Michael the Magician — The Sphinx

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.

—

The Sphinx – I’ve got your nose!

Michael wanted to see how far back in time he could go. As it turned out, quite far.

Not so far as cavemen, woolly mammoths, or saber-toothed tigers, as he had hoped. But far enough that, when he landed in ancient Egypt, Giza was still a construction site. The only problem was that everyone wore far more clothing, far better jewelry, and utilized far more advanced tools than he had anticipated. And he hadn’t really brought much of anything on this journey, because he didn’t know what to expect except the unexpected.

And it was certainly unexpected when he opened his eyes and was immediately slapped in the face by a cloud of sand. Michael blinked through the grit, waving one hand wildly in front of him as if that might do anything to abate the amount of sand in the desert in the 2000s BCE. It did not.

But when he finally re-lubricated his eyes enough to see, a certain wonder buzzed through his veins. The clouds of dust were rising from massive stones being dragged and set across the plateau. Men shouted, ropes strained, and sunlight flashed against copper tools and the sweat shining on hundreds of backs. Michael huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head in disbelief despite the heat already gathering under his borrowed linen clothes. The kids at pizza parties could laugh, and jeer, and call him Magic Mike all they wanted—they would never see the pyramids being built.

A rhythmic clinking caught his attention next. Michael lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the orange desert sun and squinted across the plateau. There, rising above the dunes, a massive statue of a lion was being carved from the earth itself.  It took a moment for the recognition to hit: not a lion, but a sphinx.

Michael’s mind began to turn. He knew he should focus on what sort of performance might impress the people of Giza, but instead he found himself reaching into the deepest, dustiest corners of his brain for whatever facts remained from his college World History class. The excitement burned hotter in his gut than the desert heat.

It was simple! What greater magic was there than solving a question historians, archaeologists, anthropologists, and probably several conspiracy theorists had fought over for decades? He could ask who had commissioned the monuments, who was responsible for building them, and why they were building them. How they were building them. And whether aliens were involved, if only so he could put that one to rest for everyone. Then he would take this knowledge home, get on the local news, and use his new platform to become famous. Then, and only then, would modern people appreciate his magic.

Michael nearly tripped over himself as he started through the sand toward a cluster of workers gathered near a stack of reeds, clay jars, and low stone tools.

Perfect.

He smiled and waved as he approached a man with a reed pen tucked behind his ear, which seemed like a promising indication of literacy.

“Hello,” Michael said confidently. “I seem to have forgotten. Who is the current pharaoh?”

The man answered at once. Michael nodded. Unfortunately, the answer sounded like either Khufu or Khafre, which felt less like a clarification and more like proof that the Kardashians would never run out of K names.

“Apologies, friend.” Michael slicked a hand back over his hair. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

The man repeated himself. Again, the answer escaped him. Now, Michael understood why there was such a debate over this.

But he was not one to give up. Any other magician might have folded. Any other fool might have wandered into the desert. Michael, being a problem-solver, snapped his fingers and immediately wished he had brought the trick flowers that bloomed on command—that surely would have gotten the Egyptian’s attention.

“Could you write it down for me?” Michael asked breezily.

The man studied him with equal suspicion and pity. But he ultimately took up a reed, dipped it in a small jar of ink, and scratched something onto a strip of papyrus. When he handed it over, Michael’s heart sank. It had not occurred to him that the man would not only speak too quickly to understand, but also write in hieroglyphics, which Michael could not read. He studied the symbols for a long moment, trying to preserve any semblance of dignity and whatever sliver of hope he still possessed.

Michael sighed. He supposed he would have to become famous the old-fashioned way again: through magic.

He rolled the papyrus tightly, tucked it into the rudimentary rope belt at his waist, and clapped his hands. The Egyptians were the original magicians, or at least that was what pop culture liked to imply (Michael had seen Brendan Fraser’s 1999 The Mummy plenty of times, so he felt qualified to make that assumption).

But as the man watched him like he had the head of a jackal—or maybe a scarab, considering the way the man looked at him as if he were a bug—Michael realized with horror that preparing for a visit to the Ice Age had vastly underprepared him for this. Coldness pooled in his stomach and his hands felt clammy as he clasped them beneath the assessing stare of his audience of one.

Get it together, Michael, he told himself. You are a problem-solver.

A cloud of dust twirled like a tiny tornado, knocking something free in Michael’s head along with it. If he were standing at one of the oldest points in recorded history, he might as well use the oldest trick in the book.

Before he could think better of it, Michael reached for the man’s nose. Then he wiggled it. Then he pulled away, tucking his thumb between his pointer and middle finger.

“I’ve got your nose!” Michael shouted theatrically, holding his closed fist aloft.

The man blinked. His face remained stoic, though his dark cheeks had gone almost red. For one moment, panic rippled through Michael’s muscles. Had he miscalculated? Would he need to make a run for home? Would he be the first magician to be run out of ancient Egypt for fake theft of a facial feature? He had just enough time to plot an escape route and estimate the several months it would take to recover from the embarrassment.

Then the man doubled over, clutching his belly, laughing loudly. He laughed and laughed. Enough that Michael started chuckling too, and a passerby slowed down to stare at the commotion. The man waved them over, still breathless, and gestured for Michael to steal another nose. So Michael did. With each one, he added flair: a magic word, a special hand movement, a flourish of the fingers.

The ancient Egyptians roared.

Soon, there were dozens of them gathered around him. Then more. Workers abandoned their tools, scribes set down their reeds. A man carrying a basket of something Michael chose not to inspect too closely stopped mid-step, just to have his nose stolen by a stranger in ill-fitting linen.

Eventually, they took him to their pharaoh, whose name Michael still could not discern and whose likeness he could not place. The pharaoh watched him from beneath a crown Michael was certain he had once seen on a museum tote bag, his expression unreadable.

Michael swallowed. Then he reached forward. Wiggled. Pulled.

“I’ve got your nose!”

For one long, sunbaked second, no one moved. Then the pharaoh laughed so hard he had to sit down. After that, Michael stole noses for hours.

He stole the noses of workers and scribes and guards. He stole the noses of noblemen, children, and one very serious priest who made everyone else go quiet until he snorted so loudly that Michael nearly dropped the trick entirely. By the time the sun began to dip below the desert horizon, Michael’s hands ached from flourishing. His cheeks hurt from smiling. His throat was dry from shouting the same ridiculous sentence again and again.

Michael bid them farewell as the sky deepened into orange and navy.

That night, he slept soundly in his bed, dreaming of scarabs and papyrus and gods with animal heads. He had not returned with secrets. He had not secured a future book deal. He had, however, made a pharaoh laugh so hard that several people had looked ready to prepare a sarcophagus and tomb, which was not nothing.

When he awoke, he threw off his covers and flipped open his laptop to refresh his memory on Egypt’s Old Kingdom. But when he pulled up photos of the Sphinx, his heart tumbled. He zoomed in. Surely, he was mistaken—he had to be mistaken. This was just like when he learned it was The Berenstain Bears. Michael stared at the screen, electricity buzzing through his veins.

Had the Sphinx always been missing its nose?