Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

A cold rush enveloped her flesh as she stepped through the trees into an open space. It wrapped around her like a cocoon, restricting not just her physical body but her senses too. Her eyes were covered in a gossamer film and she was immobilised completely. As her breath hung in the air, she tried to blink sight back into her eyes and, gradually, her blurred vision dissipated. Destine knuckled the itching sensation from her eyes. But although her sight had returned, she was still not convinced that what she perceived was real.

What she was looking at was a desert encampment of some kind, lit by huge torches, flaming from pillars buried deep in the sand. Madame Destine's mouth fell open as she pinpointed the origin of the scream.

The encampment was besieged by a veritable army of men clad in pitch-black robes. Some were on foot, some were astride horses as black as their clothing. Tattered and torn, the material clung to the men's bones like the rags of hellish wraiths. Everywhere she looked Destine saw the flash of a blade as the demons attacked, scything at anyone in their path.

A nearby row of tents seemed to be the safest place to hide, and she quickly rushed to them. Keeping to the cloak of darkness, she was just about to furl back one of the tents' entrance and dart inside, when a dirty hand clamped itself around her mouth.

Destine could not scream even if she wanted to, the fear had paralysed her. She was viciously spun around – where she came face to face with a man. Not Ahman, or a face she recognised – it was smudged with dirt, had a few days' growth of beard, and a neatly waxed moustache was perched precariously above his mouth. His oiled hair sparkled in the moonlight – and all at once, his features softened.

'Destine?' he hissed, releasing her, taking a step back. 'My God, woman, what the hell are you still doing here? Are you trying to get yourself killed?'

'But, I-' was all she managed before the man led her brusquely back into the cover of the trees.

'I told you to get away! What good can you do here against them?' he said, gesturing towards the pack of demonic hyenas rending flesh from bone, spilling blood in their wake. 'The Clan Scarabs are killing everyone in the camp – you've got to leave, Destine…now!'

A shaft of moonlight lighted the man's face and Destine gasped.

'Aloysius?'

'What?' asked Aloysius Bedford.

'What…what are you doing here?' asked Destine, dumbstruck.

'I could ask you the same thing!' snapped Aloysius. 'You're as stubborn as an ass, Dusty! I told you to get out of the camp as soon as Nastasi's men arrived, didn't I? Umkaza is no longer a safe place to be!'

'Umkaza?' Destine asked.

Umkaza was the excavation site named in Aloysius Bedford's journal – the very same Aloysius Bedford who now stood beside her, seemingly very angry, very much alive…and very real. It was as if Destine was caught between two places at once – the past and the present, colliding together within her mind. Her senses told her that she was still near the lake, in the clearing where she and Ahman had settled for the night, and yet everything that she saw and felt contradicted that. Were her senses betraying her somehow? If so, which reality was the truth? Her mind was being fed tantalising sensations, similar to the rush of pins and needles whenever she experienced a premonition – which partly explained her confusion. She had no clairvoyant abilities any longer. They were gone, stolen from her weeks ago. Whatever this was, it was no message from the future.

'This place is Umkaza?' she asked, grasping Aloysius's forearms. 'But how…how can this be? How did I get here? Aloysius, what is happening here?'

'It's a damn massacre, woman!' said Aloysius. 'It seems your premonitions were right on the money. Joyce, the no-good lying snake, has betrayed us all.'

'Joyce,' mumbled Destine. 'The name from the journal? He stole the treasure?'

'He was never in it for the damn treasure!' hissed Aloysius. 'Neither him nor my damned benefactor! They just wanted to use me…just like you said. Only I didn't listen, did I? I was so blinded by my obsession. But I'm not blind any more, Destine…and that is why Nastasi and his band of Scarabs are here. They won't take no for an answer. So now I must take matters into my own hands.'

'But do what? What can you do?' asked Destine.

'Anything!' yelled Aloysius. 'Don't you see, woman? Your vision was right! About what would happen…about what could happen. You told me not to trust him, so this is my fault, my penance to pay…and pay it I shall – but I will never let them get their hands on the Cradle.'

'The Pharaoh's Cradle? So you did find it then, after all?' asked Destine, finally finding her footing in this remarkable dream; for that was what she had convinced herself it was – nothing but a dream. But how could that be? How could she be dreaming about past events with such clarity – and ones in which she was an active participant? Dreams stem from the subconscious, stray thoughts accumulated over time jumbled up into a semblance of reality. But Destine had no knowledge of her past time in Egypt. Was this real – or a subconscious distortion of reality? She was not sure, but she could feel the cold sand between her bare toes, the feel of the cold wind upon her cheeks, and the stench of blood on the air. And she could clearly see the look of fear within Aloysius Bedford's eyes. It was as real as real got and, gradually, Destine's mind became convinced of the most bizarre of all occurrences.

This was no dream.

'Oh, I found the Cradle, all right…but that's not all I uncovered,' continued Aloysius, wrenching Destine's thoughts back into the present – or was it the past? 'To hell with making a name for myself, this is too important. Joyce and his friends will never find the Pharaoh's Cradle whilst I draw breath.'

'But you will die!' blurted Destine uncontrollably, recalling the words from her letters. 'It…is unavoidable.'

'Maybe so,' said Aloysius, 'but maybe this time your clairvoyance has got things wrong, eh? Maybe I'll live to a ripe old age, watch my children grow up…bounce their own on my knee.' Aloysius smiled, one of a man in acceptance of his fate. 'Or maybe not. I know it will kill me, Destine…but better me than anyone else on account of me – and that includes you! For Christ's sake, woman, take a look around. You need to get away from this place…as far away as possible. Take my journal – it's all in there. Everything! Tell someone, Destine – tell anyone – about what happened here! Tell them…do you swear? Don't let this be forgotten…don't let it be repeated. Swear to me!'

'I…I swear,' Destine heard herself say.

'I have to go,' said Aloysius. 'I have to put things right.'

A sudden wall of flame burst free from the centre of the hellish encampment. Destine spun around, covering her face from the glare. Her ears were numbed by a dull sound, like the sound of many birds overhead. Something made the Frenchwoman look up. The moon was low, almost right above her. Its white light shone like a beacon. And when she looked down…once again the world rearranged itself.

'Aloysius!' Destine shrieked.

Gone were the sounds of men's screams, gone was the potent stench of death in the air. In an instant, she was transported back into the clearing – if indeed she had ever left it. She was laid upon the cold sand…clutching Aloysius's journal tight to her chest.

Ahman leapt awake, rushing to her side in a moment. 'Destine! What is it?'

The Frenchwoman was pale, her forehead speckled with beads of perspiration.

'I was there, Ahman,' she whispered. 'In Umkaza.'

'Yah, Destine, we know that. Twenty years ago,' said Ahman, knuckling his eyes.

'Not just twenty years ago, Ahman…just now.'