The Kingdom of Turul

Christmas Edition No.3

I hope you’ve all enjoyed your last few days, I know I certainly have. I’d like to thank my liver for its hard work over the holiday period. This short story is the last of my Christmas editions and my first real attempt at building a fantasy world.

Turul - The Turul is a mythological bird of prey, mostly depicted as a Falcon, in Hungarian tradition and Turkic tradition, and a national symbol of Hungarians.

The Kingdom of Turul was famous beyond its walls as a civilised utopia. Kings and Queens from over the mountains, across the blue seas and along serpent rivers listened to the tales told of Turul and grew green in envy. Unlike the other Kingdoms in the world, the people of Turul were never soured by the laws they lived under. Even if they had been signed into being by the Kings and Queens who sat on their thrones of ivory. If a dispute arose, a law took its place, congealing the emptiness into something the people could turn to next time it reared its ugly head. But it was the daughter of the first King Géza, Kinga, who transformed Turul into a model for law and order.

“Civility,” she said, “is only possible when everyone knows where they stand. To be a Turul is to understand, and therefore to be civilised.” 

During her reign, she settled some of the longest-standing debates for good. Why is the sky blue? Blue, she claimed, was the perfect accompaniment to the Turul bird when it flew, and everyone knew when the Turul flew, there was peace. It was a sign that hers was the fairest land of all. What lived beneath the waves? The seas were the place for the dead, she explained. It was why Turul dug its roots firmly into the rich soil we stand on. The sea is there for those who gain its trust. Those deemed unworthy are punished with cold water and biting monsters. And what of the great plums of white in the sky, as puffy as a sheep in winter? Those are not sheep but beds. The holiest among the Turul join the clouds, resting their achievements on the softness of their cushions.

Her words carried weight, but not just in her own domain. They stretched so far that everything and everyone wanted to be a part of it. People from all over travelled to Turul; The Danes and Norwegians trekked from the frozen north, Sicilians and Sardinians sailed from the south, and the French and English came riding from the west. Living in Turul meant a worry-free life, free of uncertainty and danger. But when autumn came to a close, Turul lost its Queen. Without warning, Queen Kinga passed from an unforgiving illness. In her own words, illnesses like hers "are the result of absolute achievement."

When one reaches their optimal state, they are summoned to the clouds to rest, flown there in the beak of the Turul. 

She was mourned in the way you might expect; great crowds lined the streets of the capital when, on the day of her funeral, carts full of gifts arrived as a mark of respect. Fittingly, the sky was a patchwork of soft billowing clouds and clear blue. In keeping with her rule, the Kingdom was dressed in green for the rest of the year until Christmas. It had replaced the old tradition of black, one the Queen had despised. 

"Death is depressing enough," she had said. In her place, her son became King; King István I. He was only seventeen, but he was ready. Besides, his mother had been just fifteen when she wore the crown. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he would continue as nobly as she left off. 

At the edge of the capital lived an old man, Béla. He had moved because of the rigid laws of the late Queen. He was a man of ancient wisdom, learned from scrolls and books he had looked after once upon a time in the Kingdom's grand library. Back then, he had been a great admirer of the Queen; she grew up reading on his knee, listening to him explain the words she did not yet know. When it got cold in the stone library, he would make some sour cherry tea on the fire and pour her a cup. She was giddy with her sweet treat; it was not something she got to have back in the royal chambers. But then her father died, his list of achievements had grown too long. Overnight the Princess became the Queen, and she no longer had time to listen to Béla's explanations of old words in the ancient books. At first, he was excited by his new Queen. He felt he knew her, and together, or with his discreet direction, they would bring about a new era of wisdom throughout Turul. But as the season passed and laws changed, he came to realise his ideas for the future were just that; his. She had a very different vision, carved with an unfinished knife from immature saplings. 

The Queen was a big fan of Christmas and required all her subjects to erect a pine tree in their homes and decorate them with wooden figurines. Each year to satisfy her curiosity, she threw an evening in the grand hall, inviting everyone to come and show her their handiwork. Some people carved their family members, the royal family, legends from tales or their favourite animals. But the year the Queen died, nothing was more popular than miniatures of her. People all over were carving figurines of the Queen as they remembered her. Those that had seen her before she died etched wrinkles next to the eyes, their's was an elderly Queen. On some, a middle-aged face smiled elegantly. Those old enough to remember depicted a princess with twisted pigtails made from straw. Béla had but one image of her left in his mind; the Queen as a child, asking questions on his knee. He split a piece of firewood with his axe and went to work. At his age, his sight was fading, and not one but two pieces of wood were thrown into the fire to burn away his slack, shapeless sculpting. On the third attempt, he managed something quite remarkable. From what he could see, he had carved a perfect imitation. She even had the innocent crease in the forehead the little Princess had when she was confused. It was a face he had seen most when they studied French. He let out a little laugh of delight and went to fetch his oils. Her face would not be complete without the red that filled her cheeks or the embroidered red dress. They were the details that made her a princess. It took him all night to paint; his work was slow and precise. But eventually, when the sky was turning blue again, and his fire was nothing but dying embers, he finished. Placing the little Princess on his table to dry, he headed to bed. 

