The Eleventh Plague

by Darren Craske

  ‘I am sorry, but the temple is currently closed for scientific studies…as the sign clearly states,’ said the new arrival, motioning towards a small painted sign just inside the entrance, virtually obscured by the darkness.

  ‘We did not see it,’ apologised Ahman.

  ‘That may be the case, sir, but I must still ask you to leave. Immediately, if you would be so kind,’ said the man in an authoritative tone that could not be ignored.

  ‘Monsieur, if you wish to stop people entering this temple, might I suggest placing the signs outside the building?’ said a defiant Destine.

  ‘Destine,’ Ahman said sharply, gripping her arm.

  ‘I am sorry, Ahman, but we are doing no harm,’ replied Destine.

  ‘I agree, but—’

  ‘And we have travelled a great distance to get here on a journey of the utmost importance!’ supplemented Destine. ‘All we want is to inspect the temple’s beauty not plunder its treasures! We did not come so far to be barred entrance upon arrival, not when we are so close.’

  ‘Destine!’ glowered Ahman.

  ‘Ahman, please do not try to silence me, you know how important this is!’

  ‘I do, but—’

  ‘We have earned a look, have we not? I mean, it is not as if we are—’

  ‘Destine!’ Ahman yelled abruptly – and so forceful was he that Destine’s mouth clamped shut. ‘Listen to me for a moment! This man…you…you heard what he said?’

  ‘Oui, Ahman, of course I did, but we cannot simply turn around and—’

  ‘No, I mean…you understood him?’ asked Ahman firmly.

  ‘Of course – why should I not have?’

  Ahman’s eyes went wide. ‘Because he was speaking Arabic.’

  Destine’s senses were aflame. ‘Nonsense! I heard every word as clearly as I am talking to you now. If he were speaking Arabic, how on earth could I have understood a word he said?’

  ‘That is entirely my point, Madame,’ said Ahman ‘This man was definitely speaking Arabic. But importantly…so were you. Fluently, I might add.’

  ‘Me? Mon ami, I do not think so,’ laughed Destine. ‘I cannot speak Arabic!’

  ‘I am sorry, Destine,’ said Ahman, ‘but it seems that you can.’

  Destine felt the corners of her mouth twitch, unsure whether to smile or cry.

  The stranger cleared his throat. ‘This is fascinating, but if I may be so bold as to interrupt? Now that we have proved that you understood what I asked, there are no more excuses! This temple is currently off limits, so I must kindly ask you to continue your discussion outside.’

  Destine gave the man a once over as if she had only just realised he was there. He was dressed in a white cotton suit, with a broad-knotted tie at his neck. He held a lantern in one hand and a notebook in the other. His shiny bald head caught a halo of the sun’s glare, offsetting the steely look within his eyes.

  ‘And might I ask who you are, sir?’ asked Destine.

  ‘I am Feron Mouk, the curator of this site,’ said the man, his bombast fading slightly as Destine took a step nearer to him. ‘Perhaps I did not make myself clear: we are currently making some important renovations to some of our exhibits here. The desert storm sands are unrelenting, I am afraid, and every once in a while we must ensure the artefacts are cleaned. May I ask the purpose of your visit today?’

  Ahman spoke: ‘Mr Mouk, my companion has become bewitched by Sekhet Simbel’s majesty, have you not, my dear?’

  ‘Mais oui… yes,’ agreed Destine, following Ahman’s lead. ‘I have been here before, you see. Way back in the early thirties, and I have longed to return to this place ever since.’

  ‘Ah…the thirties, now those were glorious days, ma’am, simply glorious!’ cheered Mouk, tapping a beat on the sand with his foot. ‘Much has changed since then – in the world outside and within this temple. We have unearthed a great deal more of this place, including the smaller annexed temple to the east. You are most welcome to peruse that before you leave, but as I said…I am afraid this particular area is off limits.’

  Ahman shuffled over and steered Mouk’s arm.

  ‘We understand, sir, but the last time my companion was here, she laid eyes on a most wonderful artefact and she was quite taken by it,’ he said, consciously leading Mouk away from the entrance and deeper into temple. ‘Yet it was so long ago now, and I am afraid that she has quite forgotten where it is. I am most intrigued, I must say. I just wish I had the knowledge and skill to decipher her meaning, but I am far from knowledgeable in such matters. Surely not even the most studious academic in all of Egypt would be able to locate it. Unless…I do not suppose someone as highly respected as you might be able to work out what she means would you, Mr Mouk?’

