di Antonio Napoli

From the highest point of the city, the prophet Abul Assan observed the expanse of houses and towers, doomed to disappear. His prophecy had unsettled the population, especially the hopes of the young.

Every prophet of misfortune is not only detested but often blamed for his own visions. For this reason, no one had come to visit him for some time. The solitary heights had become his only company, and there he reflected, from morning till night, on disturbing images that danced around him like shadows torn from a night fire.

The ghosts of the past are heavier than the specters of the future, but the lightness of the latter is more distressing. Abul Assan hoped that the foretold end would come soon: to bear in his mind the horror of the days to come was an unbearable weight, and yet within him still burned the hope that it would not happen. When he thought of the innocent children, he prayed that the horror he had foreseen in his visions would be delayed as much as possible. Because even a single day of happiness has value, even if it were the last.

For some time, a young man had been following him from a distance. When the prophet stopped, the boy halted as well, lowering his gaze. Abul Assan could not tell if it was out of shame or fear.

That morning, curious, he called him over. The young man, with a hopeful smile, immediately approached.
“Why are you following me?” the prophet asked.
“Because I want to become like you.”
“Who put such madness in your head?”
“Your very own words.”
The prophet smiled bitterly. “The young are very fortunate.”
“And why is that?”
“The secrets of a young man’s soul live in a silent, vast, and serene kingdom.”
“What do you mean?”
“A prophet has no secrets: he must speak, publicly, against himself, against all the illusions of the violent and the cowardly. Are you ready for that?”

The young man paled.

“Look at the city,” said Abul Assan, gesturing broadly. “And listen to this vision of death.”

The young man listened, and for the first time, he saw his own end.

“Have you come to kill me?” the prophet asked.

The young man remained silent.

“People believe that by silencing the prophet, disaster will dissolve. So you have been chosen to kill me. What have they promised you?”

“I am not here to kill you,” the young man answered, his voice trembling. “My mother always told me, ‘There is a fire in your eyes that I cannot bear to look at for long. Go to the prophet and ask him why your pupils burn like stars.'”

Abul Assan nodded. “One does not become a prophet. One is born as one.”

“Then I am not one, for I do not know the future.”

“To know the future, one must first know the essence of things.”

“And how can I know the essence of my city?”

“There are two ways: to build it with your own hands, or to destroy it.”

“And if, despite all appearances, I were a new prophet?”

Abul Assan stared at him. “Under the same sky, two prophets cannot live. You will have to kill me.”

The young man turned pale. “No, no,” he murmured, shaking his head. He turned to leave.

The wind rose. When he looked back, the prophet was gone.

He searched for him as one searches within oneself for the image of what one will become. Then he returned to the city to bring the news to the sovereign.

“My Lord, your plan has worked. Abul Assan believed that his time as a prophet had ended… he believed in me,” said the young man.

“Good,” replied the sultan. “Now I can prepare my new conquest.”

Mehemed Ali, returning from the expedition, drowned in a river.

The kingdom, now subjected to other sultans, continued to exist, unmoving, wrapped in a dream without end. Its misfortune was having no prophetic voice left to awaken it from its slumber.