Chapter 1

I do love reading stories about genies, I mean, fantasy is a great escape, and lets be completely honest, fantasy is what they are. It's pretty clear that none of the writers have ever encountered a real genie, well for heavens sake, how many of us have? Well, me to start with, and I can tell you that most of what you read is just ... fantasy. Oh yes, beautiful girls, absolutely, and clever, oh yes, but able to speak modern idiomatic English, forget it. Able to provide whatever your heart desires, well yes, provided your heart desires something that they know about. If, for instance, your genie was bottled in, say the 1950s, and yes, they are about, and you asked for a new television, you'd get one. Black and white and only able to receive one channel. And a car? It'd be an upright Ford probably in black. But I wasn't even that lucky. There are other things the writers get wrong too. That bit about misinterpreting your wishes, you know, like the old joke about the bloke who goes into a pub with a stork and a cat who immediately start arguing, the cat saying he isn't going to pay and ... to cut a long story to size the bloke tells the barman that he wished for a bird with long legs, and a tight pussy. You see, he put a comma in where he shouldn't have. That's malicious, and it's the sort of thing that leprechauns do, but not genies, no they can't do that. If you wish for a comfy bed then that is what you'll get. Whether you will be comfortable using it is another matter entirely.

I'm an archaeologist, an amateur admittedly. Oh well, OK, I've got a metal detector, but our knowledge of history owes a lot to metal detectorists, we've found lots of goodies, though I'll admit that some of us just put them in our pockets, which isn't good. But I have done an evening course on archaeology at the local college and I've been on a couple of digs too. Well, OK, just as an extra, walk across that field in a line and see if you see anything, that sort of thing, but it was really interesting. I always watch Time Team too, so I know what I'm doing. There was one spin off from college which turned out to be fortuitous. Several of us went on a course to learn to speak Saxon. It's a great language, and once you get the hang of it you can read all the old epic poems and they really come to life. Well we practised until we could hold reasonable conversations, although to be honest there is no way you can talk about 'what I did at work today' because the words simply aren't there, a bit like Welsh y'know, but you can ask for another drink fairly easily, they did a lot of that, although our local pub doesn't accept groats anymore, and you can discuss the quality of the local ale, they did a lot of that too. Well, you can until the landlord recommends that you say whatever you want to say in English because he doesn't hold with none of that there A-rab lingo, and the next thing we'll be doing is blowing up his pub. Waste of good explosives if you ask me. A roman candle up his bum might put a bit of life into him though.

I'd been detecting on a local farm, with the farmer's permission I hasten to add, for some time. Willie reckoned if I ever found more than the nuts and bolts that regularly fall off his machinery I'd be lucky. I didn't bother to tell him that if he ever did basic maintenance he'd have a lot less trouble, I think he knows that. I witnessed him and his son trying to start their old combine on one occasion. Half an hour of whirring, graunching and groaning, some from the machine and some from them, several cans of easy start and clouds of dense black smoke when it finally decided to go. They were just like Laurel and Hardy, I really expected one of them to say 'There's another fine mess you've gotten me into.' But the nearest I got was, 'Don't hit the starter when I'm down here ... ow! You miserable old fucker, why'd 'ee do that?'

So one Saturday afternoon in March, fine and sunny, but with a very chilly wind blowing from the east, found me in one of the larger fields, well wrapped up and getting toward the end of my final pass, when suddenly there was a beep. I stepped back and checked. Yes no doubt about it, loud and clear. It was getting a bit late by this time and I thought about marking the spot and going back the next day, but I hadn't found anything for some time, well, it felt like forever, so I decided to see what it was. I'd excavated a fair sized hole and the sun was nearly on the horizon when I saw something. I knelt down and carefully exposed a piece of pottery. As I exposed more I realised that it was a complete jar, and sealed too. I was very excited as I lifted it out of the hole. I was sure it was Saxon, but it was very unusual, with ornate gold banding applied to it, this being what had alerted the metal detector. I gazed at it in awe. A real find. I gently rubbed off the last of the dirt on the gold, which glinted in the dying sunlight. To my surprise I realised that my hands were warm, despite the cold. And they were getting warmer. I hastily set the jar down on the ground.

I stepped back when I saw that it was beginning to glow. It was just as well I did so, because a few seconds later the lid blew off. Not particularly explosively, perhaps I should have said 'popped' off, but whatever the next bit is where they get it wrong too. There was no smoke. Not white, black, pink or any other colour. What there was, was like a heat haze, something shimmered out of the jar and formed a cloud above it. Not a cloud in the normal sense, but the view of the hedge beyond was distorted as if by a cloud of heat. There were sparkly bits in it too, I remember.

As quickly as the hazy cloud had formed it disappeared, and there, standing before me, was truly a vision of loveliness. Well, at least they got that right.

"Fuck me..."

She was tall and slim, her face had high cheekbones, a rather cute turned up nose, a full mouth and large blue eyes. Her blonde hair was centrally parted and hung in plaits to her waist. She was wearing a long blue dress and a grey woollen cape. I was trying to take in just how gorgeous this woman was, and to try to understand what had happened when she spoke.