  Ahman had said all the right things.

  ‘Well…when you put it like that, sir, I can certainly try!’ Mouk beamed pompously. ‘I suppose that I might be willing to bend the rules a little. I do so love to meet people with an appreciation of the past.’

  ‘Recently I have found the past most enlightening,’ said Destine, with a wink at Ahman.

  ‘Very good, then!’ said Mouk. ‘Tell me what you can of this piece that you admired so much, ma’am, and I shall do my best to locate it for you.’

  Destine smiled sweetly, relishing the role of dotty old woman as she felt a little flurry of butterflies take flight in her stomach. ‘It is like a dream, but all I can remember is that it was called “The Shaded God”…more than that I cannot say. I am afraid I am a bit forgetful at my age.’

  ‘The Shaded God…hmm, let me see.’ Mouk was one of those that liked to tap their fingernails against their teeth when they were concentrating. ‘Well…I have worked on this site for many years and I can modestly say that I am the foremost expert on its inventory of treasures. However, I can definitely say with all sincerity that we have no exhibit here of that name.’

  Ahman and Destine’s hearts sank simultaneously.

  ‘Unless…the only thing I can think of…’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Destine eagerly.

  ‘This way!’ Mouk announced, before darting off. ‘But do try to keep pace. If you get lost down here it may take hours to find you.’

  As Destine and Ahman quickly followed Feron Mouk’s charge, his voice echoed off the enclosed walls all around them. He was giving a rapid commentary – not that his audience cared much for anything; their sights were set on but one target.

  ‘These were amongst the first artefacts to be unearthed,’ he said, pointing to two rows of magnificent statues as he continued through the temple. ‘These two on the north side wear the White Crown of Upper Egypt, whereas these on the south wear the Double Crown of Lower Egypt. And as we move through into the next antechamber, these hieroglyphics here depict the great Battle of Kadesh, where Rameses the Great fought the Hittite warriors of King Muwatalli.’

  Mouk’s potted history lesson continued as he led Destine and Ahman ever forwards, into the belly of the temple. They soon entered a many-pillared hall with beautifully inscribed columns decorated with various pictorial images and hieroglyphics. The hall gradually gave way to a vestibule in the middle of a low-ceilinged room. There was no natural light at all in the room, but four lit torches were affixed at points on the brickwork.

  ‘Here we are!’ announced Mouk, as he approached the wall at the far end of the corridor. ‘This might be what you are searching for.’

  ‘Here?’ asked Destine. She was looking at a wall no more than twenty feet in width, with four statues seated upon four stone thrones against it.

  Mouk looked at her unchanged expression. ‘This is not what you sought?’

  Destine was uncertain what to say. ‘Possibly…but I just need to familiarise myself with it a little. Where is this place?’

  ‘This is the Innermost Shrine, ma’am – the heartbeat of the temple!’ proclaimed Mouk. ‘The entire reason for its being you might say. And might I add an enigma that has outfoxed the combined intellects of the world�
��s greatest Egyptologists – including myself, if I might be so bold as to count myself amongst their number.’ Mouk grinned broadly from ear to ear, and beckoned Destine forwards. ‘Come, ma’am, take a closer look.’

  ‘But, Monsieur Mouk…look at what? I see nothing but statues…the likes of which are all over this temple, are they not?’ said Destine, understandably deflated.

  ‘Ma’am, it is the symbolism behind these particular statues that is important,’ explained Mouk. ‘Each one has a history, and each one speaks volumes to those educated in all the subtle nuances of the Ancient’s testaments.’

  Destine inspected the statues, with her tongue frozen firmly at the back of her throat. ‘Monsieur Mouk…you said these sculptures represent the “Shaded God”? Might I ask you to explain?’

