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The Girl lay shivering on the damp earthen floor of her cell, unable to move, unable to speak. Rotting scraps of food lay strewn about her in whatever spot they stopped after her jailer had tossed them at her. She was unable to eat any of it; not when it was fresh; not now as it rotted. The Girl felt herself growing increasingly ill as the days - nights - weeks of imprisonment drew on. Lack of proper nutrition; proper conditions, had taken its toll. She was very sick. She knew she might even die. Of this she was certain and even wished for. In her semi-conscious state she could still hope for release - be it death - from her torment. Why she was held prisoner thus, the girl knew was the doing of her evil brother who sought to prevent her from inheriting their family fortune. He was greedy to the point that he would turn on his own flesh and blood to keep the fortune to himself. What she could not understand, however, was why had she not yet been killed, for she remembered hearing her brother give instructions to the creature who imprisoned her to destroy her quickly and use her remains for his vile rites. He just need be sure nothing was identifiable of what may be left. Instead, this thing she came to know as The Voo Doo King chose to keep her locked in this dark cell in some underground cavern. He seldom tossed her anything to eat and often wreaked some form of torture on her, cutting her with a knife, jabbing at her with his spear. How she had not perished from loss of blood or infection she did not know, except that she had always had a strong fortitude. Now, however, it would seem she would die slowly of sickness and starvation. All her fortitude, -- her strong will - was to no avail. The Voo Doo King had not been around for more than a week, or so she guessed, for the only thing she had to gauge the passage of time by was the thin stream of sunlight which shown through a crack in a board directly over head. The girl prayed he was dead and as a pain wrenching cough wracked her tortured weakened body, she prayed even more for her own death. She was only vaguely aware of the boards above her cell being pulled back and of the enormous silhouette within the opening.
The Undertaker prowled the dark eerie woodlands looking for some clue to confirm his suspicions that one of his foes frequented these parts. He knew this particular creature himself would not be about for at their last encounter, The Undertaker did considerable bodily damage to him and he saw his opponent whisked away by medical technicians. Undertaker found out later that the Voo Doo King had been hospitalized. Without the controlling machinations of his former manager, Paul Bearer, The Undertaker found he had much more will of his own now and came and went as he pleased. However, without Paul Bearer's control over him, he was severely injuring more of his opponents now. Some of them he was sorry for later, for they were not all bad. He was trying more and more to exert his own self control and felt he made some leeway until he ran into the evil Voo Doo King. This vile scum, he knew, needed to be eradicated from the earth. Now he roamed these dank dark woods following a hunch, rumors he had heard of screams in the night and horrifying sounds of incantations echoing all about. If he could find the lair of the Voo Doo King and destroy it, the Voo Doo King would be forced to move on. - If he himself was not destroyed as well from encountering the Undertaker. Undertaker's long legs carried him almost noiselessly over the damp, rotting leaves. How a man as large as he could move so quietly was a wonder to all who knew him and a horror to all who opposed him. He moved thus now, effortlessly, taking in all he saw; all he heard. Suddenly, a sound brought him to a halt. He cocked his head ever so slightly, waiting - listening; no expression on his face. He heard it again - muffled as it was - he was certain he heard someone coughing. Slowly his eyes scanned the ground around him, for the sound seemed to come from below. Taking one foot, he brushed through the fallen leaves until the sound of his own movement changed slightly. Getting down on one knee he brushed the leaves with his hands and saw what appeared to be a wooden door. Clearing the door completely, the Undertaker found a knotted rope handle. He pulled. The old groaning wood gave without effort to the powerful sinews of the Undertaker. He threw it aside and lowered his lantern into the opening. Though his expression never changed from the same stoic countenance he always wore, the Undertaker was puzzled and a bit moved by what he was looking at. Without hesitation, he jumped down through the opening for a closer look. There on the ground before him lay a semi-naked young woman, badly battered, extremely emaciated. He could not tell if the few rags that covered her poorly were remnants of clothing, or something meant to be a cover for her. Was she alive? He crouched closer to her, holding the lantern for a better view. Reaching out one large callused hand, the Undertaker brushed the hair from the young woman's face, noting a wound running from her forehead, straight down across the left eye, ending at the corner of her mouth. He traced the wound with one finger. The young woman stirred, inaudible to all but the Undertaker's keen vision, and looked at him through silted eyes as he moved his finger to the pulse point on her jugular. She lived - barely - for how much longer, he was not certain. He knew he would not leave her here. On closer examination he found the rags to be a scant cover. The Undertaker removed his own long black duster, pulled away the rags and covered the battered naked girl with his cloak. Looking about him he saw they were within a barred, secure cage. The only way out was upward - the way in which he entered. Setting the lantern on the ground, the Undertaker lifted the limp girl and lay her across his shoulder. He then began to climb to the top of the cell, using the few cross bars and latches as foot holds. Once at the top, he balanced himself agilely on the edge