The Death and Resurrection Of Martin Luther

The Cripple Who Fought Back

The morning sun burned unusually hot as Martin... now called Ryan...stretched in the yard. His once-bloated body was gone; muscle now lined his arms and chest. He leaned on his crutch, sweat dripping, breath steady.

  “You’re finally becoming a man of strength,” Elder Orso said, stepping out with a fishing net slung over his shoulder. His wrinkled eyes lingered on Martin’s frame with approval. “When I pulled you from the river, you were nothing but swollen flesh and broken bones. Now look at you.”

Martin gave a small laugh, rubbing his stubbled jaw. “It feels strange, but my body listens to me now. I don’t know who I was before, but I doubt I ever looked like this.”

The old man studied him. “You could pass for one of us now. Except that hair and beard, they grow wild.” He made a scissoring motion with his fingers. “A trim would make you presentable. I know there's an handsome face hiding behind all those hairs.”

Martin shook his head, fingers brushing his beard. “No… I like this look. It makes me feel… part of something. And I don’t know how else to say this, but—I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.”

Elder Orso tilted his head, his weathered face creasing into a half-smile. “What are you saying, son? I haven’t done anything worth thanking.”

“You saved me,” Martin said firmly, his voice low but steady. “You pulled me from that river when I should’ve been dead. You patched me up when I couldn’t even move. You gave me shelter, food… a place to belong and a name, even when I didn’t know my own name. That’s more than enough.”

For a moment, Orso just studied him, silent. Then he sighed, the sound heavy with years. “Maybe. But a man doesn’t stay alive because someone feeds him. He stays alive because he chooses to fight. You did that, not me. Remember that.”

Martin blinked, surprised. His lips curved into a small smile. “Then maybe you’ve given me more than I thought. You gave me the will to fight.”

Before Orso could reply, the door open and Taylor stepped out, her basket of herbs balanced on her hip. She wore a fitted shirt and jeans, her hair tied back, her eyes sharp as ever.

  “I’m going to the market,” she announced.

  “Take him with you,” Orso said immediately, jerking his head toward Martin. “He’s too used to these walls. Let him see the world around him.”

Taylor stopped dead, her frown deepening. “Father, I don’t need a babysitter. And dragging him along will slow me down.”

Martin smiled gently, lifting the crutch under his arm. “I’d like to go. Truly. The walk will do me good.”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “Fine. Just don’t expect me to wait if you start limping like an old man.”

She turned sharply, leading the way down the dusty path. Martin followed, every step a reminder of how far he’d come. His limp was permanent, Orso had said, but his strength was real. The world no longer felt as heavy on his shoulders.

Martin stayed close to Taylor as she spread her herbs on a cloth. He could feel eyes on him—villagers whispering about the stranger who had washed up from the river.

Then came the low mocking laughter.

Taylor stiffened. Martin turned and saw two thugs swaggering forward, the same ones who had stormed into Orso’s house before. The scar-faced leader smirked at Taylor, his gaze sweeping over her body.

  “Well, look who it is. Herbal girl looking mighty fine today.”

His partner chuckled, licking his lips. “She’s wasting her potential selling leaves. She should be entertaining men like us.”

Taylor ignored them, arranging her herbs. Martin felt his jaw tighten.

“Leave her alone,” he said firmly.

The leader sneered, stepping closer. “Still here, stranger? Thought you’d have crawled back to where you came from.”

His companion pointed at Martin’s crutch. “Look at him, half a man, limping after a woman.”

Some villagers turned, watching silently. Martin’s grip tightened on the crutch, but fear tugged at his chest. What could he really do?

Taylor slammed her herbs down. “You don’t own me. And you don’t own this market.”

The thug leader’s smile vanished. He reached out and smacked the basket from her hands, herbs scattering across the dirt.

Taylor’s fury boiled over. She slapped him across the face.

The man’s eyes burned with rage. He grabbed her wrist and twisted. Taylor cried out, but her body snapped into action and she drove her knee into his groin. He bent over with a grunt, releasing her.

The second thug lunged. Taylor swung her basket into his chest, knocking him back. She fought like someone who had been trained to survive.

Martin stood frozen, heart hammering. His mind screamed Do something. But fear clung to him. What if he failed? What if his strength wasn’t enough?

Taylor’s voice cut through the chaos.

  “Stop standing there, Ryan! Fight! Or are you just a sissy after all?”

The words struck him like a whip.

Something inside Martin snapped. He surged forward, swinging his crutch. It cracked against the thug’s ribs with a sickening thud. The man staggered, cursing.

The leader recovered, charging at Martin with a snarl. Martin lifted the crutch, bracing himself. The impact shook his bones, but he didn’t fall.

 His arm swung and the crutch smashed into the leader’s shoulder. The thug stumbled back, shocked.

The crowd erupted, shouts rising around them.

Martin panted, sweat dripping down his face. His fists trembled, but there was fire in his chest. He had never felt this alive.

The leader spat blood, glaring. “You… you’re no cripple.”

Martin froze, chest heaving as the words rang in his ears. The villagers murmured among themselves. Taylor, holding her bruised wrist, stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.

The thugs backed away, snarling promises of revenge. “This isn’t over. You’ll regret this, stranger.”

Martin didn’t chase them, his hands shook as he stared down at them. He hadn’t fought like a trained man, but the strength, the force behind his blows, it terrified even him.

Taylor bent to gather her scattered herbs, glancing up at him. “Looks like you’re not as useless as I thought.”

But Mar didn’t reply. His heart pounded with a question that clawed at his mind:

If he was weak before, how did he fight like that today?