[August 22nd] [The Alamo (1960)] Diamond in the Rough, 7

[insaneladybug.livejournal.com]

Title: Diamond in the Rough, scene seven
Day/Theme: August 22nd - Ignorance is the worst doctor
Series: The Alamo (1960 film)
Character/Pairing: Emil Sande, Davy Crockett, Father Fuentes (OC)
Rating: T/PG-13


By Lucky_Ladybug

Emil was deep in contemplation. He wandered down the dark streets, not really intent on going anywhere in particular. When he found himself passing the village church, he slowed and looked to it with mixed feelings.

He had been wounded here. He had nearly died in that dark cellar, his lifeblood spilling out over the stone floor. Now the building was back to normal. It did not look like anything unusual had happened there in centuries.

That annoyed him somewhat, for there to not be any indication of what had happened that night. Well, unless the blood was still on the floor, of course. That would be a grisly and most macabre reminder.

“Well, back to the scene of the crime, are we?”

He jumped a mile. “Who’s there?”

“Now, I know you haven’t forgotten me.”

Emil tensed. The voice was too familiar. As the moon shone down, it lit upon a figure leaning against the wall of the church, his arms folded and his legs crossed in a casual manner. The man was clearly translucent.

Emil stumbled, taking a step back. “I’m losing my mind,” he gasped.

“You’re not either,” Davy Crockett’s ghost retorted. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Of course I don’t,” Emil retorted. “How ridiculous.”

“What do you think I am, then?”

“A figment of my imagination,” Emil declared. “I knew I thought that steak at dinner was too rare.”

Crockett sighed, shaking his head. “I’m not a hallucination, Emil,” he protested. “It looks like we’re going to have to go through this all over again, getting you to accept I’m really here.”

“You spoke to me while I was comatose. Yes, yes, I remember.” Emil moved to walk past. “I have no desire to go through that again.”

“I’ll leave you alone. I just want to know what your intentions are with Flaca.”

That stopped Emil in his tracks. He whirled back. “That is none of your business,” he said, shocked into abandoning all insistence of this discussion being impossible. “You’re no longer among the living. What happens to Graciela doesn’t concern you.”

“Do you think caring about people stops when you’re dead?” Crockett looked regretful. “What a miserable life you’ve led.

“What happens to Flaca does still concern me. And with your reputation, I’d say I’ve got a right to be concerned. You’re not the sort I’d hope she’d want to be around.”

“Oh, she doesn’t want to be around me,” Emil countered. “It’s just that I’m the only person left from her old life. She doesn’t shoo me away because of her nostalgia.” He hoped that no one else would happen by. They might not see Crockett and instead think Emil was addressing the wall.

“She doesn’t shoo you away because she likes you, Friend. After everything you’ve done, she likes you.”

“That’s nonsense. Anyway, if you’re worried I’m going to shatter her heart into countless fragments, you can just stop now. All we are is two people who keep stumbling across each other. Eventually it will stop and we’ll each go our own way.”

“You must not want it to stop, making that pact with Flaca to deliberately look each other up. And she agreed to it without a fuss.”

Emil’s jaw dropped. “How do you know about that?”

“I know about all of your encounters,” Crockett told him. “What I don’t know is what’s going on in your head. And I wish you’d quit being so stubborn and just tell me.”

“Fine! So you want to know the truth?” Emil stepped closer. “I don’t know what’s going on in my mind, either. I don’t know how I feel about Graciela. And she knows that.”

“Alright. Fair enough. May I just humbly request that as soon as you do know, you let her know?”

“It’s a fair request,” Emil said. “Only I don’t fulfill requests from ghosts. Or imaginary visions. I’ll do whatever I please, as I’ve always done. You’d just better hope that what I please is to do as you’ve said.”

Crockett shook his head. “You really are a stubborn one. And you must have some good in you or Flaca wouldn’t give you the time of day. But when you act like this, you remind me of the night we met when we were both on the mortal plane.”

“Some things never change,” Emil declared. With dripping sarcasm he added, “Strangely enough, you’ve been reminding me a great deal of that night, too.”

The heavy doors of the church began to creak open. Emil blinked in surprise. The spectre was gone, just like that. He shook his head. Maybe he really had been seeing things.

