Michael the Magician — Merlin
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.
—
Merlin – It’s time to duel!
Every year, Michael’s family vacationed together. This year, his mother insisted they go to Disneyland, complete with ear hats and matching shirts. Michael was reluctant—Chuck E. Cheese had carved a special hell into his heart, and Disneyland felt like the final boss. But his father told him to do it for the family, and his siblings promised they would have fun, so Michael went.
He didn’t expect inspiration to strike, but it often came from the most unlikely places.
After watching several children attempt to pull the sword from the stone in front of the carousel, Michael’s siblings each took a turn. He hardly believed the man with the remote—who was trying far too hard to blend in—would allow a trio of twenty-something adults to pull the legendary sword when several perfectly capable children were waiting. And he was right.
His sister couldn’t pull the sword. His brother couldn’t pull the sword. Michael couldn’t pull the sword. A kid with an ice cream stain on his dinosaur shirt, snot-covered fingers, and light-up shoes did.
But Michael had already decided it didn’t matter. He ate his churro happily, albeit while avoiding looking at the kid for too long because the child thoroughly grossed him out. Michael didn’t need a fake sword in a plaster stone or a man with a remote. He had a far better option.
After a week of Dole Whips, sunscreen, and more fun than Michael would ever care to admit, he returned home. He stayed there for all of fifteen minutes before walking back out the front door and setting off for twelfth-century England.
He needed to time his arrival perfectly: after all the nobles had allegedly tried to pull the sword and stake their claims, but before that pesky Arthur came along. According to Michael’s research, the sword had appeared in an anvil atop a stone—a far less compelling version of the fable, in his opinion—in a churchyard on Christmas Eve. December 27 seemed like a safe bet. No one thought about December 27.
When Michael arrived in the churchyard on a sunny but frigid morning, he was far too pleased with himself. And slightly disappointed. The sword’s hilt had no jewels. It wasn’t even ornamental or gold. It was a plain iron hilt attached to a run-of-the-mill sword, stuck in a rusted anvil, atop a stone. The stone itself was the most impressive part. It was at least large and smooth, with glittering flecks that almost made Michael wonder whether the stone should have been the artifact all along. At the very least, the granite could have made an impressive throne.
Still, Michael adjusted his doublet, smoothed his silly little twelfth-century hat, and paraded toward the sword. He dug his heels into the frozen ground, bent his knees, and puffed out his chest in a way that would look appropriately triumphant when he waved the sword over his head.
His fingers closed around the hilt. The iron was so cold that his skin burned on contact. Had it been his tongue, it surely would have gotten stuck. Michael’s stomach somersaulted. This was far better than anything at Chuck E. Cheese or Disneyland.
He inhaled deeply, the winter air burning his lungs and reminding him just how alive he felt.
“I, Michael,” he began, preparing to pull, “am the rightful king of—”
“Ho! Stop!”
Michael’s concentration—and the chorus of victory brass instruments playing inside his head—shattered. He was about to perform the greatest and most legendary magic trick of all time: pulling the God’s-honest sword from the stone. And someone had the gall to interrupt him?
Michael narrowed his eyes toward the voice. From between the trees stepped an old man with long white hair, a long white beard, blue robes, and a pointed hat. He hobbled across the churchyard, wagging one bony finger.
“I said stop, pretender!”
Michael froze. He recognized this man. It was his idol. The greatest magician of all time.
Merlin.
Michael’s annoyance dissolved into something liquid and buzzing. His grip loosened around the sword as his hands began to tremble. He imagined he looked like a deer caught in headlights.
Keep your cool, Michael told himself. If he intended to become a world-famous magician, he couldn’t act like an overeager fan, even if he was one. Any good magician knew that.
“Hello, good fellow!” Michael lifted one hand in greeting. “Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
As if he didn’t know. But nonchalance was a useful acquired skill, and Michael had perfected it.
The old man bristled. “I am Merlin.”
“And I am—”
Merlin smacked Michael’s other hand away from the sword. “About to interfere with my succession planning!”
Michael recoiled, then immediately grabbed the hilt again. “Oh. I don’t need to be king. I only wanted to pull the sword from the stone.”
Or the anvil. Or whichever part they were referencing. The story had clearly gotten muddled somewhere along the way.
Merlin leaped into the air with surprising agility. “You must not! Only the rightful king of England can pull that sword, and I have spent a great deal of effort ensuring that!”
“What if I put it back before Arthur arrives?”
Merlin’s face twisted. “How did you know that?”
Nonchalance also occasionally interfered with Michael’s survival instinct.
“Uh…” Michael searched his mind for an airtight explanation.
Merlin’s eyes darkened before he could find one.
“You!” He staggered backward, thrusting an accusatory finger at Michael. “I knew I sensed a disturbance!” He sneered. “A magician. A dark wizard!”
Michael shook his head. “No, I’m not a dark wizard. I’m just—”
Before he could finish, Merlin plunged one hand into his hanging sleeve and whipped out a stick. Or, more accurately, a wand.
“It’s time to duel!”
“A duel?” Michael huffed. He couldn’t duel his idol, much less defeat him. What would he even tell people afterward? That he had traveled through time and humiliated the greatest magician who ever lived?
There were worse ways to become famous, though, he supposed.
“May the best magician win!” Merlin shouted.
He reared backward as though preparing to throw a punch.
Michael squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for whatever burst of light, ripple of power, or unspeakable enchantment Merlin intended to fire at him. But after several seconds of nothing—apart from the crunch of slippers in the snow—Michael cautiously opened one eye.
Merlin was merely bouncing around.
He pointed the wand in various directions, striking pose after pose as though something spectacular were happening. Michael thought it looked like one of those behind-the-scenes videos from the Harry Potter films before the special effects had been added, only far more disappointing.
Michael’s heart sank to his feet. The world seemed to distort around him as something precious collapsed inside his chest. He wished he had never seen this. Merlin wasn’t a great magician. He was barely even an actor. Every good magician was, to some extent, but Merlin had no spectacle, no misdirection, no tricks hidden inside his sagging sleeves.
While Merlin continued striking poses like a model holding a stick, Michael resorted to the second-oldest trick in the book, pretending to slide one finger off his hand. Then he replaced it. Then he slid it off again. He didn’t even bother making the face he usually did.
Merlin’s eyes widened. “Sorcery!”
He reared back for another attack, but as Michael watched the old man resume his frantic bouncing, he realized there had been more magic inside Disneyland than there was in Merlin’s entire body. At least the man with the remote had known he was pretending.
Michael didn’t bother pulling the sword from the stone. He was nearly dragging his feet by the time he returned home.
And now he understood why people said never to meet your heroes.