With Him, I Have a Few Drinks

His body was wrapped in a knot of rags and torn cloth, clinging with all their might, struggling to shield him from the violent blow of the hell that sought to drink from his skin.

After an endless journey— with no beginning and no sense of time—, his foot rested on the peak of the last dune before the valley.A blinding light blazed across the boundless expanse ahead. Below, a rotting, scorched, and splintered wooden cabin, hunched like the back of an old man who had left youth behind lifetimes ago, greeted him with the groan of a swaying sign. It read “Welcome,” wagging like a dog’s tail in a frenzy at the sight of its master.

The door’s mournful creak fell into sudden silence. Inside, a circle of hooded figures froze mid-gesture, jars suspended, heads turning toward the entrance in a perfect echo of motion. The traveler’s footsteps cut through the stillness, conducting the silent room like a maestro guiding his orchestra, until every gaze shifted toward the bar at the center. Behind it, a long, unruly beard swayed to the rhythm of the traveler’s approach as he lowered his hood and sat.

— Each time, we grow closer to predicting your arrival, my friend. The heat never lies — came a sharp, almost laughing voice from beneath a hood’s shadow. — What brings you to us this time? —

— You know well that’s only for me to know, old man — replied a young, weary voice, dragging each word as though gravity itself tugged them down. The man’s black hair fell in ragged layers, echoing the tattered rags that had just sheltered him. A timid beard struggled to grow without knowing why, and his dark, fathomless eyes held an abyss — sliced clean through the middle by a single slit pupil.

— You know I already know why you’re here. The question is just courtesy — the old man said with a smile, his arms moving deftly as he prepared two mugs on the bar. The traveler’s eyes narrowed, drawn to the glass vessel where the light clung stubbornly to patches of grime inside.

— Disappointments. Desires. Heartbreaks — the old man sang, pouring a thick, bubbling, brown liquid into both mugs. — Life — he finished, sliding one brimming mug toward the traveler.

— I was hoping one of the small ones would be enough this time — the traveler muttered, lifting the mug by its handle, bringing it toward his lips with practiced ease. Yet just before the drink reached him, his hand paused, holding the mug aloft, his head dipping slightly toward the old man. The entire room mirrored the gesture, followed by the man behind the bar.

— You know as well as I do that it depends only on you. To your health, my good friend — the old man said, smiling, before he drank.

The valley’s infernal heat slid into the traveler’s throat with the first sip. A drink stripped of all pleasure, of even the faintest freshness, advanced like lava, battering and scorching every fiber before sinking into his stomach and flooding his body with its fire. Seconds later, the ocean of heat gathered violently in his chest, burning there for what felt like eternity. His mind grew numb, dazed, surrendering to the same endless blaze. Despite his familiarity with the ritual, the traveler managed only a quarter of the mug before pausing for breath. Outwardly, his face betrayed nothing. His eyes stayed locked on the liquid, drilling through it to the very bottom.

— Seems like I’m on my knees again — he murmured, without looking up.

— Another battle lost.

The old man lowered his mug slowly, setting it gently on the bar, meeting the traveler’s gaze. The shadow over his face lifted, revealing a pair of wrinkled, kind, compassion-filled eyes.

— My friend. How I wish I could make you understand — the old man said softly.

The room shifted, warming around them. The wood grew whole again, its cracks vanishing. The fungus withdrew. Tables steadied under their weight. The hooded figures transformed into men and women of all shapes, colors, and sizes, laughing and dancing through the space.

— This isn’t the only way to reach him, and you know it. No one keeps count here. No one will ever come asking how much you’ve drunk. No one owes you anything — the said the old man from behind the bar with a slower tone in each sentence..

— I know — the traveler said, lowering his eyes once more. — But you know, my friend, I still get lost. There’s always that crossroads. Always that familiar path. No matter how sure I feel… I always end up here. —

The bundle of rags at the traveler’s neck stirred suddenly. From within, a tiny blue head emerged, tilting side to side with curiosity. A faint whistle charmed the room into silence. The traveler fought to keep his mouth straight, yet a faint smirk betrayed him.

— So that’s what this is about — the old man said, his mustache brushing his cheeks as he smiled. — I think he’s going to love it — he added.

— I hope so — the traveler said, before tilting the gleaming mug and letting the last sip of cold, bubbling beer slide down his throat.

The cabin’s back door swung open, revealing a dirt path lined with pines, leading toward a small mountain. The air was crisp, carrying the smell of recent rain and a distant campfire.

At the mountain’s base, raindrops drummed on a growing puddle, a watery doormat before the entrance.

Inside, a boy with messy black hair sat on a stone, arranging animals made of paper, carved from wood, woven by hand. Beside him rested a battered soccer ball, a worn book, and a cracked device with missing buttons.

The traveler stopped a few steps away. The boy kept his head bowed, his hands busy.

— The old man sends his regards — the traveler said.

The boy stood, arranging a rectangle of stones with two smaller squares at either end.

— Pain? Yeah, I know. He was here a moment ago — the boy said without looking up.

The traveler smiled faintly, biting his lip, crouching closer. A small blue bird slipped free from his shoulder, hopping out into the open.

— There have been… setbacks. I’m sorry. But I’m still trying...— the traveler said, not expecting a reply.

— I found something along the way. Look — he said as the bird fluttered toward the boy. — I trust you’ll like it — he added softly.

The boy froze mid-motion, then lifted his head quickly yet with quiet grace. Dark, tearful eyes with slit pupils met his. The bird, feathers shimmering blue and bright, sang as it landed on the boy’s hand. The boy smiled, mouth slightly open.

— Beautiful, isn’t it? — the traveler said, a timid smile on his lips.

— Where did you find it? — the boy asked, eyes still on the bird.

— It doesn’t really matter… — the traveler began, then cut himself off with silence and a faint smile.

— In a pair of eyes, and a conversation. —

by Ivan Plouganou