The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

by Suzanne Collins

  Out in the crowd, the Peacekeepers had the woman, Lil, and were carrying her away. She gave one last wail of despair, and the birds picked that up as well, first as a voice and then as part of the arrangement. Human speech had vanished, and what remained was a musical chorus of Arlo and Lil’s exchange.

  “Mockingjays,” grumbled a soldier in front of him. “Stinking mutts.”

  Coriolanus remembered talking to Lucy Gray before the interview.

  “Well, you know what they say. The show’s not over until the mockingjay sings.”

  “The mockingjay? Really, I think you’re just making these things up.”

  “Not that one. A mockingjay’s a bona fide bird.”

  “And it sings in your show?”

  “Not my show, sweetheart. Yours. The Capitol’s anyway.”

  This must be what she’d meant. The Capitol’s show was the hanging. The mockingjay some sort of bona fide bird. Not a jabberjay. Different somehow. A regional thing, he supposed. But that was strange, because the soldier had called them mutts. His eyes strained to try and isolate one in the foliage. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he found several jabberjays. Perhaps the mockingjays were identical . . . but no, wait, there! A little higher up. A black bird, slightly larger than the jabberjays, suddenly opened its wings to reveal two patches of dazzling white as it lifted its beak in song. Coriolanus felt sure he’d spotted his first mockingjay, and he disliked the thing on sight.

  The birdsong unsettled the audience, and whispers turned to mutters, which turned to objections as the Peacekeepers shoved Lil into the van that had brought Arlo. Coriolanus felt afraid of this mob’s potential. Were they about to turn on the soldiers? Unbidden, he felt his thumb release the safety on his gun.

  A volley of bullets made him jump, and he looked for bleeding bodies but only saw one of the officers lowering his gun. The officer laughed and nodded to the commander, having just fired into the trees and caused the flock of birds to take flight. Among them, Coriolanus could make out dozens of pairs of flashing black-and-white wings. The gunfire subdued the crowd, and he could see the Peacekeepers waving them out, shouting, “Back to work!” and “Show’s over!” As the field emptied, he continued to stand at attention, hoping no one had noticed his jumpiness.

  When they’d all piled onto the truck to head back to the base, the major said, “I should’ve warned you about the birds.”

  “What are they, exactly?” asked Coriolanus.

  The major snorted. “A mistake, if you ask me.”

  “A muttation?” Coriolanus persisted.

  “Of a kind. Well, it’s them and their offspring,” the major said. “After the war, the Capitol let all the jabberjay mutts loose to die out, and they should’ve, too, all being male. But they had an eye for the local mockingbirds, and the birds seemed willing enough. Now we’ve got these mockingjay freaks to deal with. In a few years, all the jabberjays will be gone, and we’ll see if the new ones can mate with one another.”

  Coriolanus did not want to spend the next twenty years listening to them serenade the local executions. Perhaps, if he ever did become an officer, he could organize a hunting party to clear the woods of them. But why wait? Why not suggest it now, for the recruits, as a form of target practice? Surely, no one liked the birds. The idea made him feel a bit better. He turned to Sejanus to tell him of his plan, but Sejanus’s face was as gloomy as it’d been in the Capitol. “What’s wrong?”

  Sejanus kept his eyes on the woods as the truck pulled out. “I really didn’t think this through.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Coriolanus. But Sejanus only shook his head.

  Back on base, they returned their guns and were unexpectedly free until supper at five. As soon as they changed back into fatigues, Sejanus mumbled something about writing to Ma and disappeared. Coriolanus found a letter one of his bunkmates must’ve picked up for him. He recognized the fine, spidery hand of Pluribus Bell and boosted himself up onto his bed to read it. Much of it confirmed what Tigris had already told him: that Pluribus was at the Snows’ service, both selling their goods and offering temporary lodgings while they figured out their situation. But one paragraph jumped out at Coriolanus.

  I’m so sorry about how all this worked out for you. Casca Highbottom’s punishment seems excessive, and it started me wondering. I think I mentioned that he and your father were as thick as thieves when they were at the University. But I do remember, toward the end there, a row of sorts. Very uncharacteristic of them. Casca was furious, saying he’d been drunk and the whole thing was meant to be a joke. And your father said he should be grateful. That he’d been doing him a favor. Your father left, but Casca stayed drinking until I closed. I asked what was wrong, but all he would say was “Like moths to a flame.” He was quite drunk. I supposed they patched it up eventually, but maybe not. They both went on to jobs soon after, and I didn’t see them much. People move on.