  ‘But, of course, ma’am! Behold…the mystery that lies deep within the heart of Sekhet Simbel.’ Mouk said, as he pointed to the sculptured figures. ‘As you no doubt are aware, our ancestors worshipped many gods and goddesses. Egypt is replete with temples, shrines and edifices venerating all sorts of deities from the sun to the moon to the wind that shakes the trees. Here we have the four deities to whom this particular temple is dedicated. We have Ra-Horakhty, the hawk-headed God of the Rising Sun. We have the deified Pharaoh Rameses the Great right here…and next to him we have Amun-Ra, the Sun God. And here…this is the fellow that you wish to reacquaint yourself with, I believe.’ Mouk tapped upon the statue with his knuckles. ‘This is the god called Ptah. One of the most maligned and misrepresented deities in ancient Egyptian history. Some academics would have us believe that Ptah was the god of death…but if we ignore our modern, nineteenth-century translation of him and view him with the eyes of the ancients things can take on a different slant.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Destine, hungry for more.

  ‘Well, instead of death, Ptah was actually associated with the exact opposite – with creation, with life beginning anew,’ replied Mouk, eager to feed his audience’s curiosity. ‘In fact, some scriptures tell that the world itself sprang forth from his dreams! Ptah was the creator of everything. Literally translated, his name means “the opener” – as in the opener of worlds, the opener of minds, the opener of mouths even – such is his misinterpreted symbolism with death.’

  ‘The opener of mouths?’ repeated Destine in a whisper.

  ‘Yes, indeed, ma’am!’ cried Feron Mouk. ‘The act of an undertaker opening the deceased’s mouth is still practised to this day, and stems back to the ancient times. Ptah believed that if the mouth were closed during the burial process, the soul would be trapped for ever within the mortal shell, denied its eternal life amongst the stars only to crumble to dust.’ Destine and Ahman were quite uncertain what to say, and the curator seemed positively thrilled that he had provoked such a response. ‘Marvellously macabre, is it not?’ he chuckled.

  ‘And what of the story I have heard that the sun only strikes this place twice a year?’ asked Destine, hoping to cement the meaning within the words of her letter. ‘How can that be so? We are right out in the middle of the desert – surely the sun will always strike this temple?’

  Mouk clasped his palms together eagerly, enjoying another opportunity to show off. ‘I am glad you asked, ma’am, for that is the reason for my bringing you to this place! It is what piqued my curiosity in your tale, in fact. Ptah’s story is integral to the history – and indeed, the mystery – behind this very temple. Allow me to explain,’ said Mouk, and Destine and Ahman gladly obliged. ‘The sun does indeed strike the exterior of Sekhet Simbel all year round…but not the interior. You see, this temple was purposefully oriented in such a way that twice a year – in February and October – the light of the sun penetrates this very sanctuary from the main entrance behind us, illuminating the gods to which Sekhet Simbel pays homage.’ Mouk proudly pointed to the four statues behind him and smiled, dropping an overlong pause. ‘That is…all except one! Unlike the other gods deified here, Ptah’s statue is never illuminated by the sun’s rays…not once! But why not? I hear you ask. If the axis of the temple was of an intentional design, then why purposefully keep him shrouded?’

  ‘Why?’ Destine found herself asking.

  ‘Why indeed, ma’am,’ said Mouk. ‘There are many theories as to why this is, of course, but we may never reveal the truth behind the mystery. Poor old Ptah…the god bathed eternally in the shadow of the sun, destined never to see its light again. Such is life…such is history. Sometimes the past refuses to give up its secrets.’

  ‘I could not agree more,’ said Destine.

  ‘When you mentioned it earlier, there was only one piece in this temple that sprang to mind,’ said Feron Mouk, clasping his hands. ‘Am I correct, ma’am?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur, it is all coming back to me now,’ lied Destine. ‘Such beauty. How could I have forgotten it? You have my sincere thanks, Monsieur Mouk.’

  Mouk bowed. ‘You are most welcome, ma’am. I have to attend to some other business in the archives. Why not stay awhile and admire Sekhet Simbel’s majesty some more. If you do not mind seeing yourselves out, that is?’

  Destine nearly bit his hand off. ‘Of course! Merci beaucoup! Thank you.’

  ‘Good day, ma’am…and sir,’ Feron Mouk said cheerily, as he departed for a tunnel leading from the main hall. ‘Do come again!’

  ‘What a nice man,’ said Destine. ‘A trifle overzealous. But nice.’

  Ahman snatched her hand and squeezed it tight. ‘What next?’

