MATING NET - PROLOGUE
Cerne Abbas, Dorset (dusk)
Djinni felt the odds, at four to one, were heavily against
her, but improving. Two things were in her favour. First,
her kidnappers were so over-confident they were likely to
be careless. Second, in their carnival mood it wouldn't
occur to them that a female could be a force to be reckoned
with.
Eyes closed, feigning sleep--which wasn't easy now that her
clumsy abductor was carrying her uphill over rough ground--
she strained her senses for clues that might tell her where
they were going.
Four sets of feet swished through coarse grass, stirring up
scents: the warm whiff of cattle, the pungency of dog fox
on the damp evening air, squelching mud. Then, there was
the human named Grievous's very male account of local pagan
practices.
"Sir, I daresay you've heard that this is a site of an
Earth-force that makes animals and women fertile and
healthy--"
Does he think of nothing else? Djinni thought.
"I expect you'd like to know the history of the place.
Orgies and what-not," Grievous continued. "I don't suppose
you'd be interested in the rumour that couples who visit
the Cerne Giant are blessed with marital happiness. Not
you, sir."
So that's where they were! But why? Djinni had seen aerial
photographs of the hill-figure at Cerne Abbas in Dorset.
The Cerne Giant was prehistoric pornography: a hugely
aroused male nude, ditch-drawn into the white clay beneath
a grassy hillside.
"Mind!" Grievous's voice sharpened. "On your left. Barbed
wire fence, meant to discourage people from trampling on
the Cerne Giant's person. We'll step over it. Watch out for
a ditch."
Grateful for a warning, Djinni let her face roll into the
hollow of her captor's shoulder.
"That ditch should be our Giant's left outer thigh. Is
everyone over? More history anon, sir. It's time for
accuracy. Anyone spot a second ditch? Uphill, to our left,
curving towards us. We're looking for His Mightiness's
grassy gonads, lads."
He lowered his voice, "Legend has it, a virgin who sleeps
on our Cerne Giant will give her proud husband a fine brood
of children. But, as I mentioned at the last rest-stop, a
girl's got to still be a virgin, and she can't just lie any-
old-where.
"Here we go!" Apparently Grievous had oriented
himself. "Straight up, our Giant's privates cover thirty
linear feet of hillside if you want to count his big grassy
ones. Most do. Originally, he sported a twenty-two foot
erection but the circle that used to be his belly-button
was accidentally added to his manhood during a ditch
scouring."
She felt a change in her abductor's gait.
"No, no, sir. Better leave measuring to me. Where was I?
Scouring? Every seven years they clear the trenches of
weeds. Otherwise, our Giant's outlines couldn't be seen.
That's twenty feet. Should be about right. Here, put her on
this, sir."
Djinni felt herself being eased to the ground onto a coarse
wool blanket that smelled of spilled instant coffee, and
the cheap-cigarette smoker who'd thoughtfully brought along
the blanket, presumably from the boot of his car.
"Now, sir, you might be wondering if it's pure happenstance
that the Earth-force is most potent where the head of our
Giant's manhood used to be. As I understand it, many
invisible lines of magnetic force come together and form a
spiral--"
He was talking about "blind springs" and she was on one!
She recognized the Earth force, the Chi, beneath her.
Feelings of health, vitality and confidence flowed through
her.
How to escape? Djinni's mind took on the clarity of
crystal. She couldn't take out all four of the men with her
bare hands, but she might fell one. Not the sex-mad one,
but if he were fool enough to move away, she'd have a
chance...and he was a very great fool to have placed her on
a powerful blind spring.
"There's a mystery about this hill-figure, sir," Grievous
was saying. "Who's the Cerne Giant supposed to represent?
Some say he's Helis, a god of health and fertility. Mind
you, any of the old gods could qualify as that: most of
them were excessively fond of the ladies. Some did their
seducing in a stealthy sort of way, in disguises, others
were all but rapists."
"You interest me extraordinarily, Grievous."
Djinni's abductor spoke like a knife in silk. No threat
could have communicated "Be-silent-or-else" as effectively
as the soft menace of his compliment.
She'd had time to consider why his voice was so unsettling.
He turned certain words into a growl, or a sinister purr.
It was partly his Royal Shakespeare Company enunciation of
hard last consonants, as if lives depended upon his words
being understood. Perhaps they did.
Then, too, he deepened his tone on long-drawn-out last
syllables turning them into inappropriate caresses, like a
tiger licking the gazelle beneath him in the long grass.
"Er, quite so, sir." Grievous sounded shaken. "As I was
about to say, a lot of people like to think our Giant is
Hercules, on account of his notched club. Further up the
hill, to your left, sir. Of course, you can't see it from
the ground."
