FOR THE MOTHERLAND (PART IV)
John had seemed reassured by Luke’s attempt at confidence. That had been Luke’s intention. For his part, he wasn’t at all optimistic, but he wasn’t sure he could trust John not to do anything irrational if the latter was more cognizant of the survival likelihood of the two young men.
Besides, when one had hope, it was easier to struggle to survive. Luke knew he was relatively fit; he could outrun and outjump the average Joe his age. John looked more overweight in comparison, and Luke was sure that a race between the two of them would yield a ready winner with little effort on his part.
John however, was probably much stronger physically than he appeared, and Luke was not sure he could predict the outcome of a wrestling match between himself and John with as much favourable certainty as the race. In any case, Luke prayed that today would not present an occasion for John’s wrestling prowess to be tested, nor his own speed again, for that matter. It had been tested enough today.
Luke was about to move out from behind his cover to head for the main road, along with John, but he noticed that his colleague was not following him. “What are you doing?” he hissed sharply, when he saw John rummaging in a knapsack which had been hoisted on his back. John replied by pulling out a shirt and handing it to him. “Your shirt is ruined,” said he, “and besides, I don’t think we want to be seen wearing our crested vests….” Luke took the shirt from him with heartfelt gratitude as he nodded in assent. “You’re a lifesaver, John.”
Quickly, Luke changed, thankful for the fortune of having a shirt change. He, alongside a group of his colleagues, had been attacked while preparing to leave the community which they had served for the past seven months. Attacked, and no less than by youths of the same community. Those who were caught were killed. There was no cry for mercy that was listened to, there was no ransom that could be paid; today, life was a very cheap commodity, even though its creation and sustenance were unimaginable in worth.
Luke had been lucky; he had instinctively ducked when a bottle had been thrown at him, and had taken to his heels like the Golden Hind of Artemis when it had been pursued by Hercules. He had since not seen any other person in his group since the time of the attack, and that had been about five hours ago.
“Okay, John,” Luke said after donning the shirt, which was more like a sack hanging on his athletic frame, “let’s move out.”
That little boy,