Won't do me no good washing in the river

May 17, 2012 22:31

Title Won't do me no good washing in the river- Part one Mobile to Biloxi
Pairing Eventual David Silva/David Villa, Samir Nasri/Gael Clichy, Past David Silva/Adam Johnson
Rating This part pg13
Word Count 4756
Disclaimer Not true
AN: Thank you to albion_lass for agreeing to beta this monstrosity. To everyone who helped write parts, responded to frantic research queries, and lent an ear, thank you thank you thank you. And yes, heavily influenced by the Civil Wars' song 'Barton Hollow'.

Summary I honestly don't know how to summarize this... so this is what you should know: The year is 1860, David Villa is a Pastor in a pre- American Civil War era south who finds himself wanted for murder and aiding abolitionists. Basically a history lesson disguised as a fic stumbling towards New Orleans. Silva born on the Trail of Tears, Zlatan as a brothel owner, Nasri as the wealthy cotton merchant, Joe Hart as a bewildered Englishman, and Mario Balotelli as Marie Laveau's prodigy? Yeah, it's all here.



David views the uncomfortable feeling of sticky sweat and sleeping on the ground as a penance. His skin both burns and itches from the insect bites- he feels like he has a layer of grease and sin painted on him but he knows he deserves it. They're too far from the ocean for the breeze to keep mosquitos away or provide relief from the heat that is suffocating even in the middle of the night. He sits up, eyes on the road a few hundred feet away from them, hand on his gun as he watches a man on a horse slowly trod on by, nearly invisible but for the moon. He holds his breath.

When the man fades from view his eyes turn back to the man sleeping with his back on the tree next to him. He's clutching a large bag in his arms; David doesn't know what's in it, only that it's important enough to kill for.

He runs his fingers over the cross around his neck.

*

He's not from Alabama. He's not used to these rural towns where everyone knows everyone's business from the day they're born til they're dead and buried, and even then people talk about them for years after. There's a small one room cabin behind the church; he sleeps there but he's not sure he lives there. He's not really sure he lives anymore.

Spanish moss drips from the trees and in the early spring, the magnolias are already in bloom. The women in town leave pitchers of tea and biscuits wrapped in scraps of leftover cloth for him on the steps of the church. As he sweeps in the morning, making sure the Lord's house is clean, he hears them swishing up the lane, the sound of glass against concrete, the soft rustle of straw baskets.

"Typhoid," they whisper amongst themselves, "wife and two daughters. Church sent him down here because no one else would come."

They click their tongues and murmur every variation of "bless his heart" he's ever heard.

David keeps sweeping. Outside a Yellowhammer cries in the dusty heat.

*

The man tells David to call him Silva, but David doubts that's his real name. They trudge on as the southern sun beats down on them, drawing sweat and exhaustion from them, making it hard to breathe. It's the time of summer when the shade of the trees provide little to no respite and the only way to rid yourself of any discomfort is to find a creek or waterhole.

David dreams of water, of washing away his physical and spiritual problems, of wetting his parched throat. It won't do him any good- he's not sure he'll be able to rid himself of his demons anytime soon.

He shoots his traveling companion a sideways glance. No, traveling companion is not the right title, perhaps partner in crime or jailor is a better description. Savior works as easily as jailor though. David doesn't know what to call him. The sun doesn't seem to bother Silva and aside from the occasional grin he flashes David's way, he has determination chiseled onto his face.

Silva came into town on a rainy day and took the only boarding room. Sitting on the front porch, eating a red apple, he told the ladies he was just passing through on his way to Atlanta to see his mother. David heard them gossiping about the charming stranger before he saw him.

David should have known the devil on first sight.

"Listen," Silva stops in the middle of the road and holds his hand up; David hears nothing but Yellowhammers and the leaves rustling. He points somewhere off to their right, "This way."

They end up by a creek. After they refill their water skins, David watches as Silva strips naked and wades out until the water is just above his waist. The bag is sitting hidden against a few rocks, always in sight. The smaller man grabs his clothes and rinses them off and David knows he should follow suit, but for now, he wants to sit and forget.

"You should come in," Silva beckons him with a loose smile. "Aren't you pastor types always saving souls in the water?"

David doesn't say anything. He's not sure Silva can be saved. He's not sure if he can save anyone anymore. If he doesn't practice what he preaches, he's no good to anyone.

