I found him near the alder roots, wind-tossed and whimpering, a scrap of feather and bone too proud to beg. His eye caught mine…not pleading, not wild…just… ancient. Like a curse. Like a gift.
The Turul, they say, is a bird that flew before language. Carved into cliffs, sewn into flags, he chooses rulers and carries dreams in his talons. But what ruler limps under birch leaves, bleeding quietly into snowmelt? What sovereign lets a girl cup him in trembling hands and wrap his wing with thread?
I sat beside him each day, offering crusts and quiet. He took both. The wind never touched us. I whispered things: my father’s silence, the ache behind my knees, the way the stars look like undone buttons when I cry.
Once, he blinked slowly. I felt his eyes behind mine.
They told me not to name him. Not to tether wild things. But already he was stitched into my shadow. Already he was coiled under my ribs.
Other birds have flown these stories.
The Phoenix immolates, but is reborn…always alone, always ash-slicked and gleaming.
The Simurgh lives at the edge of all things, cradling kings and madmen alike, waiting to be believed in.
The Garuda devours serpents and carries prayers in the folds of his wings.
And the Turul? He appears to the ones who do not seek him. He waits in the breath between asking and being asked.
He grew stronger. One morning, he beat his wings and the dust lifted from the porch like in spring-time. He looked at me. Not like a pet looks, not even like a god looks…but like a mirror might look, after years of being covered.
“You may go,” I said, though he did not need my permission.
He did not bow, or cry, or burst into fire.
He flew.
Not high, not far. Just enough to prove the sky would have him back.
And my heart…my pale, ordinary heart…cracked like a seed. I watched him until he was wind-shaped and vanishing.
Some say I imagined him. But the porch still smells like cedar and breath. My fingers still curl around an invisible pulse.
In dreams, I sometimes see feathers falling, and each one has a name.
Simurgh. Phoenix. Dove. Turul.
Bird of the between. Wing of the unseen. Friend of the forgotten.
They land softly in my palms.
I let them go.
About the Author
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films.
