Where the Powder Horns Lie
Amidst the roar of muskets and the haze of a summer re-enactment, James grapples with the weight of history, the sting of black powder, and a burgeoning, confusing connection with Pavel, a boy from the 'other side'.
EXT. RE-ENACTMENT FIELD - DAY
A vast, sun-scorched field. The air shimmers with heat.
JAMES (17, quiet, observant) stands in a line of BRITISH REDCOATS. The coarse scarlet wool of his tunic chafes his sweaty neck. He squints, his vision obscured by a thick, acrid cloud of GREY MUSKET SMOKE. His own musket is heavy in his hands.
Nearby, SERGEANT DAVIES (50s, a man playing a role he was born for) bellows, his voice raw.
SERGEANT DAVIES
> Load! Present!
James fumbles with a paper cartridge, his fingers slick with sweat. He tears the end with his teeth. The taste of ASH and GRIT.
His movements are rote, practiced. Ram the charge. Prime the pan. But his mind is elsewhere.
THROUGH THE HAZE - A long lens compresses the distance. A flicker of a BLUE UNIFORM. A flash of dark hair, slightly too long for the period. PAVEL (17, charismatic, a natural confidence James lacks).
SERGEANT DAVIES
> FIRE!
James raises his musket. The barrel wobbles.
He fires. The KICKBACK jolts his shoulder. Another puff of smoke swallows the world.
SOUND: A DEAFENING ROAR of a dozen muskets firing at once, followed by a high-pitched RINGING in James’s ears.
The smoke clears for a second. The AMERICAN line, a wave of blue, pushes forward.
James reloads, his gaze drifting.
He sees Pavel ramming a charge home. A smudge of dirt streaks Pavel's cheek. His brow is furrowed in concentration.
Their eyes meet.
Across the manufactured battlefield, through the smoke and din. A hundred yards feel like inches.
Pavel gives a quick, almost imperceptible dip of his head. A nod. Or maybe just a trick of the smoke.
An electric current runs through James.
A sharp WHISTLE CUTS through the air.
SERGEANT DAVIES
> Fall back! Strategic withdrawal! Hold the line as you go!
The British line begins a clumsy retreat. James stumbles over a loose rock, catching himself with a gasp. The illusion of heroic combat shatters. This is just hot, sweaty work.
EXT. BRITISH ENCAMPMENT - DUSK
The golden hour light is soft, forgiving. It bleeds across canvas tents and turns the lingering smoke into a hazy, dreamlike fog.
SOUND: Distant, hearty laughter; the faint twang of a banjo; crickets beginning their evening chorus.
James sits alone on a splintered wooden bench, painstakingly cleaning his musket. His hands are grimy with black powder residue and oil. He seems disconnected from the boisterous energy of the camp.
He watches older men share flasks. Younger boys splash water on their faces by a distant creek. A profound ache of yearning is visible on his face.
He swallows. His throat is sandpaper. Pushing himself up, muscles protesting, he heads for the camp’s hand-pump.
EXT. ENCAMPMENT WATER PUMP - CONTINUOUS
The pump lets out a rhythmic SQUEAK-CREAK-SQUEAK.
Pavel is there, his back to James. His blue uniform shirt is damp with sweat, clinging to his broad shoulders. He pumps water into a dented tin canteen. The same smudge of dirt is on his cheek.
James hesitates a few feet away. The dry grass CRUNCHES under his boots. He clears his throat.
Pavel flinches, turning sharply. Water sloshes from the canteen onto the parched earth.
PAVEL
> Oh. James. Didn't hear you.
Pavel nervously runs a hand through his dark hair.
JAMES
> Sorry. Just… thirsty.
PAVEL
> Yeah, me too. That last push… nearly got winded. You good? You looked a bit… lost, out there.
James shrugs, reaching for the pump handle, avoiding Pavel’s gaze.
JAMES
> Just trying to remember my orders, eh? Lots of yelling.
Pavel lets out a low chuckle. He holds out the canteen.
PAVEL
> Here. Finish this. I'll get more.
The metal is cool. James takes it, their fingers brushing.
Just for a second. A spark. Like flint on steel.
James flinches, pulling his hand away a little too quickly. He brings the canteen to his lips, taking a long, grateful swallow. The water tastes of rust. He hands it back.
Pavel either doesn’t notice the reaction or pretends not to. He starts pumping again, the squeak-creak filling the awkward silence.
CLOSE ON Pavel’s hand as water splashes over it, running down the strong line of his forearm. A faint scar rests just above his wrist.
PAVEL
>>(casual)
> So, uh, British still think they won, then?
A genuine, unforced smile breaks across James’s face.
JAMES
> Someone has to win, right? And it's not always the ones in blue, is it?
Pavel laughs, a deeper, richer sound this time.
PAVEL
> Nah, we usually let you win the small ones. Keeps your spirits up.
He winks. He lifts the now-full canteen.
PAVEL
> See you around, James. Try not to die in the next big battle, eh?
Pavel turns and walks away into the deepening twilight, his footsteps fading into the sounds of the camp.
James is left alone.
SOUND: The lonely SQUEAK... CREAK... of the pump as a final few drops of water fall onto the thirsty ground.
EXT. EDGE OF THE WOODS - MOMENTS LATER
James leans against a gnarled oak tree, the rough bark digging into his shoulder. The last sliver of sun disappears. Campfires flicker to life, casting long, dancing shadows.
He runs a hand through his hair, feeling the lingering grit of powder. The world feels blurry around the edges.
He thinks of Pavel’s laugh. The brush of their fingers.
