The Wicked Laird

In a distant corner of a far off land there lived a wicked laird who struck terror into the hearts of his subjects. Not a town, not a village, not an isolated homestead could escape his attention as he rode from place to place, wreaking havoc.

"Feed me your finest meat!" he might demand, arriving at dusk. "Serve me your ale! Open your rarest whiskies! Give me your money! Give me your jewels! Even the crudest of heirlooms! Anything! I want all of it!"

And when his tearful victims had slain their finest animals and handed over all their possessions, and prayed and pleaded and begged the laird for mercy – he would call for silence and raise his glass, and, in a voice taught with emotion he would whisper, "My heartfelt thanks to my very good friends the pixies."

And when he had ridden away, laughing, on his great black charger, and disappeared into the mist – for his lands were always shrounded in mist – the villagers and peasants and serfs would turn to each other and murmur, "Did he say, ur, pixies?"

For many years then the wicked laird terrorised his lands and stole and plundered and murdered, and wrecked and wreaked and burned as if he were a law unto himself which – constitutionally speaking – he was.

And the people lived in fear and grew poorer and more desperate, and made the situation worse by spreading rumours and – even those subjects who'd never actually seen him – had nightmares about the laird, which was almost as bad.

And always, on every visit, and in every rumour, and at the close of every nightmare, the wicked laird would raise his glass and say, "My heartfelt thanks to my very good friends the pixies."

Inevitably, as the years went by, there grew in the hearts of the people a spirit of defiance and rebellion; and it was decided to put an end to his reign. And many fine words were spoken and many plans were discussed, usually involving ropes and giant catapults.

Eventually, the people agreed upon a leader, and a place and a date and a method, and what costumes they should wear for the duration of the rebellion. But before they could do anymore the laird died anyway.

He had, it was said, slipped peacefully away by the fireside in his home and his last words were, "My heartfelt thanks to my very good friends the pixies."

And when they came to bury the laird many hundreds flocked to the grave; and the priest called for people to give testament to his character.

"He was a thief!" cried a man.

"He was a glutton!" cried another.

"He was an arsonist! A murderer! A barbarian!" thundered the crowd.

"Silence!" called the priest. "Won't somebody say something good about this man?"

"Well," said a voice. "He was always very nice about the pixies."