“Emil?” Father Fuentes stared in amazement as he stepped outside. “What are you doing here, at this hour?”

Emil certainly had no intention of relating his experience with the supernatural. Instead, he spoke completely casually as he answered, “I was just out for a walk. I hope I didn’t disturb you, Father.”

“No, not at all. Only . . .” Father Fuentes frowned, puzzled. “I was sure I heard what sounded like a conversation out here.”

Emil stiffened. “A conversation? Did you hear multiple voices, Father?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure. Was someone else here?” The man looked up and down the vacant street, of course not seeing a soul.

“. . . I’m not entirely sure, either,” Emil said, not untruthfully.

As Father Fuentes continued to peer into the night, Emil grew somewhat nervous. He thought quickly, hoping for a change of subject. “I was wondering, Father,” he said at last.

“Yes?”

He sounded thoroughly occupied. Emil folded his arms. “Might I perhaps . . . see the cellar?”

That got his attention. Father Fuentes straightened, looking at Emil in amazement. “What?”

Emil sighed, letting his hands drop back to his sides. “I’ve been troubled lately, Father,” he admitted. “I thought maybe, if I saw that spot again and found that there was no trace of what happened, it would help. Oh, I know it sounds ridiculous. But . . .”

“Come inside, Emil,” Father Fuentes interrupted. He stepped into the chapel, holding one of the doors open for Emil to walk on in.

“Thank you.” Emil followed suit. Once he was inside, the door was shut behind him.

“What’s been troubling you, my son?” Father Fuentes asked in concern.

“I’m not sure of that, either,” Emil said. “I’ve been confused, restless. Sometimes I . . . I think I see things that aren’t there.”

A glimmer of understanding came into the man’s eyes. “Such as people?”

Embarrassed, yet somewhat relieved to have been found out, Emil nodded. “Yes.”

“So I did hear a conversation outside,” Father Fuentes mused.

“Oh, I had to have been talking to myself,” Emil protested, throwing his hands in the air. “There’s no such thing as . . .”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge,” Father Fuentes cautioned. “It’s a subject that really has no conclusive answer, but there are those who believe the spirits of the dead walk among us.” He took a candelabrum from off the altar. “Come, I’ll take you downstairs.”

Surprised, Emil went with him to the basement door and down the stone steps. The tense, knotted feeling in Emil’s stomach only grew as they came closer to the cellar. He had walked this path with some of his hired men that night. He remembered the voices echoing off the walls, discussing the weapons, excited at the prospect of taking them for the rebellion.

Emil had grown furious. Those weapons were his. He had stockpiled them for General Santa Anna. What right did those upstart rebels have to try to take them away from him? How had they even known of the guns’ existence?

Graciela, of course. Graciela was sympathetic to the rebels and had told them. She had betrayed him, just like everyone else had betrayed him.

Emil did not consciously realize it, but his pace had greatly slowed. At the bottom he had stopped short, not crossing into the actual room. Father Fuentes paused, glancing back. “Emil?”

His eyes widened at the sight of Emil’s wide and wild eyes, flushed skin, and the tight grip he had on the wall. He was staring into the room, breathing heavily, as though he were seeing the Devil himself. Father Fuentes was honestly worried.

“Emil.” He touched the younger man’s shoulder.

Emil gave a violent start. He looked to the father, as though only comprehending now that he was there. “. . . There’s nothing here now,” he rasped. “No weapons, no blood. But I . . . I can still picture it all in my mind, just as it happened then.” He left the stairs, slowly walking into the room. “It was right here that I fell.” He stopped by a spot near another wall. “I thought I was dead. . . .”

Father Fuentes walked over to him. “Emil, did you think you saw a spirit outside the church?” he asked, quietly and kindly.

“. . . Yes,” Emil admitted. “Crockett.”

“. . . Perhaps your experience of being so close to the grave left you with the ability to see spirits, at least at times,” Father Fuentes suggested.

Emil stared in disbelief. “Then . . . you don’t think I’m insane?”

“Not at all,” Father Fuentes assured him. “And it’s no wonder you’ve been unsettled. What happened to you would be enough to upset anyone. Seeing the spirit of the man who nearly caused your death doesn’t seem unusual at all to me.”