He traces a pattern in the dirt with the toe of his boot. His musket leans against the tree beside him—not a weapon, but a heavy, silent witness to a battle being fought entirely within himself.
A vast, sun-scorched field. The air shimmers with heat.
JAMES (17, quiet, observant) stands in a line of BRITISH REDCOATS. The coarse scarlet wool of his tunic chafes his sweaty neck. He squints, his vision obscured by a thick, acrid cloud of GREY MUSKET SMOKE. His own musket is heavy in his hands.
Nearby, SERGEANT DAVIES (50s, a man playing a role he was born for) bellows, his voice raw.
SERGEANT DAVIES
> Load! Present!
James fumbles with a paper cartridge, his fingers slick with sweat. He tears the end with his teeth. The taste of ASH and GRIT.
His movements are rote, practiced. Ram the charge. Prime the pan. But his mind is elsewhere.
THROUGH THE HAZE - A long lens compresses the distance. A flicker of a BLUE UNIFORM. A flash of dark hair, slightly too long for the period. PAVEL (17, charismatic, a natural confidence James lacks).
SERGEANT DAVIES
> FIRE!
James raises his musket. The barrel wobbles.
He fires. The KICKBACK jolts his shoulder. Another puff of smoke swallows the world.
SOUND: A DEAFENING ROAR of a dozen muskets firing at once, followed by a high-pitched RINGING in James’s ears.
The smoke clears for a second. The AMERICAN line, a wave of blue, pushes forward.
James reloads, his gaze drifting.
He sees Pavel ramming a charge home. A smudge of dirt streaks Pavel's cheek. His brow is furrowed in concentration.
Their eyes meet.
Across the manufactured battlefield, through the smoke and din. A hundred yards feel like inches.
Pavel gives a quick, almost imperceptible dip of his head. A nod. Or maybe just a trick of the smoke.
An electric current runs through James.
A sharp WHISTLE CUTS through the air.
SERGEANT DAVIES
> Fall back! Strategic withdrawal! Hold the line as you go!
The British line begins a clumsy retreat. James stumbles over a loose rock, catching himself with a gasp. The illusion of heroic combat shatters. This is just hot, sweaty work.
EXT. BRITISH ENCAMPMENT - DUSK
The golden hour light is soft, forgiving. It bleeds across canvas tents and turns the lingering smoke into a hazy, dreamlike fog.
SOUND: Distant, hearty laughter; the faint twang of a banjo; crickets beginning their evening chorus.
James sits alone on a splintered wooden bench, painstakingly cleaning his musket. His hands are grimy with black powder residue and oil. He seems disconnected from the boisterous energy of the camp.
He watches older men share flasks. Younger boys splash water on their faces by a distant creek. A profound ache of yearning is visible on his face.
He swallows. His throat is sandpaper. Pushing himself up, muscles protesting, he heads for the camp’s hand-pump.
EXT. ENCAMPMENT WATER PUMP - CONTINUOUS
The pump lets out a rhythmic SQUEAK-CREAK-SQUEAK.
Pavel is there, his back to James. His blue uniform shirt is damp with sweat, clinging to his broad shoulders. He pumps water into a dented tin canteen. The same smudge of dirt is on his cheek.
James hesitates a few feet away. The dry grass CRUNCHES under his boots. He clears his throat.
Pavel flinches, turning sharply. Water sloshes from the canteen onto the parched earth.
PAVEL
> Oh. James. Didn't hear you.
Pavel nervously runs a hand through his dark hair.
JAMES
> Sorry. Just… thirsty.
PAVEL
> Yeah, me too. That last push… nearly got winded. You good? You looked a bit… lost, out there.
James shrugs, reaching for the pump handle, avoiding Pavel’s gaze.
JAMES
> Just trying to remember my orders, eh? Lots of yelling.
Pavel lets out a low chuckle. He holds out the canteen.
PAVEL
> Here. Finish this. I'll get more.
The metal is cool. James takes it, their fingers brushing.
Just for a second. A spark. Like flint on steel.
James flinches, pulling his hand away a little too quickly. He brings the canteen to his lips, taking a long, grateful swallow. The water tastes of rust. He hands it back.
Pavel either doesn’t notice the reaction or pretends not to. He starts pumping again, the squeak-creak filling the awkward silence.
CLOSE ON Pavel’s hand as water splashes over it, running down the strong line of his forearm. A faint scar rests just above his wrist.
PAVEL
>>(casual)
> So, uh, British still think they won, then?
A genuine, unforced smile breaks across James’s face.
JAMES
> Someone has to win, right? And it's not always the ones in blue, is it?
Pavel laughs, a deeper, richer sound this time.
PAVEL
> Nah, we usually let you win the small ones. Keeps your spirits up.
He winks. He lifts the now-full canteen.
PAVEL
> See you around, James. Try not to die in the next big battle, eh?
Pavel turns and walks away into the deepening twilight, his footsteps fading into the sounds of the camp.
James is left alone.
SOUND: The lonely SQUEAK... CREAK... of the pump as a final few drops of water fall onto the thirsty ground.
EXT. EDGE OF THE WOODS - MOMENTS LATER
James leans against a gnarled oak tree, the rough bark digging into his shoulder. The last sliver of sun disappears. Campfires flicker to life, casting long, dancing shadows.
He runs a hand through his hair, feeling the lingering grit of powder. The world feels blurry around the edges.
He thinks of Pavel’s laugh. The brush of their fingers.
He traces a pattern in the dirt with the toe of his boot. His musket leans against the tree beside him—not a weapon, but a heavy, silent witness to a battle being fought entirely within himself.