  This snatch of a story provided the closest explanation Coriolanus had gotten yet for Dean Highbottom hating him. A row. A falling out. He knew it hadn’t been patched up, unless another had succeeded it, because of the bitter way the dean had spoken about his father. What a petty little man Dean Highbottom was, still nursing his wounds over some disagreement in school. Even now, when his imagined persecutor was long dead. Let it go, can’t you? he thought. How can it still be of consequence?

  At dinner, Smiley, Beanpole, and Bug wanted to hear all about the hanging, and Coriolanus tried his best to satisfy them. His idea of using mockingjays for target practice was met with enthusiasm, and his bunkmates encouraged him to pitch it to the higher-ups. The only damper was Sejanus, who sat silent and withdrawn, pushing his tray of noodles out for public consumption. Coriolanus felt a twinge of concern. The last time Sejanus had lost his appetite, he’d lost his sanity as well.

  Later, as they mopped the mess hall, Coriolanus cornered him. “What’s bothering you? And don’t say nothing.”

  Sejanus sloshed his mop around the bucket of gray water. “I don’t know. I keep wondering what would’ve happened today if the crowd had gotten physical. Would we have had to shoot them?”

  “Oh, probably not,” said Coriolanus, although he’d wondered the same thing. “Probably just fired a few rounds in the air.”

  “If I’m helping to kill people in the districts, how is it any better than helping to kill them in the Hunger Games?” asked Sejanus.

  Coriolanus’s instincts had been right. Sejanus was sliding into another ethical quagmire. “What did you think it was going to be? I mean, what did you think you’d signed up for?”

  “I thought I could be a medic,” confessed Sejanus.

  “A medic,” Coriolanus repeated. “Like a doctor?”

  “No, that would require university training,” Sejanus explained. “Something more basic. Something where I could help anyone who’d been injured, Capitol or district, when violence breaks out. At least I wouldn’t do any harm. I just don’t know if I could ever kill anyone, Coryo.”

  Coriolanus felt a stab of annoyance. Had Sejanus forgotten that it was his own reckless behavior that had led to Coriolanus killing Bobbin? That his selfishness had robbed his friend of the luxury of such a statement? Then he suppressed a laugh at the thought of old Strabo Plinth. A munitions giant with a pacifist heir. He could imagine the conversations that had transpired between father and son. What a waste, he thought. What a waste of a dynasty.

  “What about in a war?” he asked Sejanus. “You’re a soldier, you know.”

  “I know. A war would be different, I guess,” said Sejanus. “But I would have to be fighting for something I believed in. I would have to believe it would make the world a better place. I’d still rather be a medic, but there isn’t much demand for them at the moment, it turns out. Without a war. They’ve got a long waiting list of people who’d like to be trained to work at the clinic. But even for that
, you need a recommendation, and the sergeant doesn’t want to give me one.”

  “Why not? Sounds like a perfect fit,” said Coriolanus.

  “Because I’m too good with a gun,” Sejanus told him. “It’s true. I’m a crack shot. My father taught me from when I was tiny, and every week I had mandatory target practice. He considers it part of the family business.”

  Coriolanus tried to process the information. “Why didn’t you hide it?”

  “I thought I was. In reality, I shoot much better than I do in training. I tried not to stand out, but the rest of the squad is terrible.” Sejanus caught himself. “Not you.”

  “Yes, me.” Coriolanus laughed. “Look, I think you’re making too much of this. It’s not like we have a hanging every day. And if it ever did come to it, just shoot to miss.”

  But the words only fueled Sejanus. “And what if that means you, or Beanpole, or Smiley, end up dead? Because I didn’t protect you?”

  “Oh, Sejanus!” Coriolanus burst out in exasperation. “You have to stop overthinking everything! Imagining every worst-case scenario. That isn’t going to happen. We’re all going to die right here, of old age or excessive mopping, whatever takes us first. In the meantime, quit hitting the target! Or invent a problem with your eyes! Or smash your hand in the door!”

