"Righ', Laddie, this be th' flintlock, aye? After ye put in yer musketball, you pull th' catch back like this, an' then yer locked and loaded." The gruff but cheerful voice of his father pulled him out of his reverie, and he smiled up at him as he was handed the loaded blunderbuss.
His father pointed at the target, a barrel of wine that had gone bad placed on the stone wall not 200 feet away.
Scrollhaven held up the unweildy rifle, and attempted to cock it against his shoulder. It was large and uncomfortable. His nerves were steady, but he had trouble holding it still as he sighted down the length. The barrel waved back and forth in his vision. His finger brushed the trigger.
Thunder rolled across the hills. A large group of snow geese hurtled into the sky, honking angrily. Scrollhaven dug himself out of the snow drift, and walked over to where the smoking blunderbuss lay. He looked up at his father.
"Did I hit it, da?"
His father squinted at the pine to the left that had completely been stripped of needles.
"Nae, 'fraid no', lad."
The noises of the mountain began to return as they reloaded the gun. Off in the distance they could hear the drunken singing of the mortar team, and the sloshing as Ulga Bearcurler washing the day's laundry. Between the two of them, they got the stock brushed and the gunpowder poured. Scrollhaven took careful aim at the barrel.
The loud shot echoed across the hills. Ulga looked down at her washing bucket as the soapy water dribbled out into the snow from a dozen holes. Scrollhaven looked at his gun. His father grinned weakly.
"Let's try thot one more time, laddie."
( nivver could git th' hang o' shootin' things.)