"It's okay," Silva tells him a little while later, after David has joined him in the cold water. "I'm a Quaker."

David laughs.

*

Silva won't tell him too much, he's still afraid that David will run off and it's better for both of them if Silva doesn't tell him where they're going. Every once in awhile David thinks he hears or smells the ocean. They spend the morning with their backs to the sun and the nighttime chasing it, so he assumes they're sticking along the coast and going west.

"Why are you helping me?" David asks him one morning as he gathers enough dew in his hands to wipe his face with. "Why didn't you leave me?"

"I can't kill you," Silva doesn't bother turning around to look at him, "and if I didn't, they would." He stops suddenly and stares at David, eyes darker and more serious than David can ever remember. "Firing squad or noose?"

"Old age," David mutters, unable to hold Silva's gaze for a more than a few seconds.

Silva's eyes light up brighter than the goldenrods that surround them. His laugh reminds David of his daughters- light and carefree. It's hard to believe this man is capable of anything bad. David knows evil comes in many forms. David's not really sure what the difference between good and evil is anymore and if it's not so much of a gray area.

*

They're nearly caught at a town near the Mississippi border. It's a medium sized town, large enough for a post office, a few shops, and a square where there's a market once a week, but not much else. It's nightfall when they quietly enter; Silva explains it's easier to escape at night than during the day. They enter the town separately so it doesn't look like they're traveling together. David uses a few coins to buy provisions, bread and some dried meat, and Silva slinks off somewhere. The man working the counter asks a few questions - 'where are you going?' 'Arkansas' 'what's in Arkansas?' 'my brother'- none of it's true. On an impulse, David buys two peppermint sticks from the glass jars that line the counter. If nothing else, the peppermint will feel cool in his mouth as the humidity drowns him.

"Be safe," the man tells him as David puts the items in his bag. "All sorts of trouble makers on the roads these days."

The words are barely out of his mouth when he sees Silva running by him. His first instinct is to follow him, but he knows they both have a better chance of making it out of this if he just stays still. A few soldiers round the bend and David's heart plummets to his feet. God stopped listening to him a long time ago, but he says a prayer anyway. There's a heavy hand on his shoulder and the shop owner pulls David back into his store.

"Hide in the cellar," he tells David, pulling him behind the counter and showing him the door in the floor. "They won't find you. I'll tell you when they're gone."

David's not the only person hiding under the floorboards of the man's store. There is a woman with, he assumes, her child. The door upstairs opens and the woman holds a finger against her mouth. David's heard of these stations, but he didn't know they existed. As they listen, he learns Silva's eluded the soldiers and he breathes easier.

The man feeds them and when the sun is down, he points the woman and child in the direction of the Big Dipper and tells them 'follow the drinking gourd'. When they've disappeared, he tells David to watch out for the bounty hunters on the road. Pointing to the west, he wishes him good luck.

Silva is waiting for him on a tree branch on the outskirts of town. He embraces David, reeking of the crocodile oil he slathers on himself to keep the mosquitoes away, and David can't explain the rush of relief that fills him.

*

"There's a man in New Orleans."

It's too hot to travel while the sun is in the sky. They've been passing more creeks and rivers and likewise have been spending more time skirting the edges of towns to avoid being seen. David thinks they're close to Pascagoula; he's heard legends of a river that sounds like it's singing. As they lay in the shade on the riverbank, hidden in a depression and surrounded by leaves and vines, he listens as Silva's voice and that of the river run together.

"If we get separated or anything happens, go to him and tell him I sent you. His name is Nasri." Silva smiles at the sky. "He'll help you." He finishes with an endearment of sorts whose meaning David doesn't know.

Digatiya, or something like that, is a word that David can't pronounce; the letters and syllables won't roll off his tongue like they do Silva's. David hasn't asked Silva about these words, the foreign words that David's never heard before. He's not sure if it's code and Silva is having a laugh at his expense or if it's a language David is just ignorant of. He doesn't ask and Silva never offers an explanation.