Whoever Grievous was, Djinni thought, he was good value as
a tour guide. The other males in the party seemed to think
so too, judging by the encouraging grunts whenever he
paused.
"I prefer the theory that he's Saturn, whom we Brits also
called Kronos. He's the god who castrated his father with a
sickle and tidily put the evidence in a sack."
Appreciative male grunts.
"Why do I think our Giant is Saturn? Well, in 700 A.D.,
Saint Augustine came to Cerne and piled up a great deal of
dirt over something that was supposed to be dangling from
our Giant's other hand. What, you might wonder, could be
more troubling to the holy saint than our Giant's
monumental male erection? Perhaps you'd care to see the
mystery mound, sir?"
Yes! Go! Djinni had never attempted mind-control before.
"Watch her!" her captor growled.
She heard him stride off, but waited until she could gauge
how far voices would carry on the evening air.
Her dark voiced abductor murmured something that Djinni
couldn't quite make out.
"Never do, sir. We've enough local legends and
controversies without putting it about that His Mightiness
is your ancestor--" Grievous's objections to gods from
outer space grew faint. They were far enough away.
Djinni slitted her eyes and turned her head to locate her
guard. He was standing downwind of her, heavily-muscled
legs apart, back towards her. She heard a splash, and
realized that he was vandalizing the Cerne Giant's
trenching in uniquely male disrespect. The Schwarzenegger-
sized alien was in no position to fight back. She was in no
mood to be chivalrous.
Djinni advanced in a power-building crouch. She focused her
strength and braced herself. She dared not use the karate
Kiai cry which would have added psychic force to her
attack. It was essential to incapacitate him quietly.
She struck, stomping on the relaxed side of his right knee.
The blow might cripple a nerve bundle or dislocate a joint.
All she needed was to make him double over.
He crumpled. His head came down, and she drove her elbow
into his neck. She felt the resistance of alien
musculature, but he fell: her attack was enough to
temporarily paralyze him.
Djinni turned, and ran.
Tarrant-Arragon felt remarkably god-like as he surmounted
the mound. He closed his eyes, spread his arms, and prayed.
Or more accurately, as one feared as a god in his own
worlds, he extended professional courtesy to the local
deities.
He'd do almost anything to improve his chances of a happy
marriage, and to ensure that his future Empress was the
first in three generations who did not run away. He didn't
mind having his time wasted --within reasonable limits. But
he was not prepared to be made to look like a romantic
fool.
As an after-thought, he thanked the God of gods, the Great
Originator, for Djinni.
Tarrant-Arragon glanced down at Grievous, who was
discreetly kicking the base of the saint's mound. The
Earthling acted as though they were on a pleasure-foray.
Which was good. It was an embarrassing business. By coming
to the Cerne Giant, he'd tacitly admitted that, apart from
frequent, vigorous sex, he didn't know what a male was
expected to do to make his mate happy.
He doubted that he knew any happy couples. Happy Tigron
lords had the sense not to bring beloved mates to their
Emperor's Court. However, he hoped the site held enough
Earth power to make her happy and counter any curse-power
in the Saurian toasts.
Remembering how his shy mate-to-be had blushed as she
unknowingly drank to his impotence, Tarrant-Arragon felt
his smile crinkle the corners of his eyes. It was ironic
that circumstances obliged him to conduct his sex life like
a military campaign.
Oh, yes! He was definitely going to enjoy doing his
dynastic duty with Djinni. He looked down the hill, and in
disbelief he saw his gentle girl launch an efficient attack
on Storm-Master Xirxex.
The warrior in him appreciated her tactics. The male in him
didn't like it. A male should protect his mate. It was an
insult to his machismo that she should flee his protection.
Stand and submit! For an instant he considered halting her
flight with Djinn-craft. However, the consequences could be
fatal if he revealed himself to her as the last of the
Great Djinn, Tarrant-Arragon, The Terror of the
Dodecahedrons.
He calculated distances. Mathematically she couldn't make
it out of the field. Tarrant-Arragon let her run and ran
himself, at an angle, to intercept her.
Ah! the exhilaration of the chase. Intent on swift, silent
recapture, Tarrant-Arragon hurled himself down the hill.
He'd never--literally--run after a female before. Perhaps
he should have. The excitement far outweighed the indignity
of the pursuit.
He raced, confident of catching her, revelling in the
certainty of mating.
Physical pursuit. Marvellous exercise. Primal courtship! If
running felt this good in Earth's light-heady atmosphere,
this night's mating would be sensational.