Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

'Horse? Non, I…I did not,' replied Destine, her breath shallow. 'But, oui…I am fine. Just a little shaken. You saved my life, sir. I am most relieved you were passing.'

'Passing?' squawked the man. 'My dear, I was not passing, or have you forgotten that this is my carpet store?'

'Forgotten?' asked Destine.

'Ah! I do not blame you. A lot has changed since you were last here – except you, of course! You look exactly as you did twenty years ago, Destine. I cannot wait for you to fill me in on what I have missed, ah?' the man grinned.

Madame Destine scowled at the chap, rubbing at her bruised ribs. Surely she must have also struck her head during the fall. Either that or this man was mad.

'Since I was last here? Twenty years ago, you say?' she asked.

The man chuckled as he helped Destine to her feet. 'I know! It makes me feel old too, ah? Come along inside the store. I will make us a nice pot of tea, and as luck would have it, I have just baked some cinnamon bread with fresh butter and jam – just the way you like it!'

'But, monsieur…how could you know how I like it?' asked Destine, with a frown.

'How else, Destine?' piped the stout fellow, as he scuttled through the curtain of beads that hung from the shop's doorway. 'You told me.'

'I…I did?' Destine began to follow the man, but halted in her tracks. 'Wait, monsieur…did you just call me "Destine"?'

'Yah,' replied the cheery little man. 'Twice!'

The Silent Echo

INSIDE THE CARPET store, Madame Destine sat upon a stool at a large, circular table and looked around. The decor was exactly how her mind felt at that particular moment – hotchpotch. Virtually every scrap of wall-space was covered with swatches of carpets and ornate rugs, all arranged in a bizarre kind of mosaic. Huge rolls of varying types of carpet were stacked up against one of the walls in a long line.

Destine occupied herself by scanning every square inch for anything that might give her some clue as to who this man was…and how he seemed to know her. She found nothing, and as she heard a gentle melodic hum emanating from the rear of the store, she prayed that a little illumination would be forthcoming.

Accompanied by a delicious smell, the man approached the table carrying a wooden tray laden with warm cinnamon bread, fresh butter and a jar of conserve. A dented metal teapot sat upon the table, and the man nudged it carefully to one side in order to put the food down. Destine had not spoken a single word, but the stranger had done enough talking for the both of them. He chattered away merrily, barely pausing to take a breath. The permanent smile etched upon his bearded face never waned, and his stubby moustache seesawed when he spoke.

'How are you feeling now, Madame?' he asked.

'My neck is a little sore, but nothing appears to be broken,' Destine replied, 'apart from my memory, it seems. I must admit to being slightly confused.'

'That was a nasty scare, but nothing that some tea and a slice of cinnamon bread will not fix, ah?' the man said, nodding to the table. 'I had no idea you were coming, dear Destine, why did you not write?'

Destine gathered handfuls of her gown within her fists, squeezing them tightly, trying to wring out an answer to her confusion. The little Egyptian had buzzed around like a miniature whirlwind ever since she had set foot inside his store. So much so that she was barely able to concentrate on the muddle that was her memory.

'Monsieur, I am sorry to be so blunt. You have been very kind, but I must ask…do I know you?' She watched the man's kind expression waver. 'I think that you might have me confused with someone else. Or perhaps it is I that am confusing myself for someone else, I do not know! I have never seen you before in my life, yet you claim to know me. I ask myself how this can be.'

'You have been through a very frightening episode, ah? It is no wonder you are confused. Here!' The stranger offered Destine a plate of warm cinnamon bread, to which she nodded her thanks and helped herself to a slice, spreading a thick blanket of butter upon it. All the while, the Egyptian's smile never waned. 'I have missed that appetite of yours.'

'Missed? Again, monsieur – where have we met before?' asked Destine. 'Who are you, what is your name? Where am I?'

The man sighed in mock frustration. 'Okay, I will play along if it makes you happy! My name is Ahman Nadim.' Ahman straightened the bow tie at his plump neck. 'This is my carpet store…modest, though it is. And you, my dear lady, are Madame Destine Renard.'

His words made Destine's heart miss a beat.

'R-Renard?' she stuttered.

This man Ahman knew her, all right. The very fact that he was aware of the name 'Renard' was proof of that. She had not used that name in a long while. Not since her son had tainted it so darkly. That still left the question: who was this mysterious fellow? How could he know such a private detail about her? She had never set eyes upon him before. Had she?

'Pardonnez moi, monsieur,' Destine said, considering each word carefully. 'I am having difficulty recalling. Have you ever travelled to the European continent? Perhaps I have done a reading of your fortune?'

'No, not me,' Ahman replied. 'I am not one who cares to know what life has in store. I shall surely find out eventually. What is the hurry, ah?'

'But…if you have not seen me in the circus, then how do you know me?' asked Destine, her manners pushed to their limits by her impatience. 'Please…I have had a simply dreadful time in this country since I arrived here. I have been assaulted, I have been robbed – twice, if you include by my chauffeur – and I was almost killed by a runaway horse. Please tell me that I am not living a nightmare!'

Ahman slid his ample backside off his stool, and stood at her side, resting his hand upon hers. 'Is it true, then?' he asked fondly. 'You really do not remember? You do not recognise me? Then…why are you here?'

'By accident,' replied Destine.

Ahman frowned deeply. 'But you once told me that there are no accidents.'

'Well, apart from this one, obviously,' said Destine. 'I am sorry to disappoint you, monsieur, but although you know me, I have no recollection of you…although I pray you are a friend…for I am in desperate need of one right now.' She took a bite of the cinnamon bread and immediately a flush of colour returned to her cheeks – as did a smile. 'Mon Dieu, this bread is superb! How ever did you come by this recipe?'

Ahman scratched at his bald head, almost guiltily saying, 'You gave it to me.'

Destine was beginning to feel as if she had walked into this conversation halfway through. 'You are mistaken, sir. You must be! I arrived for the first time in Egypt just this morning!'

'I do not wish to distress you, my dear…but it is you that are mistaken. Perhaps I need to contact Agra's medical man to ensure you did not strike your head when you fell,' said Ahman, his bewilderment now almost equalling Destine's. 'We have met before…many times. When I saw you moments ago, to be quite honest I was most relieved. I have waited so patiently for so very long for you to come back. I hoped that I would finally learn the answer to that old mystery of yours.'

'Mystery? What mystery?' Destine asked.

'I will show you,' chuckled Ahman.

With that, the carpet trader disappeared behind a curtain into the backroom, only to return a few moments later carrying a small wooden box in his stout fingers. 'If it is answers that you seek, perhaps this contains the missing pieces, ah?' said Ahman, as he ruffled through the contents of the box. He beamed a wide smile as he produced an age-stained envelope, handing it to Destine. 'For you, I believe.'

Destine looked at the envelope as if it were an illusion the likes of which she had seen Cornelius perform a dozen times. It was incredibly old. The ink was faded, but still just about legible to her eyes, and upon inspecting the envelope closely, she came across three startling discoveries.