At some point David dozes off in the cozy heat of the afternoon and doesn't wake up until he hears splashing. He doesn't see Silva next to him and sits up, eyes scanning the river. There are a few ripples but nothing else. Ten, maybe twenty seconds later, Silva's head emerges from the water, knife in between his teeth, and he's laughing at himself. No one ever smiles these days, and David finds it remarkable that Silva is able to find humor around him. The younger man looks like he's part of the nature around them, a wild child who was forced into civilization but always remembered his roots. David feels a familiar stirring in his lower belly, something he hasn't felt since his wife, and he looks away. He's not sure if it's shame or sun that's making him burn.

Silva sees David is awake and smiles at him, but holds up a hand to prevent him from entering the river. David watches as Silva floats slowly toward a clump of bushes on the shoreline, dark eyes searching for something. He disappears and it feels like minutes before he emerges, body flailing and lungs gasping for breath as he clutches a struggling catfish to his chest. Silva has it gutted and its barbs cut off before he makes it back to David. David's staring at him with a slack jawed sort of look and Silva smiles as if to say 'you've never seen anyone noodle a catfish before?'.

They eat better than they have all week. David lets Silva rub crocodile oil on his skin and doesn't complain about the smell. The setting sun paints the sky brilliant purples, pinks, and oranges and Silva comments about how being on the river reminds him of home.

"Where's home for you?" Silva asks him as they hide their fire and pack their meager belongings for the road. "I know you're not from that town."

"Charleston," David tells him, watching as Silva buttons his sun bleached shirt. "South Carolina. You?"

"Tahlequah."

David follows Silva along the bank of the river in silence. Tahlequah weighs heavily in his mind- he knows the name but he can't place it. It's not until they're hiding up in a magnolia as some men on horses ride on by that David remembers why it sounds familiar. Silva's skin catches some light from the flame and David knows why Silva looks like the land's child.

"There's an old Natchez story about the people who used to live here." Silva tells him when the river starts to quietly sing when the wind picks up and the sun disappears. "There was a war to be fought and rather than fight and lose to their enemy, the Pascagoula tribe joined hands and drowned together in the river. They sang as they were dying, that's why the river sings today."

David hears the words of the river in his mind; he doesn't know what they mean but he understands none the less.

*

Biloxi is a sleepy little town of fishermen and large boarding houses. It's the sort of town the wealthy escape to. There are enough people coming and going that no one notices as they slip in during the night. They look like servants or fishermen, and blend in with the working class part of town. David follows Silva to the back door of a modest sized home- Silva knocks a sort of code against the door.

The man who opens the door beckons them in and bolts the door behind them. He looks at the bag in Silva's hand and looks relieved when Silva nods. The man, Fernando, tells them their boat doesn't leave for two more days and they'll be safe in his home until then. He shows them to the guest room and tells them they can speak in the morning.

"Take the bed, I'm good with the floor," Silva places the bag in the dresser and props a chair against it- no one will be able to sneak in and steal it without either of them waking up.

"There's enough room for both of us," David mutters, averting his gaze as Silva starts to remove his clothes.

He recites verses and prayers in his head as he strips down to his undergarments and slides into the bed. Silva folds his clothing and puts them on top of the dresser. He pours some water into the washbasin and washes his face and neck before crawling into the other side. Silence is the only thing that passes between them for a while. David continues his prayers, the words he would say to his congregation, the words he's not sure anyone but himself hears.

"Say one for me," Silva's voice is barely a whisper and he sounds like he's barely awake. "Please."

David reaches across the small space and clutches Silva's hand. He feels safer than he has in a long time.

*

Fernando has provided new clothing to replace the worn, travel strained rags they were wearing. David dresses slowly, running his fingers over the smooth cotton. It's been years since he's cared about what he looks like, wearing the rough homespun shirts the ladies in the village provide for him. He takes his time shaving, applying the lather across his face and holding the razor so he doesn't cut himself. With a bath and clean clothes that fit him, he looks and feels human.

Silva's standing in the middle of the room downstairs as Olalla pins his sleeves back to sew. David wants to laugh, seeing how the shirt swallows the smaller man, but he doesn't want to offend. Nora's playing a clapping game with her brother and David remembers the peppermint sticks in his bag. Taking the larger one, he snaps it in half and offers it to the children. Their happy exclamations and giggles are a sort of balm on his heart; he feels lighter than he has in a while.

"You look very handsome," Olalla tells David as she starts sewing Silva's shirt. "I reckon you will look right at home in New Orleans."

"He'll be popular with the ladies," Silva agrees and David's face burns.

