The Death and Resurrection Of Martin Luther

A Man Without a Name

The room was quiet, except for the slow sound of Martin's breathing as he lay on the small bed, body wrapped in bandages that had been changed so many times they no longer looked white. For thirty days, he hadn’t woken up. 

The fisherman leaned over him carefully unwrapping the cloth around his stomach.

  “You should’ve died weeks ago,” the fisherman muttered under his breath. “But you’re still fighting. You’re stronger than you look,” he murmured, pressing fresh herbs against the wound.

The door opened and Taylor, his daughter, walked in with her arms folded.

   “Any change?” she asked flatly.

The fisherman shook his head. “Not yet. But he responds to the herbs. His spirit wants to live.”

Taylor snorted. “A month, Father. A whole month of hiding a stranger. What if someone finds out? Our neighbors talk too much. We’ll be dragged into trouble.”

  “If I’d left him,” the fisherman said, tightening the bandage, “he’d be bones on the riverbank. I couldn’t do that.”

  “You should have.” Taylor’s voice rose. “We’re not rich, we don’t have protection. If the police hear we’ve kept a half-dead man with bullet wounds here, do you know what they’ll say? Do you know what they’ll do to us?”

The fisherman finally looked at her. “I know what my conscience would do to me if I walked away.”

Taylor scoffed. “Conscience won’t save you when they pin murder on us.”

But before her father could reply, a sound cut through the room. A groan which had come out of Martin’s mouth

Taylor froze. “Father… did you hear that?”

Another groan. Broken and choked. Like someone dragging themselves up from the grave.

The fisherman dropped the cloth and bent closer. Martin’s eyelids twitched. His lips parted.

  “Water,” the fisherman snapped. “Get me water quick.”

Taylor dashed out, came back with a cup, and shoved it into her father’s hands. She could barely breathe.

Martin’s chest heaved. His eyes shot open wild. He gasped and choked as if the air itself was poison.

  “Hold him,” the fisherman ordered.

 “I’m not touching him!” Taylor snapped, backing away.

  “Then stand still, so I can concentrate.”

He pressed the rim of the cup to Martin’s lips. Martin drank greedily, water spilling down his chin. His hands trembled as if they didn’t belong to him.

His voice finally broke through, cracked and hoarse.

  “Wh… who… are you?”

Taylor stiffened, irritated by the mere presence of this stranger that had come into their lives a month ago.

The fisherman kept his voice calm. “You’re safe. Drink more water.”

  “Where… is this?”

“You’re in my house. We pulled you from the river, you were hurt. But we'll need you to tell us about yourself, so we can reach out to your family.”

Martin’s gaze darted around the small room in panic. His breathing grew harsher.

  “Family? I don’t… I don’t know… who am I?”

The words and it's reality landed on them heavily.

Taylor’s jaw fell open. She looked at her father, horrified. “You've got to be kidding me! He doesn’t even know his name.”

For a long, heavy moment, only Martin’s ragged breathing filled the room

Then, suddenly, Martin lurched upright, clutching the fisherman’s shirt with surprising strength. His eyes were wide, terrified, searching their faces like they held the key to his very existence.

  “Don’t let them find me,” he whispered, trembling. “Please… don’t let them find me.”

Taylor backed toward the door, voice rising.

“Is this what I think it is? He doesn't remember anything and now we'll be stuck with him forever?”

 The fisherman stared at the stranger who had cheated death, alive yet empty, a man without a past.

And for the first time since they found Martin, he felt fear because his daughter might be right after all. This strange man in their house is nothing but trouble.