"Protea Eight, on behalf of Command, I would like to congratulate you on the successful completion of your mission,” Protea Seven said.
Venny slurped his hot tea. His eyes stared vacantly at the microphone.
“It has not gone unnoticed,” Protea Seven said.
Venny pulled the microphone towards him.
“There were six blacks and two Indians killed,” Venny said. He held the microphone so tight that his knuckles turned pale.
“An unfortunate by-product of our work. No war is won without sacrifice. We have to move on, their names remembered as fallen comrades on this twisting, difficult mountain road to the summit.”
Protea Seven drew a deep breath through his nose. “My comrade, the summit is in sight, but the final climb will be the most difficult. There is no path, only a sheer rockface. We have to climb with our bare hands and feet as the rock crumbles around us, but we will not look down. We will fix our eyes on the summit and we will rise, we will rise like an awakening giant, and we will conquer that summit. It will be ours, once and for all.”
Venny tried to say something, but Protea Seven was not to be stopped. “Comrades will fall, and a trail of blood will remind us of our humble, oppressed past. I wish it wasn’t so, truly, but it is the only way. Words bounce off pale white skin like rain, but bullets penetrate. The goal, this summit, is far greater than one life, or even a thousand lives. It is what will shape the lives of millions, now and until the end of days. Therefore, my dear Protea Eight, mourn our fallen comrades, mourn them well, but rise up to fulfil our destiny, for them, for their children, and yours.”
Venny held the microphone close to his mouth but words did not come. His eyes flickered between the newspaper clipping of the woman being beaten and the photograph of Sarita. He thought of the two Indians who had died in Newcastle. He wondered if they were just like him, fathers, husbands. He wondered what would happen to his family if that was him, if he was the accidental martyr.
“Protea Eight?”
“I’m here.” There was no power left in Venny’s voice.
“Because you have proven your dedication to the cause, something is being planned, at a high level, something for your town.”
“Here? This place is tiny.”
“Yes, the awakening of fear begins when you have no refuge, no sanctuary. Can we count on you? Or should we go in search of a new hero?”
“No, no ... I’m in. You can count on me, always, always. This cause is my calling.”
“Excellent. We will be in contact soon. Protea Seven out.”
Venny turned the microphone off and pushed it to the back of the table. He took a small sip of tea and inspected the cup. His mind ran in so many directions, he didn’t know which thoughts he should let go and which he should grab hold of. His mind whisked him away to rows and rows of dead Indian men who all looked like him, lying on the road packed next to one another like sardines, covered in blood, with him towering above them with the brown package in his hand. Just as quickly his mind took him to a crowd of people hoisting him onto their shoulders, cheering, chanting his name as the Union Buildings burned to the background. And then it was gone, and Sarita stood in front of him, smiling, hugging him, and then, out of nowhere, slapping him in the face and weeping uncontrollably. He slowly opened his hands and blood dripped from them.
Venny jumped up. He glared at the chair as if it was trying to poison him, grabbed his cup, unlocked his metal door and stepped outside. It was a dark place, and for the first time, there was an unwelcome air to it. As if it was no longer his sanctuary.