Chapter 1

If it hadn't been for the sudden blink of sun shining low in the sky from between the banks of cloud, I would never have noticed it. The evening sun, however, struck it at the perfect angle to shine a brief, dull orange glow. I have no idea why but, for some reason, I had paused and looked up the hillside at that precise moment. The orange glow, brief as it was, caught my eye and my imagination. What could be glowing three quarters of the way up a steep, lonely hillside? I glanced at the setting sun and back to the hill. Would I have time to make it up to where whatever it was lay and back before the sun set? It would be tricky because the loose scree that covered most of the hillside had been loosened still further by the recent severe weather and it was still muddy and slippery where the newest slippage had added to the existing fall.

Without making a conscious decision, I began to climb. I scrambled carefully up the loose stones — testing my footing at every step for a single mis-step would result in me tumbling back down the hill with a broken leg or worse. Every so often I would dislodge a stone and it would go clattering down into the valley below taking a small shower of fellows with it.

I made it safely to where the thing lay. It was a box of some sort, that much I could see. Half buried in the stones and covered with mud as it was it was difficult to tell more. Very carefully, I removed the stones from around it until I had it uncovered. It was about nine or ten inches across and about six deep and made of metal. I worked my fingers under it and prised it clear. It came loose all of a sudden and I lost my balance. My lower foot slipped and a flurry of loose stones went tumbling down the hillside. I threw myself upwards lying flat on the scree, praying that the stones I had dislodged would not trigger a larger avalanche.

As I cautiously regained my feet another shaft of sunlight, almost horizontal this time, reminded me that time was moving on. Going back down the way I had come up was too risky so I would have to go up and along the ridge and hope I could find another way back down to the path. With the box safely tucked into my rucksack, I began the cautious climb up to the top of the scree slope. From there it was a sharp but relatively easy scramble to the top. Now a decision was required. Did I go back along the top the way I had come or continue onward? As I hadn't noticed any particularly easy way up on my way out, I decided to risk moving on although it would mean a longer journey back along the path. It was a fortunate choice for, only a quarter of a mile further on, the cliff dipped considerably where an ancient landslip had occurred and it required a brief but tiring clamber down to the safety of the path.

I was exhausted by the time I reached home and put all thoughts of the box out of my mind until I had bathed and eaten. Only then did I spread newspapers over the coffee table and retrieve the box from me rucksack. A coffee table may not sound the ideal place to examine a dirty old box dug out of a hillside but, being a bachelor, I was responsible to no-one and at least I could sit comfortably while I worked.

It was not a prepossessing sight, this box. The parts of it that had not recently been exposed to the elements were crusted with mud and lichens. Even the exposed bit was tarnished and stained. Indeed it was a wonder I ever saw it at all, so dull and dirty did it look. I dug out some tools and some metal polish and set to work. It took over an hour but, finally, I had the worst of the dirt off. The surface appeared to be covered with scratches which, as I polished away, turned out to be some sort of decoration. At least that was the only thing I could think of for it followed no discernable pattern but the scratches were too regular and controlled to be caused by natural damage. The decoration was absent on both of the larger sides, one of which was entirely plain while the other had different markings. I decided the plain surface had to be the bottom and the other one the top.

It was then I noticed that the plain surface was just that — plain. There were no marks, no scratches, no dents. Nothing marred it's dull grey surface. Most unusual for a box that had been buried in rocks and mud for God knows how long. I picked up a screwdriver and tried to scratch it. Nothing. I tried a cold chisel then a tile cutter. Nothing. What sort of metal was this that wouldn't scratch? I couldn't think of one, but I was no metallurgist. I wondered of it would dent and briefly considered bashing it with a hammer but decided against it. I had no idea what was inside it I didn't want to risk damaging the contents.

I turned my attention to the opposite face. The markings here were much more regular. There were circles and things that looked a bit like arrows, and horseshoes and wiggly lines. It reminded me a little bit of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Perhaps that was what they were! Perhaps I had found an ancient Egyptian artefact! An ancient Egyptian artefact on a Scottish hillside? Perhaps not. Still I pulled out the encyclopaedia to check. Whatever they were they were not Egyptian but they did seem to have some similar features. If not Egyptian, then what? Inca? Mayan? Aztec? But if it was one of these, what was it doing buried in a hill practically in my back garden?

Another thought struck me. How did it open? I examined it carefully. I found a magnifying glass and examined it minutely. No matter how carefully I looked, there were no joins, no keyhole, no hinges. I picked it up. It was heavy but not heavy enough to be solid metal. So it must be a box and if it was a box then it must open. But how could it open if it was sealed up? No, it wasn't even sealed up. There was simply no sign of any sort of join anywhere on it. For want of anything better to do, I knelt by the coffee table and began to clean out the hieroglyphs with a small nail and an old toothbrush. While I worked I wondered what I should do with it. Take it to the museum, perhaps, to see if they could identify the writing. Perhaps it would be an exhibit with my name on a wee plaque as the finder.

One minute I'm on my knees, polishing assiduously, the next I'm enveloped in a thick cloud of oily grey smoke. Coughing and spluttering I collapsed on the carpet, luckily managing no to bang my head on both the table and the chair legs. For several minutes I lay there with my eyes streaming as the smoke slowly cleared and my breathing returned to normal. What the hell had happened? What was on fire? Where did I put the fire extinguisher? I struggled to sit upright, blinking the tears from my eyes, simultaneously searching my pockets for a handkerchief and looking round to see what was burning.

