Splashing the Ink

The year was 1522. Luther dipped his pen into the ink. Eleven weeks had passed since he began translating the Bible, and the project was almost complete. Although his work would enrage the papacy and infuriate the devil, at least the peasant would be able to read the Scriptures like the priest.

A shadow slithered across the room. It was a familiar shadow, a shadow that had tormented him since he was a child.

“I know I am a sinner!” Luther screamed. “Leave me alone!”

The demon snarled. “You are worse than that, Luther. Your mouth is filthy and your work is useless. God could never use a creature like you.”

Luther knew his warts. He cursed like a sailor, drank like a fish, and if he ever owned his temper, it did not take him long to lose it.

Bats smashed against the window. “You will die in this castle,” screamed the shadow.

Luther had heard enough. The trembling reformer grabbed a well of ink and hurled it at the devil. It soared across the room and exploded against the wall, splattering ink everywhere. Knight George had slayed his dragon, and the creature disappeared into the darkness.

Luther’s original ink stain has long since vanished. Many fingers have faded the wall behind the heater, and some pilgrims have even taken pieces of it as relics. But every year someone, perhaps a castle custodian, secretly splashes the wall with a fresh coat of ink in hopes of keeping Luther’s legacy alive.