Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

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.'

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.'

'Tres 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 cart 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.