Emil paced the cold, stone room. “But is it all in my head or is it real? Why would he be haunting me? Hasn’t he done enough?”

Father Fuentes watched, patiently. “What was it he seemed to want?”

“He . . .” Suddenly Emil went red. This was an area he was not sure he wanted to explore.

“Anything you say is confidential, Emil,” Father Fuentes assured him.

Emil knew that. But it was still uncomfortable to talk about. “. . . He wondered what I plan to do about Graciela,” he mumbled. Louder he said, “He seemed to think there was something going on between us.”

Father Fuentes looked more amused than anything else. “And is there?”

“No!” Emil exclaimed. He started to pace again. “We just happen to run into each other all the time. That’s all.”

“Oh, I see. And Mr. Crockett doesn’t like that?”

“Well . . .” Emil sighed in exasperation. “I don’t suppose he minds, per se, as long as he’s sure I’m not going to hurt her. . . . Oh, what am I talking about?!” He leaned against the wall on an elbow. “I’m talking as though he’s real.”

“You still think he isn’t?”

Emil frowned, looking to Father Fuentes. “I don’t believe in ghosts, Father. You already know I’m not sure I even believe in God.”

“Yes, I know.” Father Fuentes nodded. A certain melancholia had come into his voice now.

“Nevermind that, anyway. It’s not the problem.” Emil turned, heading for the stairs. “I’m done here.”

Father Fuentes trailed behind him as they went up. “Did seeing the cellar help you at all, Emil?”

Emil sighed, absently running his hand along the stone wall for support. “I don’t know. I was hoping that maybe it would lay the ‘ghost’ to rest. So I suppose I won’t know if it worked for who knows how long. The last time I supposedly saw Crockett before tonight was when I was in a complete state of delirium.”

“You mentioned you’d been troubled for a while,” Father Fuentes said. “Is it just because of seeing Davy Crockett’s ghost?”

Emil reached the top and stepped back into the chapel. “For that matter, I suppose I’d have to know why I’ve been seeing his ghost in order to answer that. If it’s all in my head, it must be part of a larger problem.”

“It could be part of a larger problem if he’s really there,” Father Fuentes replied.

Emil raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Any ideas, Father?”

Father Fuentes studied him in the candlelight. “I believe you could answer that question better than I.”

Emil turned away. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“As you wish. But may I suggest that you ponder over it in private?”

“That’s mostly what I do these days,” Emil grumbled. “I ponder over things. I ponder over what happened here and why I was knifed. I ponder over the pain and the anguish and the blood. I ponder over why I didn’t die.” He rubbed his eyes. “I see and experience it again and again in my dreams. I wake up screaming half the time and scare my servants out of their minds.” He rested his arm on the altar. “Frankly, Father, I wonder if I’ll ever be normal again.”

Father Fuentes regarded him kindly. “It’s a frightening thing, to look Death so squarely in the eye. You are by no means the first person to return from such an encounter suffering over the trauma of it. It takes time to heal the spirit, just as it does the body. And spirits are such fragile things. Once damaged, they can take a great deal of time to recover. But . . .” He set the candelabrum back on the altar. “The good news is, most spirits are able to do so, even if it takes longer than it does to mend flesh and bone.”

“. . . It’s not just what happened to me in the church that’s been torturing me.” Emil spoke quietly now, barely above a whisper.

Father Fuentes perked up in concern. “What do you mean?”

Emil drew a shuddering breath. “That wasn’t the first time I was left for dead somewhere.” He pushed himself away from the altar, walking across the room to the window. He stared out at the lonesome road. “I’ve been thinking about that first time a great deal lately.”

“. . . While you were delirious, you spoke of your parents being murdered,” Father Fuentes prompted. “Is that to what you’re referring?”

“Yes.” Emil looked back, his visage tormented and twisted in the orange glow of the room. “First my father was held at gunpoint, by a man whom he thought was his friend. My mother rushed to try to tackle him, but she was struck and killed by his partner. My father tried to go to her and he was shot. . . .”

He trembled, sinking into the nearest pew. Letting his hat fall back, he ran his hands into his hair.