What I saw made me forget all bout fires. Standing in the middle of my living room with its arms folded and a most supercilious look on its face was the ugliest creature I had ever seen. Furiously I tried to wipe away my tears with the back of my hand.

"What the hell are you doing here and where did you spring from?" I shouted.

"From there. And I didn't spring, you released me." The voice was as condescending as the expression.

"I didn't release you."

"Yes, you did."

"I did not."

"You did. As I am here you must have released me."

"Released you from where?"

"From there." It nodded at the table.

"You came from in there? The box?" I was incredulous. "Don't give me that. Where did you really come from?"

The voice was infinitely patronising. "Don't you have ears? Or perhaps you have nothing between them. I have already told you. You released me from what you call 'the box'."

I collapsed into an armchair. This was so totally unbelievable. Was I hallucinating? I know I wasn't drunk. Perhaps it was fumes from the metal? That must be it — the polish interacted with the metal and it gave off hallucinogenic fumes. But, bloody hell, couldn't I have had a better hallucination than a four-foot, bandy-legged, wrinkled, khaki-coloured monster with an attitude problem. Still, it wasn't attacking me. That was a good thing. On the other hand it didn't seem to be going away and that was not a good thing. I wished the stupid ugly creature would just, somehow, disappear.

"You won't get rid of me as easily as that," it said smugly.

"What?"

"I said you won't get rid of me that easily."

"I heard you. I meant what did you mean?"

"What did I mean by what?"

This was all too much. It had been a long and tiring day in the first place. Then this 'thing' had appeared and now it was bandying words as if we were playing some parlour game.

"I meant," I shouted, "what did you mean by saying I wouldn't get rid of you that easily?"

"Temper, temper."

"Just answer the fucking question."

It sighed and said, as if explaining to a particularly recalcitrant child, "Just wishing me to disappear isn't going to work." I looked at it blankly, so it continued, "You may recall, if your attention span is longer than a few seconds, that you wished I would disappear and I commented that a wish like that was insufficient."

"I don't believe this. I make a wish, sort of subconsciously, and you can read my mind? What are you? Some sort of fucking genie?"

"Got it in one."

"Huh?"

"You can consider me a genie, or a jinn, if you prefer."

"I don't prefer. I'd prefer it if you'd simply fuck off." I shook my head in bewilderment. "Let me get this straight. I did something to that box and you appeared in a puff of smoke and you can read my mind and you say you are a genie?"

"No."

"No what? No, I didn't do something? No, you didn't appear in a puff of smoke? No, you can't read my mind? Or no, you're not a genie? Which is it?"

"The last two — but the smoke was an accident."

"You can't read my mind and you're not a genie. But you just said you were a fucking genie!"

"No, I didn't. I said you could consider me as one."

"So you're not a genie?"

"Not even close but it's the only concept your primitive mind can understand."

"Have it your way. You're not a genie. And you can't read minds?"

"Correct."

"Then..."

It held up its hand. "I can't read minds but I can read wishes."

This was progress of a sort. This was the first bit of information the thing had actually volunteered.

"If you can read wishes can you grant them too?

"If you want to think of it like that, yes. I can make what you wish for become true."

"I don't want to think of it any way. I just want to find out what the hell you are and what you're doing in my living room."

It sighed theatrically. "I've already explained that. You released me from the box."

I held up a placatory hand. "All right, all right. That covers how you got here. Now I'm trying to find out what you are. You say you are a genie..." It started to interrupt. "Okay, you 'imply' you are a genie and you 'imply' you can grant wishes. Now either you are a genie and can grant wishes or you're not a genie and can't grant wishes. You can't be both so which is it?"

Another theatrical sigh. "I'm not a genie."

"So why did you say or imply you were?"

"Powers preserve me from ignorant savages. Because a genie is the nearest concept you have on this primitive backwater of a planet."

"Then you can grant wishes."

"No, I cannot grant wishes, you ignorant ape."

"Then you can't be a genie, I said triumphantly. "Anyway, genies are mythical. They only exist in fairy tales. Ipso facto you are not real. You're only a figment of my imagination."

The thing was practically dancing with rage. "I'm not a misbegotten genie, you imbecilic buffoon. And I am not a figment of your puerile imagination. I am as real as you are." It hopped up and down waving its arms around. "You can see me. You can hear me. Doesn't that make me real?"

It had turned a colourful shade of purple and I could practically see the steam coming out of its ears.

"Not necessarily. I might be drunk or hallucinating."

"You are neither drunk nor hallucinating."

"You would say that, of course — or, rather, my drunken or hallucinating mind would," I said smugly. I was taking some pleasure in extracting a small degree of revenge.

It opened and closed its mouth several times. I wondered if it was going to die of apoplexy. It stood in front of me and bent so its face was only a few inches from mine. Its breath was not pleasant. "Now listen here you pathetic excuse for an intelligent being. You released me, something I am beginning to wish had never happened, and, for better or worse, I now owe you allegiance. It could have been someone with intelligence. It could have been someone with wit and sensitivity. It could have been someone with power and influence. But, no! It had to be you. So, like it or not, and I can assure you I do not like it, I'm stuck with you. Do you understand?"