Binesi rode the winds back to his home and touched down in a place that he remembered from years before, a place that he had frequented in his time there. He waited until the powers that the Binesi gave him had dispersed, and he touched the ground in thanks. He walked around the clapboard building to the front, where there was a worn out sign with no lights saying “BAR”.
Binesi opened the door, and the smell of cigarette smoke assaulted him immediately. He could smell the stale beer, stale sweat, stale men that were gathered there – a couple that looked like they hadn’t moved since he left.
“Is that Stormsinger?” someone asked in his native tongue.
“Stormsinger’s dead, went to the city years ago.”
“He’s right there!”
Binesi took a few steps inside, making sure to make noise, and the six patrons at the bar turned to face him.
“Greetings, warriors,” though that was quite a stretch on some of these men, with their large stomachs, long black hair, and hands wrapped around whatever liquor of choice like babies with blankets.
Some of them knew it was a stretch, as they snorted. “Tribal council didn’t say we were warriors for many years, Stormsinger,” said one, who he remembered as Brown-Leaves.
“The Council has no say in whether you are warriors,” Binesi said walking up to the bar. “But you all are in the eyes of the gods.”
The men stared at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve turned into a priest,” said another, who was always called Jake, though his Indian name was not as complementary: Seven-Nails because he used seven nails on coffins, to save that last one in case the person in the coffin had to get out – so he said. He was actually saving himself money.
“Priest” was in English, and was derogatory. Binesi stood at the edge of the bar, thinking about whether or not he belonged here. He knew these people did not, and would not understand, not when they had liquor in them. He needed to go somewhere where he was understood, and that was with the shamans. But he always found the shamans to be uppity and preachy…
Gods, was he going to be like that, too?
Binesi frowned. “No, I am not a priest. But I am happy now.”
“Do you still sing to storms? Even while sober?”
“The storms didn’t listen while I was drunk.”
“We could have told you that,” said Broken-Drum.
Binesi knew he wasn’t wanted here, but he wanted to bring the light to them, to tell them how happy he was. Yet, they were in their own holes of their own making – as he had been in it himself. He looked across the bar to He-Who-Digs or Digger, “Have you seen my mother?”
“She hasn’t died if that’s what you’re asking,” Digger said. “She’s still at home.”
“Good,” he said. “Can I have some water?” he asked the bartender, Sophie.
Sophie poured him a glass from the tap, and he smiled, knowing it was well water. It had a strange taste to it, metallic and different than what he got out of a bottle or in the city. He drank the whole thing in one go, and set the glass down. “Good afternoon, my brothers.”