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Well, the Mullah was growing old indeed. Nobody giggled now when he said funny things. People rather worried that something important he veiled into his strange words could escape their understanding so that they will lose out on some free life-saving advice. His house by the old well, the house of "Nasr Eddin our beloved Hoca" was lonely on the hillside, surrounded by aged fig trees still heavy with fruit. But the house was rarely lonely. Day in day out swarms of people came to seek the truth and the advice of the old jester of the kings. They knew, he never lied, even when nobody would believe him. What Hoca said would happen always did. Yes, the Mullah was growing old. In the evenings, as he was going to the well, it happened more and more often that the bucket slipped out of his hand, the water spilled and lo, the moon was no more there in the pail, where it used to be. Only his mind kept shining in the dark, as Allah had mercy on him. One morning the folks from Aksehir came to ask: "Pray Hoca, is tomorrow the right day to marry Selim and Aisha?" Nasrudin rose tall, leaned on his staff, looked somewhere far away and said with a clear, sad voice: "There will be no tomorrow:" The visitors left silent and frightened. Bad news spread like husk in the wind: "Tomorrow is the End of the World. Useless to do, whatever you wanted to do. Nasr Eddin knows what he says. Prepare for the Last Day." When the next dawn broke people waited frozen in fear. And nothing happened. Everything went on. As usual. A puzzled crowd made its way to the door of the Hodja. How could he say what he said? Nasrudin was by the well, the bucket at his feet. He had died, the night before.

(c) Copyright 1998-2004 Ioan Tenner