The next day, he went to get some more firewood; his night of painting had exhausted his supply. It was silly of him to be so wasteful, he knew it, but he had lost himself in his memories and had not realised. The ground shimmered in the afternoon light, frozen from the night just passed. His steps crunched the frozen leaves as he walked between the trees, looking for dry wood. 

Once he returned and re-ignited his fire, he turned his attention back to the table where he had left his drying princess. Béla gasped, frightening himself with the sound of the air leaving his lungs. 

“Princess?” He cried. She was no longer drying; the spine of the book had a red smear where she had been resting. He looked high and low, turning his small cabin twice over. 

“Princess?” He called again, looking through his draws and flicking through the pages in all his books.

“Princess,” he called and went outside to check his wood store and the well that sat a few feet from his cabin. However many times he called, or wherever he looked, he could not find his Princess. Perhaps it was the squirrels, he thought. They had a habit of stealing things from him when he left the cabin alone. Yes, he thought, it must be the darned squirrels. 

Back in the city, the King was settling into his new role. Solving issues and writing new laws. He was, the people said, just like his mother. And they praised him with their words and hearts; their world of civility would continue, even after the death of the woman who propelled it. People relished Christmas, her favourite time of year, with even more enthusiasm to celebrate. It would be their final tribute. That year, the people decorated the city like never before. On the main gate, wreaths of spruce, gold and gooseberries were placed, forming a flying Turul bird. Each street was lined with lights and lanterns, turning stone walls into plates of gold and foreign shadows. Even the fragrance of the city changed; cinnamon, pine and caramel floated along as merrily as the people. The city was decorated so beautifully that no one could find the right word to describe it. Eventually, a debate broke out; what word could be used to describe such beauty? Beautiful was too generic. Gorgeous was not right either. The debate raged throughout the season, and the King stepped in. He would make his judgement at that the figurine show.

It seemed that every Turul flooded into the city that year, and some from beyond too. Among the usual dignitaries were travellers from the deserts beyond the seas and others from beyond the deserts still. The King could not have been more pleased; it was a sign of respect that so many had come to hear his judgment. 

The Palace had been turned into a Palace of Light to reflect the work of his people. Each inch of the brick had been covered in twinkling lights, turning it into a sparkling waterfall, flooding every crevice in the city. This was the year of new light and understanding, the King had said. There were bells so small you could be forgiven for missing them, but their sound was unavoidable. So delicate and soft it was the sound of rain in the heavens falling gently on all the achievements of the old Queen. 

Since he had lost his perfect miniature of the Princesses he once knew, Béla decided to try again. But none of his replacements came close to the one he had lost. His hands shook too much with nerves, and his knife was too blunt now to carve the intricate details she deserved. The innocent fold in her forehead became an ugly scar on her face, and the embroidery on her red dress looked like spilt milk waiting to be washed clean. 

But the news of the King’s decision pulled him into the Palace on New Year’s Eve, and he walked the cold miles to get there with his disappointing Princess wrapped and tucked neatly in his pocket. He smiled at the echoing harmonies of the bells ringing through the streets below the Palace. It had been a long time since he had seen anything other than the frozen forest floor or heard anything more than the morning melodies of the birds. The Palace doors were wide open, and standing to one side, inviting everybody in with a figurine, were the King's guards. The Turul crest shone brightly under the new lights. 

“Welcome, one and all,” they cried from a marble step. “A new year is upon us and a new word… come forth if you have a figurine to show.” There were so many people that Béla could not understand where the ushers were hiding them all. But no one was standing awkwardly around the edges of the great hall or at the back. It seemed as if the hall was being stretched to accommodate the extra people. There was a buzz in the air amongst the Christmas scent, like the hum of a beehive hard at work. In every hand, there was a figurine. Béla looked around, comparing his misshapen attempt to the masterpieces held tightly in the grip of others. If only the squirrels had not pinched his first creation. Then he would surely please the new King the most. Perhaps if he had done that, he might have found his way back to his library. The thought of what might have been wiped the smile from his lips. He was so close now he could almost hear the floor creek as it once did.  

The great hall doors closed, shaking the bells into a tuneful giggle as they came together, and the crowd fell into a silence so deep Béla thought he might have become deaf. 

