The Death and Resurrection Of Martin Luther

A New Name, A New Enemy

  “Move it!”

  “I’m trying!” Martin hissed, his arms shaking as he leaned heavily on the wooden crutches Elder Orso had carved for him. His legs trembled like broken sticks refusing to obey. “They won’t move.”

  “For months, you’ve been lying here.” Elder Orso’s voice was sharp, carrying the weight of disappointment. “I did not drag you out of that river, mend your bones and waste my herbs, so you could rot on my bed like a useless man. Try harder.”

Martin gritted his teeth, sweat dripping down his pale face. His left leg twitched forward, but the moment he pressed his weight down, fire shot through his spine. He cursed and nearly toppled. “Do you want to fucking try?!”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Very well then.”

Before Martin could blink, Orso kicked Martin’s right leg forward. The crack of pain was instant. He collapsed to the floor, gasping, his eyes bulging as if he would scream but the breath caught in his chest.

  “You think I enjoy watching you suffer?” Orso said coldly. “You think I am cruel? No. Suffering drives growth. Pain is the seed of strength. If after two months of my care, you still cannot walk around this tiny room, then I have failed as a healer.”

Martin lay on the floor, chest heaving, fists clenched. He hated the man in that moment. Hated his harsh voice. But he also hated himself more, for being weak, for not knowing who he really was.

Wnen door creaked open.

Taylor stepped in, her face clouded with a frown. Her apron was stained green from herbs. She dropped a small basket on the table and exhaled. “Three bundles. That’s all I sold today. Three. Nobody’s buying. Luck hates me.”

Her eyes slid to Martin, who was still struggling to drag himself upright. “And yet here he is. Still crawling. Still useless.”

  “Taylor,” Orso warned, his tone low.

  “No, Father, let me say it.” Taylor crossed her arms, glaring at Martin. “He’s been here for months. Sleeping in our only bed while I sleep on the floor. Eating the food we can barely afford. And for what? To limp around this room like a cripple who doesn’t even try?”

Martin swallowed hard. His lips parted, but no words came. What could he say? He couldn’t even remember his own past, his own name.

The Taylor’s voice sharpened. “You’ve done your part, Father. You saved him. You treated him. But now? He’s a grown man. If he wants to live, he should fight for himself. We can’t carry him forever.”

The words cut deeper than Orso’s kick.

Before Orso could respond, the door burst open with a loud bang.

Two men swaggered inside without invitation. Their clothes were rough, their arms covered in tattoos that spoke of danger. The taller one grinned with missing teeth. The other twirled a small knife between his fingers like it was a toy.

  “Evening, Elder,” the taller one said with mock respect. “Since you’ve been avoiding us, we decided to pay you a visit.”

Orso stiffened. His jaw clenched. “This is not a good time.”

  “Oh, it’s always a good time for business.” The thug with the knife smirked. “You’re two months late. We’re here for your tax.”

Taylor stepped back, her face paling. Martin gripped his crutch tighter, forcing himself to stay upright though his legs screamed.

  “I will pay,” Orso said quietly. “Soon.”

The taller thug’s gaze slid across the room and landed on Martin. His eyes narrowed. “Well, well. What do we have here?”

The knife stopped spinning. The shorter thug tilted his head. “Didn’t we hear some noise in the village? People saying the old man was harboring someone? We thought it was just talk. But it seems…” He pointed the knife toward Martin. “…it’s true.”

Taylor’s breath hitched. Orso immediately stepped forward, his hands raised. “He is my nephew. A distant nephew. He came here after an accident. Just a few weeks. He’s no trouble.”

The taller thug sneered. “A nephew, eh? Funny we’ve never seen him before.”

  “What’s his name?” the one with the knife asked.

Orso didn’t flinch. “His name is Ryan.”

Martin froze. Ryan? His mind scrambled. The name felt foreign, but in that moment, he understood. If Orso had given him a name, it meant survival.

The thug raised a brow. “I wasn’t asking you, old man.” He stepped closer to Martin, towering over him. “I asked him. What’s your name, big man?”

Martin’s throat was dry. The silence between them stretched. If he said the wrong thing, if he stuttered, suspicion would spark.

Finally, he lifted his chin and said, “My name… is Ryan.”

The thug studied him. Too long. Too hard. Then, with a low chuckle, he stepped back. “Ryan, huh? Doesn’t look like a Ryan to me. But fine. We’ll play along.”

They turned to Orso. “Here’s the deal. Since you have a third mouth in your house, your tax just doubled. You pay up, or…” The knife man ran the blade lightly across the wooden table, leaving a deep scratch. “…we come back for something else.”

As they moved to leave, the taller thug paused at the door. His grin stretched wide, evil glinting in his eyes. “Oh, and Ryan?”

Martin stiffened as he turned to face them.

  “We’ll be seeing you around.” His voice dropped lower, mocking. “Maybe give you a proper welcome next time.”

The thugs finally left, their laughter echoing down the dusty road. The door creaked shut, leaving the room in heavy silence.

Taylor crossed her arms, glaring at Martin. “They’ll be back. And when they come, they won’t just ask for tax. They’ll want answers.”

Martin shifted uncomfortably, his grip on the crutch slipping. “Answers to what?”

Elder Orso sighed, rubbing his temples. “To who you are, boy. Villages like this don’t forget faces… and yours doesn’t belong here.”

Martin’s heart hammered against his ribs, as he realized the truth that he wasn’t just broken and nameless.

He was also a ghost in a place where ghosts weren’t welcome.