Legend

Tengri Agnijara seldom took off her Falconer’s Glove. At dawn her falcon settled on it, at dusk it came back to it from the mountains, and through the day she used it to teach young birds to fly. The leather was thick, stitched in zigzags, with a strap and a tassel that swung at every movement.

Early one summer, on the day of a young falcon’s first flight, a mother came to her from the valley.

“My son wants to go beyond the mountains,” she said. “The world will tear him apart. I won’t let him go.”

Without a word, Tengri drew off the glove, slid it onto the woman’s hand, and set the young bird upon it.

It was heavier than the mother had expected. The talons gripped so hard that it hurt. The leather held. The young falcon shifted from foot to foot, its gaze fixed on the distance.

“Lift your arm.”

Her arm trembled. Slowly the mother raised it, and the falcon pushed off and vanished beyond the ridge. All that remained on her hand was the weight of something no longer there.

“A glove is not for holding a bird,” said Tengri. “It is there so the bird can leave it safely.”

From then on, Tengri took off the Falconer’s Glove for one more reason: for those who could not let someone go.