*

Silva goes with Fernando down to the docks and David is left at the house with Fernando's wife and children. He helps watch the children as she washes clothes and stirs the pots over the cooking stoves in the fire pit out back. Olalla is quiet and strong; she reminds him of his wife. She also shares a name with his youngest daughter. She knows who he is, Fernando keeps nothing from her, and procures a Bible for him. Leo sits on his lap, occasionally reaching up to grab at the hair on his chin, as David reads from it. Nora's not old enough to help her mother with chores and instead sits at David's feet, staring up at him as he reads aloud to Olalla.

He looks up at one point, sees Nora gazing up at him and Leo playing with a small wooden horse as Olalla chops an onion, and feels his throat constrict. Corinthians comes out as stuttered mess and he stops reading. He tries to start again, but he can't- his words have failed him and he feels tears burning at the corner of his eyes. Olalla doesn't miss a beat- she sends her daughter inside the house with her son and fetches a glass of water for him. Sitting in the chair across from him, she keeps him silent company until he's able to speak again.

"I'm sorry ma'am," he mutters as he takes a long draw from the cup.

David tries to explain about his wife, his daughter, but he can't find the strength or words. It's been two years now, but sometimes it still feels like yesterday. Olalla's eyes are understanding. She takes the Bible from him and begins to read. They're still sitting outside when Silva and Fernando return.

*

"I had a lover once," Silva tells David as they sit on the beach and watch the boats return in that night.

David looks at him expectantly. Silva is still a puzzle in his mind. He has some of the outer pieces in place and a few of the obvious pieces put together, but it's mostly a jumbled mess.

"When we get to New Orleans..." there's hesitance in his smile, like there's something he wants to tell David but is afraid to. "It's different. My people, they are good people, the best, but they are different."

"It is not my place to judge," David murmurs. "I can't."

He thinks of the rain that night, of returning to his cabin after checking on one of the elder members of their small town. In the light of the full moon he sees two men scuffling over something. Picking up a large stick, he yells at them to stop. There's a glint of metal in the moonlight and he hears every drop of rain hit the ground.

The gun doesn't go off. The smaller of the two manages to hit the larger hard enough that he drops the gun. David hurries forward and picks the gun up out of the mud. He's held a gun long enough to learn how to shoot, but that was years ago and the cold metal is foreign in his hands. The larger man has the smaller pinned down, screaming words obscene enough to make David's ears burn. One hand is around the man's throat, choking him, and David watches as he reaches for a large rock. David yells at him to stop, but the man pays him no attention.

The gun hits the ground a second after the crack of its firing echoes through the small clearing. David doesn't remember taking any sort of aim or firing it. All he sees is metal in his hand, the rain rolling down the side of the barrel. The bullet hits the man square in his chest. The only thing David hears is the labored last breaths of the man, choked and shaky as his lungs fill will blood and he drowns in his destroyed lungs. There's enough light for him to see the mud is streaked with red.

"You're a good man," Silva's voice is soft yet strong like the river, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"I took a life."

"You saved mine. Because of what you did, more will be saved."

David doesn't say anything and Silva lays down on the sand. David follows suit; the warm sand shifts beneath him and cradles him.

"He died." Silva says as the sun hits the water. "In Kansas, riding with John Brown."

David blinks at 'he', but he doesn't say anything. There's a frown on Silva's face as he looks up at the sky. David feels like he should say something, he's spent his life bringing comfort to others, but if he can't find comfort himself after the death of a loved one, how can he inspire that comfort in others? David doesn't lie, David doesn't like to spread false hope.

"His name was Adam," David's never heard Silva speak like this, his tone is both warm and cold. "He died fighting for other people's freedom. But we're all slaves to one thing or another. Your God, your book, it's not too kind to people like us."

"My God is not an angry one. My God is one of forgiveness." Silva looks at him as he speaks. "We all sin, we are all imperfect, but if we ask for forgiveness, God will listen." David swallows the lump forming in his throat. "People twist his words, use the book to exclude instead of include. Those people will never know him in their hearts."

Silva's quiet for a minute, digesting what David's said. "If your God will forgive you, why haven't you forgiven yourself?"

David doesn't have an answer for that.