“Welcome everyone,” began the King. “As you know, this year is special. It is my first Christmas as your King, and my first without my mother, your Queen. But I am determined to make it the best Christmas our Kingdom has seen. It will mark our history books with the significance of a full stop at the end of a great speech or the final strike on the battlefield. But first, allow me to share my judgement with you all. As you know, there has been some debate as to what we should call a city as beautiful as ours. Is it gorgeous, enchanting, delightful, magical, or, as some have suggested...Turul. I have thought long and hard about this, wondering what our late Queen would have decided. But after days of thought, only one solution has come to mind. We are to call this beauty: the end. We have made the city so pretty that I fear no more can be achieved, and as stated in our law, once one reaches full achievement, they are sent to the clouds. So after the year is up and the lights and bells are taken down, they shall never be put up again. We will retire Christmas, as the gods have retired our Queen.” 

The King bowed his head as if the decision weighed on him, it was his biggest ruling to date, and he had not expected it to be popular. But even for his low expectation, the reaction deflated him. He took his seat at the edge of the stage with a grim look of inevitability scratched between his brows. 

“You may come now and place your figurines before the King,” announced the court speaker. 

One by one, the pews filed out, and the aisle filled. The King was like his mother, taking the time to look over each figurine with curiosity.

“Fabulous!” He cried, although Béla could not see what was so. 

“Miraculous!” He cried again. 

The superlatives continued as Béla waited; his hands grew sweaty, and his heart raced. He worried about what the new King might think of his creation. He thought to leave while he could but then, to his surprise, the pew he was a part of started filling the aisle. The more steps he took, the more figurines he saw before the King. Some were varnished, others sanded raw, some made out of metal, and others tied together with string. All painted green and red, the Queen's favourite colours. 

Now Béla stood before the King and held out his hand. The King took his time unwrapping the birch Béla had wrapped it in and gently took the figurine from the bark. 

“What is this old man? Are you mocking your Queen?”

“No, my King,” Béla began, “I made a figurine so perfect that if it came to life, you would have believed it. But I live in the woods, and the squirrels took it from my hut. When I tried to make this one, my tools were  dull, my paints contaminated, and my eyes blurred.” A little bead of sweat snaked its way down his forehead. The rulers of the Kingdom had been kind of late, but Béla knew his history. The Royal family could be irrational and evil too. He wanted nothing more than to be moved along and sent to his seat with a scolding. 

“This man not only mocks me, but lies to me as well…What should I do with him?” He asked the crowd. It was a show of pageantry that his mother would have never indulged in. 

“Kick him out!” 

“Lock him up!” 

“Banish him!” 

Béla began to shake with the thought of his punishment. He knew banishment meant not only exile from the Palace and the city, but the Kingdom. 

“Please, my King, I taught your mother when she was young. I read her stories as she sat on my knee. I would never knowingly insult her or you.” 

“More lies!” Now his face was red with anger. A chant started in the crowd, spreading like a plague.

“Ban-ish him! Ban-ish him!” 

“Silence!” Seethed the voice of a young girl. The hall fell into the silence it had occupied before the King made his speech. Béla stood still.

“Who said that?” Asked the court speaker. 

“I did,” said the voice, but nobody stood to claim it. 

“Who said that?” 

“Your Queen!” Said the voice, and the hall gasped. Those who waited in the aisle began to part, and the eyes in the grand hall followed the parting. It was like seeing the ripples in the water before a fish came bursting from the surface. Unholy and dangerous. Suddenly there she was, Béla's perfectly carved figurine. 

“Béla has told no lies today. Look at me, my son. He remembered me as a little girl so perfectly that he made me come alive. I lept from his table in the middle of the night to find you, but until tonight, I had no way to enter the Palace. We have separated ourselves from the Kingdom. So much so that even a figurine like me could not find a way in.”

“But mother, how…? I thought you were resting on the clouds. It is our law.” Asked the King, his cheeks white like a newly formed pearl. 

“My son, since I left the throne, I have learned our laws are nothing. They are the ideas of flawed minds kept out of touch.”

“What shall I do?” Asked the King, leaning down to pick up his mother.

“My son, there is only one thing we can do. We must start again. Open the gates all year round, not just on New Year’s, and not just for our people to bring us figurines.” She said. 

Béla stood as still as a statue in front of the King, unsure of his reaction. Perhaps this was his chance to slip out without being banished. He moved to leave but was stopped by the guards that encircled him. 

“And what of this man, mother? What should I do?” 

“You should study with him as I did, and from your lessons, you should teach your people. There is no one more knowledgeable in Turul.” 

So the night came to an end, and a new year began. But it would not be the end after all. Instead, that night marked the beginning. The beginning of a new era in the Kingdom of Turul. The King now ate in the streets below his Palace and went for walks along the frozen forest floor, hunting for squirrels. When December arrived, the city would morph into its alter ego, swelling fat with the number of people within its walls. And the young Princess played a part too. Dancing along the shelves in the library where Béla now taught all the people of Turul. And where he had once taught her. 

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Luke