Chapter Eight
I Heard the Guns on Christmas Day

December 20th

"Ready, aaaaaaaaaim!… fire!"

Boom!

"At ease!" Chester barked, his voice coming muffled from the other side of the window.

"Yes sir!" Haddock barked back, his louder voice coming a little less muffled.

Rolling his eyes, Tintin shook his head, but the corner of his lips twitched with… well, not exactly amusement. More with fondness for the Captain, and for how childish the 40-something man could be sometimes.

"Ready…aaaaaaaaaaim!… fire!"

Boom!

"Is somebody knocking at the door?" Calculus asked brightly, looking up from the newspaper.

Tintin began to say 'no,' then thought better of it and shook his head. That would get the 'no' message across faster. "The Captains are shooting. Shooting, Professor."

"Tubing? In the winter?"

Boom!

"It doesn't sound like tubing," the Professor observed. His brow furrowed in suspicion. "Have it out, young man: what's really going on?"

Wisely choosing not to respond, Tintin folded his book shut, hopped lightly off the sofa, and walked up to the window, batting his book gently against his leg. He couldn't see the two Captains, but he could see the footsteps on the deep, crisp snow outside the parlour window, where they had walked as they'd made their way to the back. And of course he could hear them, along with Snowy's excited, almost frantic barks every time a gun went off.

The English and their traditions, Tintin thought, shaking his head again.

But he had to be fair: when they were planning their Christmas Day party, last evening in the village, Tintin had been pretty strict when it came to traditions himself. Of course Haddock wasn't thrilled about that; he called Belgian Christmases tacky, month-long festivals, celebrated via crowded markets featuring cheap decorations, truly horrendous gift items, and drunk people. Tintin called British Christmas nothing but an excuse for gluttonous consumption of meat, beer, and marzipan—and of course the yearly battle to outdo everybody else on how much money you wasted on Christmas cards. But words hadn't been heated, and eventually they'd compromised: Tintin would keep silent when his beloved Gaufres Liège would make way for flaming plum pudding; conversely, Glühwein would be served instead of Loch Lomond.

Though, the Captain really did get the better end of the deal, Tintin thought; he was having his own little Christmas party today. English style. Tintin had only agreed because, well, he'd never celebrated an English Christmas before. It was an experience he wouldn't mind trying. And besides, Chester had on the 24th, the day before Christmas, and even Tintin saw that would be downright rude to not have a mini Christmas celebration while the man was here—tacky British traditions and all.

Tintin realised that the gunfire had stopped, and relaxed back into the sofa, flipping the book back open. He wasn't really reading it, though; his brain refused to sit still.

The sound of taking and laughing slowly drifted closer and closer, until the front door slammed open. A burst of bitter cold wind accompanied the Captains' laughter and Snowy's barking as the three of them entered the foyer.

"Ahh, that was glorious."

"That it was!"

The heavy, booted footsteps drew nearer to the parlour, and after a moment, Haddock appeared next to Tintin, his face bright red from the cold, grinning at nothing in particular as he yanked off his scarf.

Tintin smiled politely, dog-earing the page and settling the book beside him before he glanced up. "Hello, Captain. How was your excursion?"

"Marvellous, thanks." He bit down on the very tip of his glove, grinning wolfishly as he ripped the glove off his hand. "Should've come, you know."

"Ah, but I don't think I'd have enjoyed myself quite as much as you did. I'm not English, you remember," he replied, eying the rifle beneath Haddock's arm with mild unease.

"Doesn't have anything to do with being English, it's just something my old shipmate and I used to do. You still could have had fun," Haddock pointed out.

"Eh, I doubt it. Guns are for killing. I don't get overly excited over the thought of firing them; I have to do it enough." Though the words by themselves called for a sarcastic tone of voice, Tintin's voice and expression were very docile and pleasant. He wasn't upset, far from it—but all the same, he just didn't get the thrill of firing off weapons.

"Well…" The Captain looked slightly amused. "When you put it like that…"

"Exactly," Tintin said brightly. "Now, if you two are ready, I think we should go help Nestor get ready for the party."

/

"And then they all came, charging down the hill, gun raised, bullets flying," continued Haddock, one hand raised solemnly, the other curled tightly around a bottle of Loch Lomond, "I swear on…on…everything, there was at least, oh, threescore."

"Where was this again, Captain?" Tintin asked, his frown deepening.