  ‘I have no idea, mon ami,’ admitted Destine. ‘We search for the third marker, I suppose – whatever and wherever it might be. We are not quite at the end of this riddle yet.’

  Gathering her composure, still unsure exactly how the statue of Ptah might assist her, Destine caressed her hands over the stone. Her fingertips invaded every groove, every crack and every gap in the statue from its head down to its solid rock base. She froze like one of the temple’s petrified exhibits as her fingertips touched against something embedded within the base of Ptah’s sculpture. Something solid and thick wrapped in rough material. She quickly stowed it away within the folds of her bodice, not daring to even look at it.

  ‘Destine?’ Ahman asked, seeing the look on her face. ‘What is it?’

  Destine fought to gather her voice. ‘Answers, mon cher…I hope.’

  CHAPTER XXIX

  The Pull of History

  DESTINE MADE A hasty egress from the temple, with Ahman rushing behind her. Clutching the smuggled item close to her chest, her eyes darted around her. She was barely able to contain her excitement. The letter was correct. It had said that there was something to find in Sekhet Simbel, and she had found it. That confirmation proved much. It proved that everything in the letters was true. It was her legacy to find that cloth-wrapped parcel; perhaps even her destiny.

  ‘Quickly, we must find somewhere safe to examine it,’ she said to Ahman.

  ‘Safe?’ he asked, looking around. ‘Are we not safe here? Who else do you think would be interested in whatever it is that you have there, ah?’

  ‘I will not know until I open it, will I?’ Destine said. The parcel seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, radiating warmth as if it were alive. ‘But I have no wish to do so right on Mr Mouk’s doorstep. I am sure he takes a very dim view of people stealing from his temple!’ Before Ahman had even finished untying his horse’s reins, Destine was already sat in the rear of the cart.

  ‘It is getting late in the afternoon and we should think about making camp for the night. I know a little place on a lake not far from here that is suitable,’ said Ahman. ‘It is not wise to be out in the open once darkness falls.’

  ‘Très bien! Please…just let us be on our way.’

  Although Madame Destine was clairvoyant no more, it seemed that she retained a slight semblance of her gift, for she was somewhat prescient in her earlier estimation that she was not safe.

  As she and Ahman began their journey, a pair of furtive eyes watched their ca
rt with interest from an overlooking hill. His eyes fixed upon the duo, a knife’s edge of a smile sliced across Heinrich Nadir’s face. He turned to the two men at his side – men swathed head to toe in dark red rags that climbed their bodies, coiling around their heads into an all concealing hood. Only their dark eyes peered through an inch-wide slit. These men were trained in the art of dealing death, and its stench clung to their clothes like must.

  ‘There are your targets, meine freunde!’ Nadir said. ‘When the order is given, you may kill the male…but whatever you do, ensure that the female is unharmed or the Hades Consortium will have your heads. Whilst the Frenchwoman is certainly valuable, she is but the bait to snare an even greater prize.’

  CHAPTER XXX

  The Distressing Damsel

  CORNELIUS QUAINT KNEW that walking boldly into Clan Scarab territory was always going to be a gamble, but he maintained a fondness for gambles – especially when the stakes were high. As things stood, for him (and for Egypt) the stakes were astronomical.

  ‘So, Chullah,’ said Quaint (now on first name terms with the bartender), ‘what time can I expect your Aksak to arrive, anyway?’

  ‘When he gets here,’ replied Chullah. ‘As I said…he is on Scarab business some miles away. He should be back before nightfall. Why did you wish to speak with him again?’

  ‘I have a question that I hope he’ll have the answer to,’ replied Quaint.

  At that moment, the tavern door was wrenched open, and a guttural voice spoke an inch from Quaint’s ear:

  ‘And what would that question be, stranger?’

  Quaint turned around to face the grim-faced Clan Scarab leader standing in the open doorway of the Bara Mephista tavern.

  ‘Aksak Faroud, I presume?’ Quaint asked.

  ‘You have me at a loss, Mister…?’ asked Faroud, narrowing his gaze.

  Quaint opened his mouth to speak. ‘My name is—’

  ‘Surely you remember your old friend Cornelius Quaint!’ said Chullah.

  ‘Friend?’ asked Faroud.

  Quaint could almost hear the ice cracking beneath his feet.