The Highlander and the Devil

But all was not well in Wigtown. A dreadful plague crept through the village like a shadow, and one by one, people fell ill. Tom, still standing strong, watched as neighbors succumbed to the disease, and he knew that time was a luxury. He decided to fortify himself with what he knew best: a bottle of the finest whisky from the local tavern. Raising it to the sky, he muttered with a smirk, “If this plague is the Devil’s doing, he’ll find no friend in me.”

As Tom walked home under the silvery moonlight, a chill slithered down his spine. A deep, gravelly chuckle echoed from behind him, and he turned to see not the friendly, shaggy silhouette of a Highland cow but the towering figure of the Devil himself, eyes smoldering like embers. “Tom Campbell!” the Devil boomed. “I heard you’ve been toasting at my expense. Time to play.”

Most folks would have dropped their whisky in terror, but Tom was no ordinary man. He stared at the Devil with a look that said, *Really? This is it?* Then, with a bold grin, he held out the bottle. “You’ve been working hard, aye? Care for a drink?”

The Devil’s eyes widened at the sight of the golden liquid. Without hesitation, he grabbed the bottle and took a mighty swig. One gulp turned into another, and soon the Devil was drinking like a man parched from eternity. Tom chuckled as he watched the Devil’s dark bravado fade into hiccups and wobbly legs. “Easy there, big fella. This is whisky, not your usual brimstone brew.”

“Enough!” the Devil shouted, half-slurred. His crimson face lit up with sudden enthusiasm. “We’ll settle this Highland style: a wrestling match! If I win, your soul is mine.”

Tom shrugged, taking another small sip. “And if I win?” The Devil squinted, swaying ever so slightly. “Name your prize, mortal.”

Tom thought for a moment, then declared, “If I win, you’ll lift this cursed plague from Wigtown and never bother our folk again.” The Devil smirked, assuming victory was inevitable. “Agreed,” he said, shaking Tom’s hand with an iron grip.

The match began under the cold, watchful eye of the moon. Sand flew and waves crashed as they grappled, each trying to overpower the other. But while Tom drew strength from his earlier nips of whisky, the Devil was growing sluggish, his once-fiery power dimmed by the potent Scottish brew. Minutes stretched into hours until, with the first hint of dawn, the Devil’s footing slipped. Tom seized the moment and hurled the Lord of Darkness to the ground.

Panting and triumphant, Tom raised his arms in victory while the Devil staggered away, muttering curses about Highland whisky and the unfairness of mortal strength. He disappeared with a final puff of sulfur, leaving Tom alone on the beach. With a satisfied smile, Tom took the last drop from the bottle and collapsed onto the cool sand.

When the morning sun painted the sky, a priest’s voice broke through Tom’s dreams. “Tom! We’ve been searching all night!” The blacksmith’s wife stood nearby, eyes full of relief. “The plague is gone!” the priest continued, joy lifting his voice. “Everyone is healing!”

Tom, half-awake and still holding his now-empty bottle, nodded knowingly. They would never believe what really happened, but he didn’t mind. The tale of how he drank with the Devil and wrestled for Wigtown’s fate would be his secret—and perhaps one he’d share over a dram or two with close friends.

From that day on, the people of Wigtown would say that courage, a touch of wit, and a fine whisky could conquer even the darkest evils. And Tom Campbell, the man who bested the Devil, would raise his glass with a smile, knowing it to be true.