Haddock didn't seem to hear. "Aye, but we fought 'em off, bloody swine… tha' was a night to…hic…remember."

"Aye, sure you did," said Chester graciously. "Bet it was a pretty sight, too."

"That it was, mate, that it was…Right!" He tried to clap his hands together, but his palms seemed to miss. He tried again, and managed to get it this time. "Let's get

In his peripheral vision, Tintin suddenly saw what looked like a bushy red caterpillar, a little above his head. Jumping slightly, he flew around to see Captain Chester, standing right next to him.

"Oh, hi," he said, grinning nervously.

"Say, laddie… you think there's somethin' wrong with Haddock?" Chester asked Tintin quietly.

Tintin laughed. "Yeah, and I know what it is, too. Starts with a 'D'."

"No, no, no. I mean, how in the bleedin' blazes does he get drunk after only five glasses of whisky?"

Tintin was debating between giving Chester a sarcastic reply, or responding with a polite 'I'm not sure' and acting like the answer wasn't obvious, when what Chester was trying to say suddenly dawned on him. Frowning slightly, he paused to consider the question. He knew he was pretty much a goner after one glass, but the Captain drank whisky with every meal.

Why on earth does he get drunk?

"I have no idea," Tintin said finally.

"Don't make sense, does it?" Chester asked, watching Haddock stagger around the kitchen.

"Yeah…huh."

"Don't make sense," Chester repeated, shaking his head and going over to help his friend walk in a straight line.

/

"Oh oh oh ohhh!" Chester and Haddock roared, getting to their feet as the giant, flaming black pudding made its entrance into the dimmed dining room.

"Just you look a' that!"

"Nestor, my man, you have outdone yourself!"

"I hope not, sir," Nestor replied, making Tintin have to put his hand over his mouth to hide his laughter.

The blue-tinged flames didn't lick at the pudding for much longer; after a short moment, they died out, and soon Nestor was dishing out plates and serving the pudding.

"Five star brandy?" the Captain asked cautiously, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth.

"Of course, sir," responded Nestor primly.

"Grand." He took a bite.

Tintin stared at his pudding in a bit of dismay, but gingerly gave it a taste. He frowned, smacking his lips a couple times to try and gauge the flavour. It wasn't terrible… exactly. But he wasn't looking forward to eating this again on Christmas day.

"So, Captain—"

"Aye?" Chester interrupted.

"What?" Haddock asked.

"Uh… what do both of you say to a game of bridge?" Tintin asked, trying to keep his frustration out of his voice.

Haddock began to respond, but Chester cut him off immediately. "Bridge? Pfffffff!"

"Oh?" Tintin asked, now entirely failing to keep the frustration out of his voice.

Tipping his chair back, Chester placed his crossed feet on the table, toasted Tintin with a glass of brandy, and downed it in one gulp. "Ahhhhh!" he roared, slapping his chest. "That's the stuff to put hair on your chest!"

Tintin kept a polite smile on his face and thought, I'm never going to drink.

"Now… now laddie," Chester said, leaning forward and shaking his finger in Tintin's general direction, "we do things different back home in Britain."

"Uh, yes. I know."

"I'll be right on back…" Tipping his head to Haddock, Chester stumbled out of his chair and staggered out of the room.

Tintin glanced at Haddock; the man was still feeding himself plum pudding. Truth be told, he felt rather caught in the middle of all this British celebration; like an awkward third-wheel. He really should have spent the day in Brussels.

SCREEECH!

"Sacrebleu!" Tintin yelped, shooting almost straight out of his chair. "What the—"

"Yes!" Haddock howled, getting to his feet. "Tha' makes my blood run warm inside me! That brings me alive, mate!"

"Holy—Captain what is it?" Tintin choked, his hands clasped tightly over his ears.

The Captain didn't answer, just bowled over his chair and dashed out of the dining room.

Gingerly pulling his chair aside, Tintin stepped around the Captain's fallen chair and into the foyer.

Oh no, he thought witheringly. I had enough of this in Kiltoch.

Behind him, in the dining room, the clock struck 12 o'clock.

Author's Note: Yeah, I ended it like that because I want the next chapter to be a continuation of here. Is that cheap? Sorry. But it was too long to cram into one chapter.

Think you know what Tintin had enough of in Kiltoch? ;) Let me know right *below*