding himself that even if he howled like a dog, there wasn’t much to compare him to.

  Across the avenue, the temporary stands set up for the funeral procession quickly filled with mourners dressed in black, the one color everyone could be counted on to have, given the loss of loved ones during the war. He looked for the Cranes but couldn’t spot them in the crowd. The Academy and the surrounding buildings were festooned with funereal banners and sported Capitol flags in every window. Numerous cameras were positioned to record the event, and multiple Capitol TV reporters streamed live commentary. Coriolanus thought it was quite a display for Arachne, disproportionate to both her life and death, the latter of which could have been avoided if she’d refrained from being such an exhibitionist. So many people had died heroically in the war, with so little recognition, that it grated on him. He was relieved that he was singing instead of having to praise her talents, which, if memory served, were limited to being loud enough to fill the school auditorium without a mic and the ability to balance a spoon on her nose. And Dean Highbottom had accused him of showboating? Still, he reminded himself, she was practically family.

  The Academy clock struck nine, and the crowd fell silent. On cue, Coriolanus rose and walked to the podium. Satyria had promised accompaniment, but the silence stretched so long he actually drew breath to begin the anthem before a tinny version began to play over the sound system, giving him sixteen measures of introduction.

  Gem of Panem,

  Mighty city,

  Through the ages, you shine anew.

  His singing was more like sustained talking than a melodic tour de force, but the song was not particularly challenging. The high note the Grandma’am consistently missed was optional; most people sang it an octave lower. With the memory of her ruler prodding him, he sailed through it, never missing a note or running out of breath. He sat to generous applause and an approving nod from the president, who now took the podium.

  “Two days ago, Arachne Crane’s young and precious life was ended, and so we mourn another victim of the criminal rebellion that yet besieges us,” the president intoned. “Her death was as valiant as any on the battlefield, her loss more profound as we claim to be at peace. But no peace will exist while this disease eats away at all that is good and noble in our country. Today we honor her sacrifice with a reminder that while evil exists, it does not prevail. And once again, we bear witness as our great Capitol brings justice to Panem.”

  The drums began a slow, deep boom, and the crowd turned as the funeral procession rounded a corner onto the street. Although not as wide as the Corso, Scholars Road easily held the honor guard of Peacekeepers, standing shoulder to shoulder, twenty wide and forty deep, that stepped in flawless uniformity to the rhythm of the drums.

  Coriolanus had wondered about the strategy of telling the districts about a tribute killing a Capitol girl, but now he saw the point. Behind the Peacekeepers came a long flatbed truck with a crane affixed to it. High in the air, the bullet-ridden body of the District 10 girl, Brandy, dangled from its hook. Shackled to the truck bed, looking utterly filthy and defeated, were the remaining twenty-three tributes. The length of their restraints made it impossible to stand, so they either crouched or sat on the bare metal floor. This was just another chance to remind the districts that they were inferior and that there would be repercussions for their resistance.

  He could see Lucy Gray trying to hold on to a shred of dignity, sitting as upright as the chains would allow and gazing straight ahead, ignoring the corpse swinging gently over her head. But it was no use. The dirt, the shackles, the public display — it was too much to overcome. He tried to imagine conducting himself under those circumstances, until he realized this was undoubtedly what Sejanus was doing, and snapped out of it.

  Another battalion of Peacekeepers followed the tributes, paving the way for a quartet of horses. They were decked in garlands and pulled an ornate wagon with a pure white coffin draped in flowers. Behind the coffin came the Cranes, riding in a horse-drawn chariot. At least her family had the decency to look uncomfortable. The procession halted when the coffin drew up in front of the podium.

  Dr. Gaul, who’d been sitting next to the president, approached the mic. Coriolanus thought it was a mistake to let her speak at such a moment, but she must have left the crazy lady and her pink snake bracelets at home, because she spoke with a stern and intelligent clarity. “Arachne Crane, we, your fellow citizens of Panem, vow that your death will not be in vain. When one of ours is hit, we hit back twice as hard. The Hunger Games will go forward, with more energy and commitment than ever before, as we add your name to the long list of the innocent who died defending a righteous and just land. Your friends, family, and fellow citizens salute you and dedicate the Tenth Hunger Games to your memory.”

  So now that loudmouth Arachne was a defender of a righteous and just land. Yes, she laid down her life taunting her tribute with a sandwich, thought Coriolanus. Maybe her gravestone could read, “Casualty of cheap laughs.”

  A row of Peacekeepers in red sashes lifted their guns and sent several volleys over the procession, which then rolled down a few blocks and disappeared around a corner.

  As the crowd thinned, several people took the pained look on Coriolanus’s face as sorrow at Arachne’s death, when ironically he felt like killing her all over again. Still, he felt he’d handled himself well, until he turned to find Dean Highbottom looking down at him.

  “My condolences on the loss of your friend,” the dean said.

  “And on your student. It’s a difficult day for all of us. But the procession was very moving,” Coriolanus replied.

  “Did you think so? I found it excessive and in poor taste,” said Dean Highbottom. Taken by surprise, Coriolanus let out a short laugh before he recovered and tried to look shocked. The dean dropped his gaze to Coriolanus’s blue rosebud. “It’s amazing, how little things change. After all the killing. After all the agonized promises to remember the cost. After all of that, I can’t distinguish the bud from the blossom.” He gave the rose a tap with his forefinger, adjusting the angle, and smiled. “Don’t be late to lunch. I hear we’re having pie.”

  The only good thing about the encounter was that it turned out there really was pie, peach this time, at the special buffet in the school dining hall. Unlike on the day of the reaping, Coriolanus loaded his plate with fried chicken and took the largest wedge
of pie he could find. He slathered his biscuits with butter and had three refills of grape punch, filling the last glass so much it spilled over and he stained his linen napkin sopping it up. Let people talk. The chief mourner needed sustenance. But even as he ate, he recognized it as a sign that his usual gift for self-control was eroding. He blamed it on Dean Highbottom and his continual harassment. What was he babbling on about today anyway? Buds? Blossoms? He should be locked up somewhere or, even better, deported to a far-off outpost to leave decent Capitol people in peace. Just the thought of him sent Coriolanus back for more pie.

  Sejanus, however, poked at his chicken and biscuits without taking even one bite. If Coriolanus had disliked the funeral parade, it had to have been misery for Sejanus.

  “They’ll report you if you throw out all that food,” Coriolanus reminded him. He wasn’t crazy about the guy, but he didn’t particularly want to see him punished.

  “Right,” said Sejanus. But he still seemed unable to down more than a sip of punch.

  As the luncheon was finishing up, Satyria gathered the twenty-two active mentors to inform them that not only were the Hunger Games still on, they were supposed to be the most visible yet. With this in mind, they were to escort their tributes on a tour of the arena that very afternoon. It was to be aired live to the entire country, somehow driving home the resolution Dr. Gaul had made at the funeral. The Head Gamemaker felt that separating the Capitol kids from the district ones suggested weakness, as if they were too afraid of their enemies to be in their presence. The tributes would be handcuffed but not fully shackled. The Peacekeepers’ top sharpshooters would be among their guards, but the mentors were to be seen side by side with their charges.

  Coriolanus could sense some reluctance among his classmates — several of their parents had lodged complaints about shoddy security after Arachne’s death — but no one spoke up, none of them wanting to seem cowardly. The whole thing seemed dangerous and ill-advised to him — what would prevent other tributes from turning on their mentors? — but he’d never say so. A part of him wondered if Dr. Gaul wasn’t hoping for another act of violence so she could punish another tribute, maybe a live one this time, in front of the cameras.