*

The black bag is tucked away inside of a rucksack. David still doesn't know what is in it, money or documents of importance he supposes, but he doesn't find that he cares. David has never been one for curiosity and he supposes it's because as a Pastor he's always been privy to personal information. With rumors of war on the horizon, David assumes Silva is a spy or runner of sorts. He just doesn't know if it's for the government, a particular state, or for private interests. Given their need of staying out of sight, David assumes it's private interests.

Before they leave, Olalla hands David the Bible he's been reading from and insists that he keeps it. He stumbles through a thank you, humbled that she is parting with something so precious. Taking the last candy stick from his bag, he presses it into her hand and gestures towards the children. She smiles and nods.

David finds he has encountered more kindness and grace on the road than from the pulpit. This is a strange walk of redemption.

*

Fernando's ship runs cotton between Biloxi and New Orleans. Depending on the winds, it takes two to six days. Fernando entrusts their care to a man named Meireles who looks every part of a sailor, down to the last tattoo. David's never seen anyone covered in this many tattoos, not even when visiting the prisons. David's not been around sailors before, and finds their company unlike any he's ever encountered.

Before the ship can leave harbor, a shout comes from above deck and they hear Meireles cursing. There are frantic footsteps down to the berths where David and Silva are stowing their bags. One of the crewmates hisses for David and Silva to follow him down to the lowest deck of the ship to where the cotton bales are stored. Pulling a bale out of the way, he pulls a board up and they fold themselves into the small space under it. David raises an eyebrow at the guns and ammunition that crowd the space. Silva curls into him, grabbing his hand. David can't breathe.

Heavy footfall enters the storage room. They're questioning someone, someone who only responds with a stuttered 'no English, no English'; there's the sound of something hitting skin and someone crumbles to the floor.

"Get off my ship," Meireles sounds livid; there's a ripping sound, like the people searching the ship are taking it apart.

"You got papers for all your coloreds?"

"No one on my ship is a slave, they're all free."

The words become too low for David to hear, but the room is eventually cleared. David's eyes are closed. He becomes aware of Silva murmuring gently against his neck, but he can't hear the words and he's not sure if they're in English. His hot breath feels like ice against David and he shudders. The boards creak around them as the ship sways in the dock. The wood feels rough against him, the air is cold and he's sure they're under the waterline. David can't move, he can't breathe, he wonders if this is what death is like.

The ship shifts, becomes buoyant in the water, and David sighs a breath of relief. He hears Silva's words clearly- he's reciting story of the Book of Jonah. David blinks.

"God forgives the people of Ninevah, God forgives Jonah," David mutters and he feels Silva's lips draw back into a smile against his neck. "He just had to ask."

"Do you think he was really swallowed by a whale?"

"I don't know," David admits.

"Maybe it was a smuggler's boat."

"That would have probably been too scandalous to be written."

"Jesus kept company with beggars, sinners, and prostitutes."

When they are pulled from underneath the boards and returned to their berths, David spends the rest of the night staring up at the bunk above him. He wonders if like Jonah, he is running away from his faith. He's not sure if he'll find the strength to fully face it again.

*

The ship drifts in the endless starlight. David can't tell where the ocean stops and the sky starts. The coast is covered in a thick fog and only the occasional lighthouse lets them know they are close to land. He watches as Silva spreads some sort of ointment on the cheek of one of the sailors. There's a large bruise from where he was hit with the butt of a rifle and he laughs through the pain, hair bouncing up and down as he chatters on in Portuguese even though no one other than Meireles can understand him. Silva's speaking with the second mate, Juan, who the bruised sailor keeps on affectionately patting at. Above them steam from the stacks floats off into the night sky.

"You look like the devil's chasing you."

Meireles' first mate is a dark man named Didier. His voice is deep, words creole accented. The ratcatcher they keep on board is distrustful of everyone except Didier and sits next to him as he keeps watch. David reaches a hand out, but pulls it back when the cat hisses at him. Didier chuckles.

"He won't find you in New Orleans," Didier continues, "too many other sinners."

"He'll wait."

That draws a laugh from the surly man. "That he will, that he will."

Silva calls his name from the other side of the ship. David looks up and sees Silva smiling at him, the light of the lantern throws dancing shadows across his face. David forgets how to breathe. He thinks the Devil has already found him. The water calls to him; he's deaf to its absolution.

david villa, raul meireles, juan mata, david luiz, rps, didier drogba, adam johnson, fernando torres, david silva

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