When the Prophet returned, the villagers’d nearly forgotten the man who‘d gone up the mountain.
Eyes wide and wild, hair unkempt, beard stretching to his navel, clad in tattered rags, he finally knew the truth, and it was time to tell the people.
As he staggered into the square, the townsfolk stopped to stare at the bedraggled man who, in spite of his current state, was still a commanding presence.
The Prophet took his place in the center of the market and, for the first time in years, spoke.
I have seen the future, he pronounced, and it is beard.