  “Stop being so self-indulgent, in other words,” said Sejanus.

  “Well, so dramatic anyway. That’s how you ended up in the arena, remember?” asked Coriolanus.

  Sejanus reacted as if Coriolanus had slapped him. After a moment, though, he nodded in recognition. “That’s how I almost got us both killed. You’re right, Coryo. Thanks. I’m going to think over what you said.”

  A thunderstorm ushered Saturday in, leaving behind a thick layer of mud and air so heavy Coriolanus felt he could wring it out like a sponge. He’d begun to crave the salty food Cookie favored and cleaned his plate at every meal. The effects of the daily training on his body left him stronger, more flexible, and confident. He’d be a match for the locals, even if they spent the day mining. Not that hand-to-hand combat seemed likely, not with the Peacekeepers’ arsenal, but he’d be ready if it happened.

  During target practice, he kept one eye on Sejanus, whose aim seemed a bit off. Good. A sudden reduction in his skills would draw attention. Another boy’s estimation of his talent might be suspect, but he’d never known Sejanus to brag. If he said he was a crack shot, no doubt he was. Which meant he’d be a real asset in the mockingjay slaughter if he could be persuaded to try. At the end of practice, Coriolanus pitched the idea to the sergeant, and felt gratified by his answer: “That might not be a bad idea. Kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Oh, I hope more than two,” Coriolanus joked, and the sergeant rewarded him with a grunt.

  After a sweltering afternoon in the laundry, shuttling fatigues in and out of industrial washing machines and dryers, sorting and folding, Coriolanus bolted down dinner and made for the showers. Was it his imagination, or had his beard filled in? He admired it as he scraped a razor over his face. Another sign that he was leaving boyhood behind. He towel-dried his hair, relieved that his buzz had become less severe. Here and there he could coax a bit of wave.

  The promise of a band at the Hob that night filled the bathroom with excitement. Apparently, none of the recruits had followed this year’s Hunger Games.

  “Some girl is going to be singing there.”

  “Yeah, from the Capitol.”

  “No, not from the Capitol. She went there for the Hunger Games.”

  “Oh. Guess she won.”

  Their faces shiny with heat and scrubbing, Coriolanus and his bunkmates headed out into the evening. The guard on duty told them to keep their heads up as they left the base.

  “I guess the five of us could take on some miners,” said Beanpole, glancing around.

  “Hand-to-hand, sure,” said Smiley. “But what if they had guns?”

  “They can’t have guns here, can they?” asked Beanpole.

  “Not legally. But there’s got to be some of them floating around out there after the war. Hidden under floorboards and in trees and things. You can get anything if you have money,” Smiley said with a knowing nod.

  “Which clearly none of them do,” said Sejanus.

  Being off the base on foot made Coriolanus edgy, too, but he put it down to the mess of emotions he was experiencing. He was by turns thrilled, terrified, cocksure, and madly insecure about seeing Lucy Gray. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, so many questions he wanted to ask, he didn’t know where he’d begin. Maybe with just another of those long, slow kisses . . .

  After about twenty minutes, they arrived at the Hob. A warehouse for coal in better days, reduced production had left it abandoned. Probably someone in the Capitol owned it, if not the Capitol itself, but no oversight or upkeep was apparent. Along the walls, a few makeshift stalls displayed odds and ends, much of them secondhand. Among the offerings, Coriolanus saw everything from candle stubs to dead rabbits, homemade woven sandals to cracked eyeglasses. He worried that in the wake of the hanging they would be treated with hostility, but no one seemed to give them a second glance, and much of the clientele had come from the base.

  Smiley, who had wheeled and dealed in the black market back home, strategically sacrificed one cookie to sampling, breaking it into a dozen pieces and allowing tastes to people he deemed likely buyers. Ma’s magic hit home, and between direct trade with the bootleggers and money from other interested parties, they ended up in possession of a quart bottle of clear liquid so potent the smell made their eyes water.

  “That’s good stuff!” Smiley promised. “They call it white liquor here, but it’s your basic moonshine.” They each took one swig, provoking a round of coughing and backslapping, and saved the rest for the show.

  Still in possession of a half dozen popcorn balls, Coriolanus asked about tickets but people waved him off.