where he was able to grab the opening doorframe with one hand while he held the girl securely to himself with the other. The muscles bulged on the Undertaker's arm but no sign of strain shown upon his face as he pulled both himself and the young woman to the surface above. Looking down into the dungeon below, the Undertaker removed a rope with a hook on the end from his side. He lowered it into the hole and snagged the lantern he had left there. After pulling it up he opened the tank on it and poured the liquid into the opening before him, shaking it to assure the Kerosene spattered far and wide below. He then took the still burning lantern and smashed it into the dungeon, watching expressionlessly as the flames spread. After he was sure the fire had established itself, the Undertaker turned with his burden toward his home. He needed no light to find his way - instinct would guide him. Focus slowly established to the girl's eyesight. Memory of the cage - the torture - pain - but not here. Different smell - different feel - different. Her eyes scanned her surroundings - a room -- sink - table - stove - a bed - no - two beds - one very large, the other smaller - make shift - the one in which she lay. No colors in this room - only grays and black - except for the fire on the hearth. The girl's head swam, she had been raising it at the neck, trying to see - to understand - she was too weak. Her head fell back into the pillow. She sighed - closed her eyes and ran a dry tongue over even dryer lips.
Almost immediately she felt a hand cradle the back of her head, lifting it ever so gently. A cup touched her lips and soothing cool water was trickled through and as this realization struck her, the young woman began to drink thirstily, greedily, until besieged by a coughing fit as some of the water found its way into her air passages. She felt her head placed back on the pillow, covers being rearranged around her. Head still swimming, the girl opened her eyes, determined to focus on the owner of that voice. A large auburn haired shape loomed over her; its back toward her as it straightened the bed covers, then reached into a basin next to the bed to wring the excess water from a cloth. Turning toward her -- wiping her face with the cloth -- wetting it and wringing it again -- placing it on her forehead. The girl found herself staring into the stern face of a man, beard and moustache as auburn as his long hair, a single teardrop tattoo on his right cheek just below the eye. He stood to his full height, looming over her, and a giant of a man - massive chest -broad shoulders - mammoth powerful arms and hands. He looked directly into her eyes - never smiling - never changing expression. She felt as though he were reaching for her soul. Her vision blurred, head swam. She once again lost consciousness. For days the young woman drifted in and out of consciousness, besieged by fever and chills. Through silted eyes and at times vision tinted red with a feverish haze, she saw the same giant of a man, clad always in the same black and grays, always there by her side - giving succor - cooling water - soothing dampened cloths to her face, arms, body. Never speaking much, only a few quiet words of encouragement. Her mind could not grasp the reason for this succor. She did not know him - could not fathom who - or why. Many times her feverish state took her back to her days of agony and torture. Then, slowly, as the fever began to recede, snatches of memory returned to her like the slow flashing images in a pictograph. A lantern on a earthen floor - large callused hand - hair being brushed from her face - lying across a broad shoulder - climbing - not her - him with her - being carried through dark woodlands draped over his shoulder - this room - this bed - so large but so gentle as he cared for her - bathed her - hand gently cradling the back of her head - cool water - "Not too much now - sleep." - "Sleep." The Undertaker heard the girl's breathing change from the fitful labored rasp of fever to a slow, steady one which signified sleep - normal sleep. He knew she was over the worst now, ready to start the slow road to recovery. It was a long fight to save her; she had lost so much blood - had so much infection in her wounds. Though he was not a doctor, he did have immense knowledge of medicine and healing the human body. By this he knew she would sleep for a time with no need of tending. He too could rest now, -- sleep - something he had only done in light snatches, always alert to the sounds the girl made. Always ready to give aide - comfort. The Undertaker crept slowly into his own bed, removing only his shirt and shoes, barely draping a cover across himself. His mind touched briefly on why he would give care to this young woman - why he did not simply drop her by a hospital and leave her to be cared for there. Turn his back. Walk away. - Briefly - but the Undertaker's mind is not one as that of the average man. He did not dwell on such as this - what ifs - should haves - No. Her enemies were his as well - that was enough. Sleep overtook him. Over the next several weeks the girl's strength slowly returned. While the Undertaker still fed and cared for her, he knew she could be left alone for periods of time. Gradually he began to resume his normal routine of work in his private workshop. The girl became aware of the times he was gone and once when her strength had returned enough to her that she could walk short distances, she snuck out to his workshop to find him lying on his back, lifting huge slabs of concrete above his chest as a weight lifter would a set of weights. She stared mesmerized, as he lifted the huge stones (which she thought strangely resembled tombstones,) seemingly effortlessly until her head began to swim. She felt her strength fade and could no longer stand. The Undertaker was aware of her presence, but said nothing. Now he laid aside the stone he was pressing, slowly stood, and walked over to her. She had slumped to her knees against the doorway of his shop. He scooped her into his arms with ease, and without a word, carried her back into the house.
