The Day the Prophet Died

By Aruna Balasubramanian

This is a short story about a prophet's last words, inspired by folktales



 Photo credit to Suren Manvelya

Photo credit to Suren Manvelya

The Day the Prophet Died

The village was dreary, the day the Prophet died. We all stood around doing nothing, waiting in tense silence for our names to be announced. The dying Prophet was experiencing his last visions. The last of his Blessed were to be called.
The Prophet called for the Johnsons first. He said their newborn would get lost when she would reach the age of seven. “Find her near the oak tree” he mumbled, his words almost inaudible. The Johnsons emerged from the Prophet’s cottage happy; they had been Blessed. The stable boy was called next. He was Blessed with a suggestion: he should visit his mother before it would be too late. He rode away from the village immediately, his horse galloping into the distance. The Prophet passed out for some time, and the village petrified. Caregivers crammed into his small bedroom, applying every herb and potion on his frail old body, struggling to keep him alive.
The Prophet woke up in a panicked frenzy, uttering things too quickly to understand. He threw himself out of bed with a determined burst of energy and rushed to the cottage door, his legs shaking underneath him. He ran across the street to take my hands in his, the color draining from his fingers. I stared into his clear, blind eyes, that reflected an intense sadness that couldn’t be described.
Please,” he whispered harshly. “Don’t do it.”
The Prophet crumbled to the ground, dead.