  “They don’t take their pay ’til after,” said one man. “Better get a seat if you want a good one. Expecting a crowd. The girl’s back.”

  Getting a seat involved grabbing an old crate, spool, or plastic bucket from a pile in the corner and staking out a spot where you could see the stage, which was no more than an arrangement of wooden pallets at one end of the Hob. Coriolanus chose one against the wall, about halfway back. In the dusky light, Lucy Gray would be hard-pressed to notice him, and he wanted that. He needed time to decide how to approach her. Had she heard he was here? Likely not, for who would have told her? Around the base he was merely Gent, and his exploits in the Hunger Games caused no mention.

  Nightfall came and someone flipped a switch, kicking on a hodgepodge of lights strung together by an ancient cable and several suspicious-looking extension cords. Coriolanus looked for the nearest exit in anticipation of the inevitable fire. With the old wooden structure and the coal dust, a stray spark could turn it into an inferno in a flash. The Hob began to fill with a mix of Peacekeepers and locals, mostly men but with a fair number of women as well. There must’ve been close to two hundred assembled in all when a skinny boy of about twelve, in a hat adorned with colorful feathers, came out and set up a single microphone on the stage, running a cord to a black box off to the side. He dragged a wooden crate behind the mic and retreated to an area blocked with a raggedy blanket. His appearance had set off something in the crowd, and people began to clap in unison, in a manner that proved contagious. Even Coriolanus found his hands joining in. Voices called for the show to begin, and just when it seemed it never would, the side of the blanket flipped back, and out stepped a little girl in a pink swirl of a dress. She gave a curtsy.

  The audience cheered as the girl began to beat on a drum that hung from a strap around her neck and to dance her way to the microphone. “Whoo, Maude Ivory!” hooted a Peacekeeper near Coriolanus, and he knew this was the cousin Lucy Gray had mentioned, the o
ne who could remember every song she heard. It was a big claim for such a young thing; she couldn’t be more than eight or nine.

  She hopped up on the box set behind the microphone and gave the audience a wave. “Hey, everybody, thanks for coming out tonight! Is it hot enough for you?” she said in a sweet, squeaky voice, and the crowd laughed. “Well, we’re planning on heating things up a sight more. My name’s Maude Ivory, and I’m pleased to introduce the Covey!” The crowd applauded, and she bobbed curtsies until they quieted enough for her to start the introductions. “On mandolin, Tam Amber!” A tall, rawboned young man in a feathered hat came from behind the curtain, strumming an instrument similar to a guitar but with a body more like a teardrop. He walked straight to Maude Ivory’s side, not acknowledging the audience in any way, his fingers moving easily over the strings. Next, the boy who’d set up the microphone appeared with a violin. “That’s Clerk Carmine on fiddle!” announced Maude Ivory, as he played his way across the stage. “And Barb Azure on bass!” Hauling out an instrument that looked like a huge version of the fiddle, a willowy young woman in an ankle-length, checkered blue dress gave the crowd a shy wave as she joined the others. “And now, fresh from her engagement in the Capitol, the one and only Lucy Gray Baird!”

  Coriolanus held his breath as she spun onto the stage, guitar in one hand, the ruffles of her acid-green dress flaring out around her, her features brightened with makeup. The crowd rose to their feet. She ran lightly over as Tam Amber scooted Maude Ivory’s box back and took center stage before the mic. “Hey there, District Twelve, did you miss me?” She grinned as they roared in response. “I bet you never expected to lay eyes on me again, and that goes both ways. But I’m back. I sure am back.”

  Encouraged by his mates, a Peacekeeper sheepishly approached the stage and handed her a half-filled bottle of white liquor.

  “Well, what’s this? Is that for me?” she asked, receiving the bottle. The Peacekeeper made a gesture indicating it was from the group. “Now, you all know I stopped drinking when I was twelve!” A big laugh came from the audience. “What? I did! Of course, there’s no harm in having some on hand for medicinal purposes. Thank you kindly, I do appreciate it.” She considered the bottle, then shot the audience a knowing look and took a swig. “To clear my pipes!” she said innocently in response to the howls. “You know, as bad as you treat me, I don’t know why I keep coming back. But I do. Reminds me of that old song.”