"About time too. I am Ælfthryth. You have left me in that jar a long time."

"What the fuck..."

"I think you are repeating yourself. I," and it was definitely a capital 'I', "am a Djinni."

Djinni. Hmm ... blow me, a genie. Really? My brain slowly ground through the evidence, sparse as it was, and could come to no other conclusion.

She looked at me with what can only be described as contempt.

"You are my master?"

And her lip curled.

"I am called Harold Iverson." I said.

I wouldn't have thought that her lip could curl any further, but I swear it did.

"That is a Viking name. Am I to be slave to a barbarian?"

Slave? You will have noticed that some, well, yes, most of the speech is shown in italics. The reason for this is that she had addressed me in the Saxon tongue, which if I wrote here you wouldn't understand, and since I have had Ælfthryth I have learnt that there is no point in casting pearls before swine. Metaphorically you understand, I do not think of you as pigs. Well, not unless you are of the law enforcement persuasion anyway. Anyway, she always cuts straight to the chase, if she thinks you're an idiot she says so. I eventually realised that she didn't, or possibly wasn't going to, speak English, although perhaps my expression of surprise was rather short to make a full judgement on that. Plus, the main word I had used wasn't English, but old Dutch.

"And what year is it? I know I have been in that jar a long time."

So they got that wrong too, she was aware of the passage of time.

"Umm ... what year was it when you entered the jar?"

"It was the year after Athelstan conquered Northumbria."

So that would be... 927... 928, so that's 2010 minus 928, umm ... that's 1082. I told her. She was silent. Well, that was a relief.

It was now almost dark and very cold, with a clear sky there would be a sharp frost and I wanted to get back to my nice warm house.

"Are you going to stay here? Is this where you live?" I asked.

I was treated to a further look of contempt.

"What kind of person are you? Are you the spawn of the village idiot? I am your Djinni, I cannot leave you. Where you go, I go. Where your home is that is mine too."

Now, I'm not married, well I was, but you know how these things go, but I do have a girlfriend, although I suspected that did was going to be the correct tense when she met Ælfthryth, if indeed she was now attached to me.

It was now far too cold to stand in a field arguing so I picked up the jar and lid. It must, I thought, be quite valuable, and in any case she might need to get back into it, lamp type genies seemed to.

"Follow me."

"Yes, Master."

We walked the few hundred yards back to my Landcruiser in silence. She, I think, was trying to cope with the date, and I was wondering just what was going on. As we approached the car she came back to life.

"What kind of chariot is this? Where are the horses?"

"It's a horseless chariot."

"Do not be ridiculous, there cannot be any such thing." She paused. " It smells horrible."

"Well just get in and you'll see. I'm certainly not going to hang around here in the cold any longer."

I opened the door. She stood there.

"Get in."

"How?"

I've never thought about this before, but getting into a car really isn't intuitive.

"A lady turns around, sits on the seat and turns as she puts her legs in."

She tried, and with a little guidance ended up sitting rigidly in the front seat. I chucked the metal detector in the back set the jar down carefully, and got into the drivers seat.

I started the engine.

"WHAT IS THAT? YOU HAVE A WILD BEAST IN THIS THING?"

Now I've never thought of my Landcruiser as having a wild beast under the bonnet, lots of big cart horses yes, but a Ferrari it isn't. And anyone who has ever driven one on a motorway will have tried to see 'what it'll do', and at 100mph it is frightening, enough to make you evacuate your bowels, which, since they are built like brick shithouses seems quite appropriate.

"It's the... engine."

Who was it said that if technology was sufficiently advanced it was indistinguishable from magic? Arthur C. Clarke. Yes, and he was probably right too. But I was beginning to wonder about genies, or in this case Djinni, I think that's plural as well as singular. She clearly wasn't as clued up as the American variety that I had read about. She seemed to have no ability to read my mind, she didn't immediately speak idiomatic English, she'd said nothing about wishes and neither had she shown any desire to leap on me and shag my brains out, indeed, she seemed to indicate that I was anything but a desirable specimen of manhood. A bit unreasonable, that last bit. I'll admit I'm only five nine, but I'm quite broad shouldered and not overweight, I have fairly long hair, not down to my shoulders (the broad ones) and I have a beard. Most ladies seem to think I'm at least passably good looking, I'm kind to animals and children and I daresay you get used to the smell. OK, I'm joking on that last bit. I think.

She sat, if anything even more rigidly, as we drove the three miles to my cottage. We passed a couple of cars coming the other way and her reaction appeared to be one of abject terror. I parked up, switched of and went round to open her door. I reasoned that it was unlikely that she would know how to do that. When I opened the door she just sat there. In order to help her I reached for her knees. The next thing I knew I was flat on my back. I sat gently up, checking to see if anything was broken other than my jaw. OK, it wasn't actually broken but it had received an amazing right handed punch from the woman who was now standing over me clearly dripping fury.

"Do you try to take advantage of any damsel that you find distressed?"

She spoke quietly, but somehow it seemed very loud. I stood up.

"I am sorry, my lady. I did not intend to take advantage of you, but to assist you from the chariot as I assisted you into it."