Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
“It’s called nepenthe,” says Plutarch. “You probably haven’t heard of it.”
You’d be wrong there, Plutarch. Not only have I heard of it, I know it from the poem that gave my love her name. I’m tired of being patronized, so I decide to put him in his place. “You mean, like
‘Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe . . .’?”
Plutarch’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He completes the line.
“‘. . . and forget this lost Lenore!’ “
Now I’m surprised, and a little unsettled. I guess, with all these books, her poem could be here. But for him not only to have read it, but memorized it, unnerves me. I don’t like her name in his mouth.
“Of course, it’s unclear in the poem if nepenthe’s the liquor or the drug added to the liquor,” he continues.
I remember having this same discussion with Lenore Dove. She said quaff means to drink, usually something with alcohol. And the guy telling the story in the song is trying to stop thinking about how he lost his true love.
“I think the important part is it makes you forget terrible things,” I say.
“Exactly. I’m sure this is just a poor imitation. Grain alcohol colored with berries. In the old days, it actually contained morphling, but the stuff was so addictive it was banned. May I ask how you know that poem, Haymitch?”
“Everybody knows it in Twelve.” That’s a big lie, but I want him to think we all learned it in a book, like he did.
“Really? Huh. Well, I’ve got something you’ll want to see. It’s in the conservatory.”
Sure, the conservatory. Whatever that is. He leads me out a side door, down a narrow hallway, and into a room whose domed ceiling frames a piece of the evening sky. Glass curves around to form the walls as well, revealing a garden of bright flowers and trees outside. Seems like overkill, since the room’s already filled with plants that glisten in the humid air. Birds fly freely among the overhead beams, chirping their heads off. Little tables and chairs covered in curlicues surround a fountain that splashes water into a pool. One table holds a telephone shaped like a sleeping swan, its head and curved neck forming the receiver. Something buzzes near my ear and I swat it away.
It’s like they’ve tried to bring the whole outdoors indoors. Why? Is opening a door and walking through it too much trouble? Fools and their money are soon parted, Ma would say.
“Come, look at this.” Plutarch waves me over to a plant that hangs from a beam in a basket near the swan phone. From the long, shiny green leaves dangle pinkish pods, each equipped with what looks like a little lid. A small pool of liquid has collected at the bottom of each pod. As I inhale the faintly sweet, faintly rotten smell, Plutarch points to one. “They put out a nectar. Insects adore it. But the surface is slippery, and they fall into the pod and can’t get out. They drown and are consumed by the plant.”
“I think I’m missing something.”
He taps an engraved nameplate on the side of the pot. Somebody in this place must have a full-time job labeling things. It reads nepenthes. I have to think this over.
“Well,” I conclude, “that’s one way of drowning your sorrows.”
Plutarch chuckles. “You’re the first person who’s ever gotten the joke.”
There he goes again. Trying to make me feel human.
“Why am I here, Plutarch?” I ask.
Before he can answer, someone else interjects, “For me.”
I don’t recognize the voice at first because its smoothness has deteriorated into a raspy growl. I turn and see President Snow leaning against the doorway, wiping his brow with a hand-kerchief. Once again, I’m rattled by being in his presence. The power of his position. The record of his cruelty. Evil in the flesh. Was my crime really so great that it requires a personal meeting? Especially when, on closer observation, he’s clearly unwell. Perspiring and breathless and white as a sheet. His regal bearing abandoned as he hunches over his gut. For once, despite his cosmetic treatments, he looks his fifty-eight years.
“Oh, Mr. President,” says Plutarch. “Are you feeling all right? It’s the heat. Let’s find you a seat.” He hurries over and repositions a chair by the fountain. “I meant for you to use the library. It’s cooler in there. Would you prefer that?”
The president seems too preoccupied to respond. He takes uneven steps toward the fountain and his whole body seizes up for a second. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth onto his white shirtfront as he drops into the chair.
“Can I get you anything? Maybe an icepack?” asks Plutarch. “There’s a powder room just over -” Snow leans forward and vomits a foul mess into the fountain. “Oh, okay.”
Glad I don’t have to clean that up.
Sweat streams down Snow’s waxy face. But there’s no embarrassment or apology. No effort to disguise this moment of weakness. It’s almost like he wants us to see it. I’ll probably be dead soon. Is it for Plutarch’s benefit?
The president slumps back in the chair, panting. “Too hot.”
“Right, let’s get you back in the library.” Plutarch hoists the president to his feet and gets his shoulder under an armpit. “Haymitch.” I’m not being asked, I’m being ordered. I secure Snow’s other side, holding my breath to avoid inhaling the noxious smell of puke and flowery perfume that rises from him. Bodily contact with him in this state makes me a little braver. He’s just a man, as mortal as the rest of us. For all I know, he’s on his way out right now.
Plutarch and I haul the president back into the library, where we deposit him on an embroidered couch.
“You need a doctor, Mr. President,” Plutarch advises.
“No doctor,” croaks Snow, grasping Plutarch’s arm. “Milk.”
“Milk? Haymitch, check the bar. We keep some for milk punch. The refrigerator’s on the right.”
I take my time, playing the confused district piglet who doesn’t know left from right and, even when he’s worked that out, can’t figure out how to spring the paneled door that conceals the fridge. When I finally open it, I spot the milk in a pint-sized white china pitcher. A golden staircase wraps around the cylinder, and an eagle perches on the lid. A replica of the steps in the corner of the library.
I glance around the refrigerator door as Snow goes into a coughing fit while Plutarch hovers over him.
This is probably the best chance I will ever have to fight back against Snow directly.
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
On her wedding anniversary, Alicia is drugged and stumbles into the wrong room—straight into the arms of the powerful Caden Ward, a man rumored never to touch women. Their night of passion shocks even him, especially when he discovers she’s still a virgin after two years of marriage to Joshua Yates.