Yusuf Meteoglu lay on his deathbed, past fear and past regret. Refusing a glass of water with a weak wave, he whispered to his wife,

"The box, Fatima." She opened the teak-wood box, inlaid with brass. Inside, a large feather of red and gold seemed to float, defying gravity. The last time he sang its song, he saved thousands of lives in Stamboul's Grand Bazaar.

But he couldn't sing anymore; his fine voice was lost forever in the great fire. He sighed, content, for the bazaar and the city had survived.

As his eyes closed, he saw that terrifying vision again …

The Fire

The 300-year-old Grand Bazaar of Stamboul was a popular location for trade, work, or just to socialize over a hookah or coffee. On slack afternoons, Yusuf Meteoglu's friends gathered to hear his songs of longing and loss, for he had a fine voice. His shop stood near the goldsmith's stalls, near the bazaar's bayside entrance. It brimmed with ancient and rare books from far and near, including some rare books from Europe. Like many around him, Yusuf's shop was wooden. There had been small fires, but they were extinguished fast.

That morning, the great vaulted ceiling echoed with greetings, bargaining voices, and the cries of shopkeepers. The air smelled of coffee, spices, and beaten gold. Traders from all over the world filled the labyrinthian streets of the largest and grandest market in Asia.

Yusuf greeted his first customer with a Hos geldin, Welcome, as he dusted his shelves of rare manuscripts of Persian poetry, Qur'anic calligraphy, Greek philosophy, and Ottoman chronicles. As he worked, his elbow knocked down a parchment manuscript, yellow with age.

"Strange," he said, picking it up, for warmth traveled up his arm, titled, The Last Song of the Phoenix. He spoke to himself,

"Some believe the phoenix can be reborn. Fanciful!" He didn't know that before the day was done, he would sing its song. Shouts of "Alev! Alev!" (Fire, Fire!) interrupted his thoughts. People ran as smoke curled up to the fanlights near the vaulted ceiling. His first instinct was to flee. But his manuscripts and calligraphy, collected over a lifetime, were irreplaceable. Some instinct made him stop and unfurl the manuscript. Written in ancient Greek, only a word or two looked familiar. About to throw it down and run to fetch water, he heard a voice, melodious and enticing,

"If you sing my song as you burn, I shall save the Grand Bazaar." He looked around, startled, but no one was nearby.

"I am in your head," said the voice. "No one else can hear me. To save everyone, go to the central dome and sing my song so that it can be heard all over the bazaar. Hurry, no time to lose."

"What about me?"

"Your life is my price. Run, the fire is almost upon you."

They Race to the Dome

Aided by the bay-side breeze, the fire advanced.

"Sparks from a bakery or a goldsmith's shop?" Yusuf thought as he took off, trying to remember the shortest route to the central dome. No easy feat, because the bazaar had 61 winding streets and people were rushing past, elbowing and shouldering: with no thought for anyone else.

He passed through the spice market, where merchants had left their wares to their fate. The heady smell of roasting spices almost overcame him. Still running, he came to the jewelry market. Progress was difficult here. Many owners were still making bundles of their precious wares, to save as much as they could. He pushed through, panting, because the smell of smoke was strong. The fire must be near.

The antique market was busy too; owners had formed a bucket brigade. He heard their cries to join them. But the inner voice was commanding.

"What can a few buckets of water do against this inferno? Sing my song and save them all."

"Is the voice an illusion? Why jump into the fire because of it?" he wondered as chaos reigned all around him. Merchants screamed, camels brayed, guards rushed around with buckets of water. The domed ceilings at the center drew smoke, turning the bazaar into a furnace. Yusuf felt the manuscript move as if alive, as he heard his inner voice again,

"Sing before the flames die, or the bazaar will lose the chance for rebirth." Forcing his weary legs to move, Yusuf crossed the leather market. The central dome was close, but the fire was almost upon him.

Yusuf thought, "If the dome cracks, ash will bury me along with everyone else." Unconsciously, his grip on the parchment loosened. Instead of falling, the manuscript spread wide, pages fluttering like trapped wings. The script blurred into silver threads, and a distant flute played in his head. He stopped while the floor's red glow crept up his boots, and his ankles blistered.

"Sing my song now!" said the imperious voice.

"Why? Unlike Rustam or Hercules, I am no legendary hero. I am just a bookseller trying to make a living. My wife is waiting for me. Why pick on me?"

"Because you listened," replied the voice.

That was the answer!

He had to burn and die for the bazaar to be reborn! So, he stood fast in the intense heat and choking fumes, his voice raised in song. As his melody echoed down from the blackened ceiling, the flames at his heels leaped up and engulfed him. His voice died down to a rasp. He swayed, clothes in flames, painful blisters rising. He kept singing as his voice began to die. At last, his legs buckled, and he fell into the inferno. The flames roared in victory, reducing him to ashes.

Those who had stopped to hear him sing turned away. One of them paused, for he saw a phantom rise from the ashes. It was a wondrous bird of yellow and red, with a curved beak and talons of gold. It grew to fill the top half of the dome as its wings deflected flames and sparks as if immune to fire. Its massive beating wings drove the smoke and fire away, away from Yusuf's ashes, out of the central dome, out of the Grand Bazaar. The onlookers gasped. Some fell on their knees in prayer. Others whispered.

"Shamurg … Phoenix." The flames died, and the bird flew away to blend into the evening sky.

Yusuf woke among cooling ash, alive. Drawing power from his pyre, the bird had restored him to life and saved the Grand Bazaar.

Yusuf checked himself. No pain, no burns, not even a scar. A wonder-struck Yusuf said,

"Subhan Allah!" In thanks.

Only a thin, raw whisper came out of his throat. His singing voice was gone forever. Burned out of him. He spoke only in a raspy whisper for the rest of his life.

The crowd marveled. One said that he saw a huge bird; another said it was Allah's miracle. A third thought the fire had just died.

While they argued, Yusuf heard the voice—in his head,

"Your sacrifice saved you and the people dear to you. Only you will remember what happened today, for miracles do not sit well in human minds." Yusuf looked up as his eyes filled. Spiraling, a single large red and gold feather drifted past him. Yusuf clutched it and hid it in his clothes. The manuscript in his hands crumbled. From the heat, or because it had fulfilled its purpose, Yusuf could not be sure.

Weeks later, parts of the Grand Bazaar reopened. The fire had raged for almost 50 hours, burning much of the city and killing thousands. Comparative damage to the Grand Bazaar was light. Nobody knew why. Nobody except Yusuf Meteoglu.

The Unsung Hero

Weeks later, Yusuf surveyed the shop's shattered roof, broken shelves, and scattered manuscripts. He said,

"The crowds kicked down my shed and trampled my manuscripts. Much worse than the fire." Working hard, he opened his shop in two weeks. While buyers came to him for rare calligraphy and manuscripts, the shopkeepers around him sought his wisdom. If one of them begged him to sing, Yousuf would smile and say nothing. But his eyes would wander to a teak-wood box on a velvet cushion.

When Yusuf could sit in the bookshop no more, the box stood by his bed. His wife, Fatima, was the only other human to share his secret.

One night in his sleep, Yusuf Meteoglu passed, no less than Rustam or Hercules, although he never pretended to be a hero.

The End

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