“I tried to save them both. I knew where my father kept his gun. I went and took it and ran back. I fired at the man who had shot my father. But the second man, the one who’d bludgeoned my mother, struck me on the head. The gun fell from my hands . . . I collapsed. . . . He kept . . . hitting me and hitting me. I remember the blood running down my face and over my eyes. It was so wrong. It was all so wrong! Dear God, I . . .” He shuddered. “I failed. I failed so completely and abominably.

“The worst part is, if I hadn’t attacked them and been hurt myself, I might have been able to save at least my father’s life. He was still alive when I fell. I remember him calling to me. The way he sounded, so pained and horrified, as he helplessly watched me being beaten. . . . That’s never left me.”

Father Fuentes sat on the pew next to him. “There was nothing you could have done to save him, Emil. Such men never would have allowed you to preserve his life.”

“Oh, logically I know that’s probably true,” Emil said. “But . . . once they had his money, surely they could have left us all alone. Maybe I could have saved him. But I was lying unconscious on the floor while he was dying. The only thing I did was to give him a nightmare as the last thing he saw before he died! What could be worse than for a parent to see their child being hurt, with no way to stop it?”

“I can’t think of much worse,” Father Fuentes agreed, quietly. “But at least your father died knowing you were still alive. That surely gave him some level of comfort.”

“He had no way of knowing if I would be able to get help or recover,” Emil countered. “For all he knew, I’d lie there in misery until I died myself.”

He sighed, leaning back on the pew as he stared up the ceiling high above them. “Honestly, Father, if I have to go around seeing spirits, why couldn’t it be those of my family? Why couldn’t I have the assurance that they’re safe and well, if there’s anything to go on to after this life?” He straightened in aggravated disgust. “Instead I’m stuck being hounded by Crockett.”

“I don’t know why,” Father Fuentes said. “But I believe there is a reason. Maybe there’s something you’re expected to take from the experience.”

“I can’t imagine what,” Emil frowned.

“For now, maybe it’s only for God to know. Although I suppose it would be hard for you to believe that, wouldn’t it.”

“It doesn’t seem fair or right to me.” Emil stood. “I feel like I’m being toyed with, that I’m nothing more than a pawn in a sick game. And I don’t appreciate the sense of humor behind it.”

Father Fuentes stood as well. “God doesn’t look upon men in such ways, Emil. If anyone is toying with you, it’s Satan.”

Emil gave a short laugh. “Well, I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me, either. Why not? I’m trying to get my life in order. Satan would probably get quite a lot of pleasure out of driving me out of my mind.”

“He doesn’t like to let go of anyone who has been under his thumb,” Father Fuentes said. “But you’re stronger than he is. If you don’t slip back into your old ways, you’ll come out victorious.”

Emil paused, considering that. “Do you believe I can, Father?”

“I believe you will. Emil, I’ve rarely known anyone as stubborn and determined as you. When you want something, you make sure you get it. And if you want to triumph here, you’ll make sure you do that, as well.” Father Fuentes regarded him in all compassion. “I only wish you could find it in you to rely on God to help you. You don’t have to do it all yourself. You shouldn’t have to. God wants to help you, Emil.”

“Then I just wonder where He was when my parents were dying,” Emil returned. “I prayed then, Father. I prayed hard. And I even had the faith that God would help me save them. You see how well that worked out.”

“I don’t have all the answers, Emil. But your parents’ tragic deaths don’t mean that God didn’t want to help you or them.”

“It’s all part of some larger plan. I know.” Emil adjusted his hat. “Well, thank you for your time, Father. And for the sermon. I really should be going.” He walked up the aisle, heading for the heavy front doors. Just as he reached for the handle, he stopped and looked back.

“. . . Maybe, Father, part of me still wants to believe,” he said, quietly. “Even though I feel I’ve been let down and betrayed too many times. Maybe that’s . . . why I came here tonight, more than any other reason.”

Father Fuentes smiled. “I was hoping you would say that, Emil.”

Emil nodded, a trace of a smile on his own features. “Goodnight, Father.”

“Goodnight.”

Father Fuentes watched as Emil hauled open the left door and slipped out into the desert night.

“He’s in an in-between place,” he mused to the sacred building. “He’s not exactly lost, but he hasn’t found himself either. He’s wandering through the mists, desperately calling for help and guidance. He wants to be found.” He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Someday he will realize that he has never been lost to You. Someday he will find his way back.”