Michael the Magician — Attila the Hun
Michael was a failure.
A magician who was the product of a lack of imaginative names and an audience that only needed the magic of their smartphones. But when he stumbled upon a time-traveling tree stump in the woods, he didn’t need a translator or period-appropriate clothing. All he needed were his best tricks.
What failed in the modern day became magic in history.
This is a story of Michael the Magician.
—
Attila the Hun – It’s happening again!
The Huns were Michael’s most spirited audience yet. They were nothing like the Huns in Mulan.
Attila, who, for the record, did not look like Gerard Butler, took an immediate liking to him, gathering his armies and allies on the evening Michael visited to produce Michael’s largest audience yet. For someone nicknamed Flagellum Dei, he had an impeccable sense of humor and wonder. But Michael supposed it took some level of imagination to become a conqueror. It all invigorated him enough that he decided to break his rule of only going to a place and time once for a second visit to what he reckoned was somewhere near modern-day Hungary.
When he arrived for his second night, he was contemplating two names for his Hun residency: Michael the Magi-HUN or Michael the Ma-TTILA. It wasn’t Vegas. It wasn’t Madison Square Garden. But a man had to start somewhere.
The stars twinkled in the dark sky above the Hun encampment, with banners waving, horses neighing, and the round tents looking more like little homes than temporary shelters for Attila and his allies. Michael stomped through the mud, puddles splashing onto his black pantlegs. But he didn’t care. No, any good magician knew not to let a little stain on his shoes rattle his confidence. Especially after the night before, every step Michael took felt more like he was floating on clouds than walking through a stinking, flea-ridden, blood-laced camp.
He waved to a few of the Huns he recognized, who whooped loudly as he passed by. When a group of three men skinning a deer gave a particularly passionate cheer, Michael stopped, threw his cape out, and struck a pose like Leon, the Galar Champion.
He was still feeling invincible when he threw open the flaps of Attila’s tent.
Which was why it took him a moment to realize his audience wasn’t the gathering of Hun men and women from the night before. Not the warriors, strategists, and tacticians currently conquering Europe. It was a small sea of children.
“Hello, my Hun-ny buns…” Michael’s greeting died as it left his mouth and dozens of small heads swung toward him.
Michael froze.
“Michael, my friend!” Attila called from the front of the tent, where he stood beside the small platform he had assembled for Michael the previous night. He grinned ear-to-ear, stepped through the gathering of children sitting cross-legged on the floor, and waved to one of the older boys near the front. Immediately, the boy stood and followed, coming to stand beside Attila.
Attila shook Michael’s hand enthusiastically. “I’m so glad you’ve returned! I want you to meet my son, Ellac.” He planted a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Call him Attila the Son!”
Attila barked a loud laugh, which the boy joined immediately. Through the pain threading through his molars, Michael did note the striking resemblance between Attila and Attila the Son.
Michael smiled uneasily. “Nice to meet you, the Son.”
“Now,” Attila said, gathering himself, “as much as I am destroyed to miss your performance, my soldiers and I have business to attend to this evening.” He waved his hand toward the children, who looked more to Michael like the girl from The Ring than normal children. “But I didn’t want to waste your time, so I gathered another audience for you. They’re quite excited.”
Michael looked at the children, who looked like the only thing that would excite them was a decapitated head.
“I can see that,” Michael said dryly. He already regretted wearing his cape and bringing his favorite card tricks.
“With that,” Attila grumbled, “I’ll be going.”
Before Michael could object, Attila patted him on the shoulder and disappeared through the flaps of the tent, leaving Michael with the Son and the gaggle of children. Suddenly, his dream performance had turned into a nightmare. He should have known he needed more experience before a residency was on the table.
But like any good magician, he gathered his wits and slowly moved to the stage, careful not to startle the beasts. Sorry—children. The Son followed behind Michael and resumed his post at the front of the group, just before the stage.
Michael stepped onto the platform gingerly, the wood creaking beneath his polished black shoe. He turned to the tent full of faces, all staring at him wide-eyed and expressionless. He reached into his breast pocket and produced a deck of cards.
But as he started shuffling with shaky hands, he couldn’t stop his mind from flashing back to Chuck E. Cheese. To the kids on their phones at the bowling alley. To the boos at birthday parties. To the spit flying onto his face.
He could almost feel it again as sweat prickled at his hairline and under his arms. Heat crawled up his neck, distracting him enough that he completely fumbled his first card trick. His mouth was moving and his hands were sleighting, but all he could hear was:
Boo!
Boo!
Boo!
You suck!
Get off the stage, Magic Mike!
The children stayed frozen in the audience, watching him stammer and stutter and move like a squirrel caught between a car and a bear.
It’s happening again! Michael thought. My enemies are ruining my reputation as a magician! I’ll never work again!
The spiral made the sweat pour more steadily, and the air seemed to grow hotter than the torches could account for. Tears began to prick in the corners of his eyes, and as his ears rang, Michael reached into his sleeve to pull out a handkerchief to dry his sweat. Or his tears. At this point, it was anyone’s guess.
But as he tried to ball it in his hand, he realized he had swapped his usual pocket square with one of his never-ending silks. He pulled. And pulled. And pulled. Trying to find the end of the blasted thing so he could get it over with. The ringing in his ears grew louder with every yank, until finally, a sound cut through.
A laugh.
It started as one. Small and sharp and startled.
It wasn’t enough to make Michael stop.
But then another joined. And another. And another. Until every face in the audience had lit with amusement, and a symphony of laughter, bright and jubilant, rang through the tent.
It was the second most embarrassing thing Michael had ever experienced, and he was ready to give up, flee home, and never return.
Until he looked at their faces.
The excitement in their small hands. The thrill making them nearly leap from their seats. The way they were watching him not like he was failing, but like he was the most magnificent thing they had ever seen.
“More!”
“More!”
“More!”
They shouted, clapping and jumping and buzzing with delight.
Michael let out a huff. They weren’t laughing at him.
They were laughing with him.
And what does a magician do when the crowd chants for more? He delivers.
Michael nearly soared to the corner of the stage, where a sword rested against a post. He wiggled it between his fingers, a rudimentary trick to make the sword appear to be rubber, but enough to make the children shriek with laughter. And soon, Michael found himself laughing too.
So Michael spent the night pulling out every trick on his person, and then every trick he could think of. Cards vanished. Coins appeared behind ears. Silks poured from his sleeves like the world’s most productive laundry day. The children laughed and cheered and squealed until, one by one, they began to slump sideways against each other, overcome by joy, exhaustion, and whatever passed for a Hun bedtime.
When Attila finally returned with his men and women, the children were all fast asleep, their cheeks pink from laughing. Michael was still sweating, but now from giving the performance of a lifetime. From triumph.
Attila took Michael’s hand in his mighty grip and asked when he would return next.
Michael smiled. He wouldn’t be returning.
But he was so back.