The Oxenaforda Set
Every year, either in the summer or early autumn, Harold and Thelma Perceville liked to retreat to their castle deep in the Caledonian highlands.
Occasionally, they invited their old friends from Oxenaforda, Ben and Alice Jones, to join them for a nice, normal, straightforward, shooting weekend, and the Joneses obliged, despite preferring the hunting aesthetic to the actual act of killing animals.
And so it was that the four of them once again congregated in the highlands, wandering the vast grasslands flanked on either side by imposing mountains, stalking whatever animals they could find that were in season.
Their conversation quickly turned to the subject of Lord Christoph Flooding’s Fascist Party’s recent conference in Beormingahām, and the threat of the total annihilation of the Traditional Party, of which Harold was a member.
“Am I concerned about Lord Flooding’s meteoric rise in popularity?” Harold said as he trudged through the marshland, gazing at his party. “Yes, of course I am. But I am also hopeful, as I know the Traditional Party can and will reclaim their majority in parliament, so long as they appoint me as leader.”
Thelma edged closer to him, taking care not to discharge her rifle accidentally. “But also, sugar, if it came to it, you could always defect.”
Harold glanced at his wife and grimaced.
“You have no problem being a rat fleeing a sinking ship, then,” Alice said, smirking at Thelma. “’Cause your only true loyalty is to your personal ambition.”
Thelma glared at Alice. “Not true, I’m loyal to the Conservative cause. If the Traditional Party is toast, then we need to hop over to the next best thing.”
Alice raised an eyebrow. “Have you considered crossing the floor?”
Thelma widened her eyes and furrowed her brows before bringing them down into a scowl.
Ben lightly touched Alice’s arm. “It’s probably best to change course, dear; the tension in the air is quite dense as it is.”
Alice gazed at Ben and nodded, opting to relax and wander silently through the landscape.
“But no, I could never leave the Traditional Party,” Harold said. “To do so would be a betrayal of my family’s loyalty; it’s why William Darcy’s still officially a member of the party despite personally leaning more leftwards because of his wife.”
Alice’s face brightened at the mention of Mrs Darcy. “I met the Darcys a few weeks ago. They’re cool. Sally’s my doppelgänger.”
“Boy am I glad I wasn’t there,” Thelma said, scanning the reserve for any unsuspecting Grouse. “Two of you at the same time sounds like my idea of hell.”
Alice seethed and clenched her fists, which Ben quickly grabbed to make them unfurl.
An animal called on the horizon, which echoed across the land.
Harold put an arm in front of his cavalcade to halt them, and ordered them to crouch on the ground.
As the Joneses weren’t partaking in the hunting, they watched as the Percevilles pointed their guns at wherever the animal was.
Well, Ben watched; Alice glanced away, retching at the thought.
“You seem kinda squeamish for a carnivore,” Thelma said. “Don’t you know where meat comes from?”
Alice narrowed her eyes at Thelma. “Yeah, obviously. Doesn’t mean I like to see it happening.”
“You could’ve stayed back at the castle if you didn’t want to come,” Thelma said. “Douglas would like the company.”
“I wanted a walk,” Alice said. “I’m just not interested in murdering animals, just going about their day.”
“Can both of you calm down, please?” Harold said, glaring at the two women. “You’re scaring the grouse.”
Thelma smirked at Alice, who sighed.
Something poked its head up in the grass, and the Percevilles poised their guns and cocked them.
Alice glanced at the creature and widened her eyes.
It wasn’t a grouse at all; it wasn’t even a red deer; it was a human man in a kilt and 17th-century clothing clambering towards the troupe.
Harold pulled the trigger, but Alice grabbed his arm.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, stop,” Alice said. “That’s a guy.”
Harold raised an eyebrow at Alice and gazed out into the horizon.
More kilted people appeared on the horizon, trekking toward the hunters.
“You’re right, it’s the Macdonalds,” Harold said. “Good catch, Alice.”
“Did Douglas mention he was expecting visitors?” Ben said. “I certainly don’t remember him saying anything.”
“He didn’t,” Harold said. “And if I told him we’d seen his ancestors whilst out hunting, he’d tell me I was a bampot sassenach.”
More people appeared over the horizon, including many women and children.
Ben watched them and rolled his eyes. “I see, these are the ‘souls of the dead’, are they?”
“In short, yes,” Harold said. “You’re familiar with the Grimtol Massacre, I presume?”