"You shouldn't have been out of bed yet," he admonished in a soft, deep voice as he tucked her back under the bed covers. "You're not quite strong enough."
He hesitated briefly - the thought crossed his mind to tell her a name - one he had not used in twenty years. He demurred. "Others know me as the Undertaker." He replied, turning his back to walk away. He stood immobile. No one had said those words to him in what seemed forever. He felt strange. A slow incline of his head was the only acknowledgement he gave but for the girl, it was enough. She settled into sleep with a smile on her face.
The girl's admiration and respect for this large powerful man grew as the days went on. That he was her rescuer, she knew. He had brought her into his own home and clothed, fed and cared for her as though it were the only thing to do. (She noted that he had given her one of his own large black shirts to wear which covered her to just below the knees like a gown.) Not once did he ever offer to harm her even though they shared the same bedchamber. Periodically, she'd hear a car pull up outside and hear someone call out to him. - "Undertaker - its time." Then he would put on his duster and a hat and leave for several hours, locking the door behind him. Never a word. When he returned, he would be exhausted and merely collapsed into his own bed. One night, the young woman ventured over to his bedside, poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the stand next to him and shook him gently before he settled in. "Here," she said softly offering him the cooling liquid.
The Undertaker's eyes met hers. He raised slightly, drank, then motioned he had had enough. She sat, staring into his eyes. His large hand touched the side of her face, thumb gently caressing her cheek. On one occasion the Undertaker came home to find the girl tossing and thrashing, screaming out in her sleep. She was in the throes of a terrible nightmare - perhaps reliving her days of torment. He touched her arm, hoping to awaken her, but she only struck out at him and crawled to the corner of the bed, tucking her knees to her chin fetally. Her eyes were open but she was still in a sleep state, not recognizing him. He tried quieting her, speaking softly, reassuring her, but she was too frantic - unaware of her present surroundings. The Undertaker finally grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her to him. The young woman screamed and fought violently. Though he was loath to do it, the Undertaker knew he had but one option. He slapped her, hard, across one cheek. It was hard enough that her head jerked to the side. He prayed that it had not been too hard. Sometimes he did not know his own strength. Slowly the girl turned to him, tears welling in her eyes, but the relief of recognition was there as well. She collapsed against his massive chest, sobbing. Undertaker held her to him, rocking her gently. He was tired but she needed him. This was strange and new to him. He put an arm around her shoulders, one under her knees and carried her to his bed. He threw a cover lightly over them both and there they both slept, she beside him - her head resting still on his broad chest. Him with arms securely wrapped around her. As the time passed and she strengthened, the girl would accompany the Undertaker to his workshop, sometimes just watching, sometimes handing him the tools of his trade. She was happy in the company of this strange big man and happiness was a thing she had experienced so little of after her mother passed away 3 years hence. From that time on she had lived with her stepfather and half brother. While the stepfather showered her with as much love and attention any real father could, her half brother was a horror to deal with. He was always jealous of his father's attention of her and upon their father's untimely death (an accident, they said, -- not fully explained. She suspected the boy had a hand in it - he was truly devious!) Her brother became his true evil self on finding his father's fortune was to be split equally between them. She tried to think little on her past, realizing she had never even told Undertaker her name. The time didn't seem right for it, as she wasn't even sure she wished to go by her given name anymore. Now she contented herself just sitting, watching, and growing in awe and admiration of the power of this man. Though he spoke little, she sensed he enjoyed her company and would reward her at times with a faint smile - a hand cupped gently beneath her chin - a light caress with the backs of his fingers on her cheek. One night, as he prepared to leave her for whatever nocturnal activity he engaged in, he seemed more withdrawn - preoccupied. Finally when the long black car pulled up and the driver called out the usual "Undertaker - it's time." He slowly placed the hat on his head, touched the door latch, then paused. "You are strong now." He said with outlooking at her. Was there a catch of emotion in his voice? "Strong enough to leave - if you wish." With out another word he left her standing there staring after him. Did he wish her to