“Admittedly, my expertise is more in Saxonian history rather than Caledonian,” Ben said. “But that would explain what we’re witnessing; such a traumatic event would be recorded in the mountains around us, projecting an image into our retinas.”
“Or, ghosts do actually exist, and the living coexist with the dead,” Harold said, smirking at his sceptical friend.
“It’s worth considering, babe,” Alice said, resting a hand on Ben’s arm and gazing into his eyes. “We’ve seen enough creepy stuff for it to be possible.”
Ben went pale as he observed his wife, then swallowed hard.
“No, absolutely not,” Ben said. “We are merely seeing an imprint of a harrowing event in the glen, recorded by the rocky formations around us.”
Harold sighed and rolled his eyes.
In between the figures, Thelma spotted a grouse waddling around, bobbing its head as it waddled.
She tapped Harold’s shoulder and pointed to the grouse.
“Ah, and now what we’re actually here for,” Harold said, pointing his gun at the ghostly figure.
Ben and Alice covered their ears and averted their gaze as Harold pulled the trigger, killing the grouse instantly.
Alice watched as the silent cavalcade wandered through the moors past her, not even giving the four of them a second’s glance.
“Right,” Harold said, rising to his feet and rubbing his hands. “Another fifty of them and we’ll have a slap-up feast for tonight.”
Alice groaned as Lord Brooke trudged through the bog to pick up his prize.
Thelma espied another fowl and aimed her gun.
“You guys are seriously missing out,” Thelma said, smirking as she aimed.
“Trust me, Thelma, we’re more than happy simply taking in the majestic views,” Ben said, flinching as Thelma pulled the trigger.
Alice gazed at the grass below her, and groaned; it was going to be a long afternoon.
That evening, the Percevilles and their guests celebrated a good afternoon’s hunting by eating the grouse they had killed.
They sat round the long table in their dining room, lit only by candles, partly because it was more atmospheric and also because electric light gave Ben migraines due to a genetic condition he inherited through his father’s bloodline.
Alice ate silently, listening to cutlery clink against porcelain and water patter against glass.
“You must be happy to hear the government have granted Caledonia permission to hold a second referendum,” Harold said, smirking at his land agent, Douglas Macdonald, a staunch Caledonian nationalist who only accepted a Sassenach taking residence at Grimtol because Harold placated him with the promise of a Caledonian independence referendum in the event of him becoming Prime Minister.
“Aye, it’s good,” Douglas said, nodding slowly before taking a swig of his wee dram of Whiskey. “I don’t have to wait for you to get your chance now, do I?”
Harold sighed. “No, I suppose not. But I will move into No. 10 in due course, whether Caledonia is independent then or not.”
“Oh, we’ll be free, alright,” Douglas said. “We won’t make the same mistake twice.”
“Here’s hoping we get another say on our relationship with Europa,” Alice said, raising her glass and grinning at her dinner guests.
The other people around the table stared at her as thunder clapped outside.
Alice glanced at the window as lightning struck, illuminating the silhouette of a figure gazing into the dining room.
She shuddered and gulped down some more of her meal.
“So, Douglas,” Ben said, leaning back in his chair and gazing at the rugged Scot. “Are you aware of the Grimtol Massacre?”
“Do I now,” Douglas said, grinning maliciously.
Harold and Thelma glanced at each other, knowing full well that Ben had opened a can of worms, which had lit the fuse of a volatile tinderbox.
“Would you care to enlighten me on the subject?” Ben said, taking a sip of whiskey. “I’m a historian, and am intrigued by historical events I’m not familiar with.”
“Ah, so you’re ignorant of Caledonian history,” Douglas said. “Aye, yes. Typical sassenach.”
Alice glanced at her husband, lowering her head and quietly munching on some meat.
“Not to worry,” Douglas said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m more than happy to set you straight.”
Alice scanned the room, taking in the large windows surrounding the dinner table.
All of them had a person peering through them, gawping at the diners within.
“1692, just before Valentine’s Day,” Douglas said. “My ancestors quartered a travelling Sassenach army; a glaikit adherence to tradition if you ask me. Not like they had any choice, mind you.”
Alice leaned closer to Douglas, frowning. “They slaughtered their hosts?”
“A bit like that, lassie, yes,” Douglas said. “The following morning, the esteemed guests got the command from their Captain and attacked.”
“Everyone in sight under seventy, cut down in an instant,” Harold said, staring into the flickering flames of the candle in front of him. “Women and children included.”
Alice locked eyes with the woman gazing back at her from behind the window, and raised her glass.
Ben sighed and gazed at his plate. “I’m sorry that happened to your family.”
“Aye, it’s alright, laddie,” Douglas said, smiling as he finished his Whiskey. “A Yes result in the next referendum will do the trick.”
“There was widespread outrage at the time though, wasn’t there?” Harold said. “It did have a detrimental effect on the king’s reputation, didn’t it?”
“Aye, but no one directly involved faced any repercussions,” Douglas said. “But I still have hope Caledonia will be free once again. My family would not have died in vain.”
Alice’s eyes dilated as she observed the people peering into the dining room.
“Now they haunt the Grimtol Estate forever,” she said, staring into her plate.
Alice glanced upwards to see her dinner guests stare at her blankly, as thunder clapped overhead.
Douglas scoffed. “Pah! There are no ghosts. They only exist in horror stories.”
“Exactly, a man of sense,” Ben said, raising his glass to the land agent.
“The spirits of your ancestors do roam the estate whether you like it or not, Douglas,” Harold said, frowning at the Caledonian. “We see them every time we go out hunting.”
“Aye, you’re just a bampot Sassenach,” Douglas said. “I should’ve known when you bought the place.”
“Harold’s right, we live among the dead,” Thelma said. “The sooner everybody realises that, the better.”
Alice gawped at the people around her, choosing to finish her meal rather than contribute to the conversation.
Ben smirked at Lord and Lady Brooke. “Are there any apparitions in the room with us?”
Harold and Thelma glanced around the room.
A phantom bagpiper stood behind Douglas, staring at the Percevilles before playing a haunting tune on his instrument.
“Yes, of course,” Harold said. “Grimtol is riddled with them, much like Perceville Hall.”
“They’re everywhere, guys,” Thelma said. “It’s just that some people ignore them, and don’t dare to, either.”
Lightning clashed, and thunder rumbled outside, as the diners sat in awkward silence.
“Right,” Douglas said, rising from the table. “Time for dessert.”
The land agent strode out of the room, leaving the Percevilles and the Joneses in quietude, listening to the ambient sound of the storm.
Alice occasionally glanced at the windows to see if there was anyone looking through, but at last the figures had gone.
The following morning, it was time for Ben and Alice to return home to Kernow.
“Thank you both for accommodating us,” Ben said, bowing to his hosts. “My wife and I had a wonderful time, didn’t we, darling?”
“Yeah,” Alice said, flashing a quick smile. “For the most part.”
“You’re more than welcome to come here any time you like,” Harold said. “I’m sure Douglas won’t mind housing you if we’re not here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ben said. “We certainly have a lot of love for the Highlands.”
Harold shook Ben and Alice’s hands a final time. Thelma did so too, but the tension was palpable.
“Well, I hope to see you at the Hall sometime, when you’re next in Laeppa,” Harold said.
“Of course, I’m already looking forward to our Croquet game,” Ben said as he hopped into his car.
At last, Ben drove off, and the Percevilles waved goodbye to them one final time before returning to Grimtol.
The Joneses did not discuss the Grimtol Massacre nor the supposed ghosts during the six-hundred-and-twenty-five-mile journey back to Kernow.
Alice did try her best to convince Ben that cutting ties with the Percevilles would be the best for both of them. Still, Ben successfully fought off any suggestion of the sort, as he was reluctant to end his friendship with Harold that he’d had since secondary school, but that was all.
Even when they stayed over at Ben’s childhood home to break up the ten-hour journey, they chose to omit the paranormal aspects of their holiday when recounting it to his parents.
Eventually, Ben drove through the narrow, windy streets of the fishing village of Porthysek, and they ground to a halt outside their cottage.
By the end of the trip, there was an extra passenger.
Alice gazed at the vast Atlantikoi ocean, the sun sparkling on its surface, and a slow smile spread across her face.
“There, home again,” Ben said, grinning to himself before exiting the car to unload.
It was at that point that Alice foolishly glanced at the rearview mirror.
One of the ghostly Macdonalds gazed at Alice from the back seat, blinking vapidly.
Alice’s subsequent scream was heard throughout Porthysek, but not even Ben knew exactly the cause of her distress.
The Robinsonverse 