leave? She was not sure. At times he was so difficult to understand, always within himself - only allowing her so far inside his wall. She prayed he was not telling her to go; she had no where to go. The girl sat on her bed, knees pulled to her chin, arms wrapped around them. He had said "If you wish." She knew she did not. That night, when the car returned with him as usual, all did not seem right. The young woman heard one car door slam, which would normally have been him getting out, but then she heard another door open and something very heavy being thrown on the ground. The car sped away rapidly. The young woman strained her ears, trying to detect some sound of the Undertaker; watching the door latch for movement. None came. Creeping on tiptoe, the girl went to the window and moved the sash only slightly. The sight, which met her, caused her heart to skip a beat. On the ground, motionless, lay the Undertaker. Without hesitation she ran out to him, shaking him, trying to revive him. Frightened at his limpness and lack of response, the girl lay her head on his massive chest, listening. - It was there - a heart beat - still formidably strong though the large man lay unconscious. It had begun to rain while he was gone and now since he lay here in the open, the rain seemed to be coming down in torrents. She knew she would somehow have to get this man who must weigh upwards of 300 pounds, into the dry warm house. The girl ran to the workshop. She had remembered an open front two-wheeled cart there. Grabbing it quickly she returned. She pulled on his arms but could not budge him. She grew frantic. "Please Undertaker!" she begged tearfully, "Please wake up - I can't move you myself." She began to sob. The Undertaker stirred, rolled to his side and attempted to get to his feet. The girl allowed him to use her for support. All he could manage was to roll himself into the cart. Seizing the opportunity, the girl wheeled him into the house, stopping the cart next to his bed. There she was able to roll him into the bed, pull his drenched clothing off him and cover him. Upon close examination in the light of the room, she noted that his ribs had a nasty bruise on the left side. She feared they were broken. He was bleeding from his scalp and had another cut above his right eye. The young woman ministered to him as best she could, dressing his wounds, binding his ribs tightly. The gash within his scalp worried her. She was hard pressed to stop the flow of blood, finding it necessary to hold a compress to it for the remainder of the night. She fell asleep next to him; hand holding the compress to his head; her head resting on his chest, comforted by the steady thrum of his heart beat and the slow steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath. The Undertaker opened his eyes, at first not recognizing where he was; then slowly gaining a sense of his surroundings. He stirred, causing the girl to sit up abruptly. She quickly pulled the compress away from his head, examining the wound. She was pleased that the flow of blood had ceased. She dipped a cloth in the water by the Undertaker's bed, wrung the excess water from it and began wiping his face where the blood had run down. Undertaker grabbed her wrist, stopping her ministrations. He tried to sit up grimaced once, then lay back down. "Don't try to sit up so fast," the young woman instructed, "I think your ribs are broken." He closed his eyes and swallowed, nodding his assent. He turned his head toward the girl and looked directly into her eyes. Feeling a bit uneasy under his scrutiny, the girl tried to wipe at the blood once again just for something to do. He stopped her again.
"You stayed," he rasped, reaching into her once more with his gaze. Undertaker thought he saw tears in her eyes - she misunderstood -"No!" he said quickly, a little louder than he meant to. She jumped a bit, startled. He softened his voice, "Stay - please." There was a word he could not remember using for a very long time. He vaguely wondered what this snip of a girl did to bring about these changes in him. Only vaguely - for he knew only that he enjoyed her company and wished her to go no where. He was suddenly wracked by a fit of coughing. The girl quickly poured a glass of water, helped him rise to one elbow, and held the glass for him to drink. He signified that he had enough and collapsed back onto the bed. Running a large hand down over his face, the Undertaker despaired at how weak he felt. He knew he would not get up so quickly from this one. Only rarely had he ever been beaten in his encounters with his foes but this time the match was unfair. Three of them teamed up against him. - Took him by surprise. He had no chance. Undertaker turned to look at the girl -'no' he thought, 'not girl - young woman.' He raised his hand, touched her cheek, caressing it with his thumb. If she had not stayed, he knew he would be still lying outside in the rain. Perhaps he would not even be alive now. "Thank you," he whispered. She took his had and pressed her cheek deeper into it, wiping her tears. |
To be continued...