Michael the Magician — Two If By Sea

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.

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Two If By Sea – The British are coming!

Michael was a Boston Red Sox fan. Always had been. Always would be. He cried more when Johnny Damon signed with the Yankees and cut his hair than he did when Mufasa died in The Lion King. Both reactions were quite dramatic, but all good magicians have a flair for the dramatic.

So after a weekend trip to Boston, Michael was surprised when the highlight hadn’t been Fenway Park, as he expected it to be (don’t get him wrong, Fenway was great). Nor had it been watching the Boston Marathon runners, though he had shouted encouragement at several strangers with the ferocity of a man sending them into battle. No, the real highlight had been the walking tour he spent a sunny Friday afternoon taking through the city.

Boston, he realized, was perfect for magic. A city with that much history, that much cobblestone, and that many men in bronze statues pointing at things surely would appreciate a little spectacle. If the American Revolution had been born from people tossing tea into Boston Harbor, then early Americans would likely be receptive to other forms of inspiration… including the latest trick he had been practicing.

Which was how Michael came to take his time-traveling tree stump to a mid-April evening in 1775, determined to enchant the people of Boston with his most daring magic yet.

Walking along the cobbled streets in his powdered wig and tricks up his sleeves, Michael took in the bonnet-laden women gossiping in tight circles, the men sipping steaming cups of black coffee that they made sure to note was absolutely not tea, and the children in their breeches and buckles. In modern day, it was easy to tell the streets of Boston had not been designed for cars. In 1775, Michael was still unsure if the winding, uneven roads had been designed for anything other than confusing pedestrians and making navigation unnecessarily difficult. 

It took much more effort than Michael would have cared for, and several humiliating loops through the city, to finally retrace the steps of his walking tour and find the Old North Church. It looked mostly the same as it had in modern day, thanks especially to its steeple, which was visible even across the Charles River. To his delight, a congregation of people had gathered at the church, no doubt discussing the impending British army threatening the city of Boston. Despite the ticking timepiece that was war, the men and women were in good spirits, drinking and laughing as if muskets were not aimed straight at their city. Michael figured this must be the resilient spirit that would ultimately lead them to victory (a fact he would have to remind himself not to mention).

He weaved through the crowd gathered on the warped wooden floorboards, between even more questionable-looking pews, and found the man who seemed to be the center of attention. The man looked more like a priest than a soldier or guerrilla fighter, though Michael supposed history was full of people with misleading clothing and demeanors.

“Hello,” Michael said, holding out his hand. “My name is Michael.”

The man arched a brow and looked at Michael’s hand as if it were plagued. It was not the first time in his travels that someone had been immediately skeptical of Michael’s forwardness, but still, a twinge of sweat prickled at his brow.

Finally, the man took his hand. “Robert Newman.” He shook firmly. “You can call me Bob.”

“Bob,” Michael repeated. “Nice to meet you. I stumbled upon your gathering and thought your group might enjoy some entertainment on this fine spring evening.”

“Entertainment?” Bob asked, catching the attention of several Bostonians gathered nearby. “What kind of entertainment?”

Michael smirked. “Magic.”

He flourished his fingers as a distraction, slipped a coin from his pocket, and pretended to pluck it from Bob’s ear. Several people oohed, their eyes widening and their lips tugging into small smiles.

Bob blinked. “You know, they hanged people not too far from here for less than that.”

Michael had not considered that. But, like any good magician, he thought on his feet. More importantly, he refused to let them see him sweat.

“True,” he said breezily. “But you freedom fighters are different, are you not? Why oppress the fantastic when you can celebrate it?”

A tighter circle formed around Michael and Bob, with people craning their necks and tilting their ears so they could capture the moment.

Bob considered this, tapping his foot so the buckles on his boots jangled with every drop. The floorboards creaked as the people around them shifted, waiting.

Finally, Bob nodded once. “All right,” he said, turning away and waving for Michael to follow. “But let’s not do this in front of the children.”

A thrill zipped through Michael’s veins. Usually, children were the default audience for magicians. They were also his greatest enemies. Finally, he had met someone who recognized the prestige of his craft!

Bob led Michael up a set of rickety stairs to the small room in the church steeple. A small group poured in behind them, filling every available spot in the tight, stale room.

Michael took his place near the open window, while the rest, including Bob, circled around him. Even in the dark, they watched with eager faces and bright eyes, the look of people with vision, courage, and the audacity to want better. Looking at them, Michael realized they did not look all that different from some of the people in his own time, still wanting better.

“My fellow patriots,” Michael began.

He was not sure if that was the correct terminology, but no one argued or seemed particularly miffed, so he rolled with it. He turned toward the two lanterns sitting on the windowsill beside him.

“I am here to illuminate the possibilities of your mind.”

He had been preparing that line ever since he procured the license for flash paper. It came out even better than he had intended.

The crowd leaned closer, as if his words had tied a string around their chests and he was slowly reeling them in, catching them like fish on a line. They watched as he unfurled the piece of flash paper and showed them the writing scrawled across it: Red Sox.

A few people furrowed their brows, while another elbowed the person next to her and whispered, “What’s a red sox?”

Either way, it did exactly what Michael intended: it distracted them. While they focused on the words, he slipped his tiny lighter into his palm. Then, in one fell swoop, he lit the paper in, well, a flash, setting off a bright flame that he perfectly timed to drop into one of the lanterns. It flared to life instantly.

A gasp fell over the crowd.

“And the possibilities,” he continued, recreating the trick with the second lantern, “are endless.”

The people in the steeple clapped lightly, hesitant smiles tugging across their faces. Even Bob looked impressed, and Michael got the distinct impression that Bob was not easily impressed by anything, least of all men who arrived uninvited at rebel gatherings.

Just as Michael opened his mouth to continue his performance, a shout rang out from below.

He ignored it. Good magicians were not easily distracted.

Then another shout came, louder than the one before. Then another. Before he knew it, shouts filled the street below.

Michael could not quite make out the words, so he carefully leaned past the two glowing lanterns and looked down. Men were flooding the streets, some with muskets in hand. Hooves pounded in the distance, cutting through the chaos. Finally, as a man on horseback broke through the gathered people below, Michael understood what he was shouting.

“The British are coming!”

Michael paused. Only his eyes moved as he watched the shouting man on horseback continue down the road.

Then he looked at the two lit lanterns in the steeple window.

Behind him, the crowd quickly began to dissipate, running down the stairs and out the church doors to join the militia gathering in Boston.

Bob grabbed Michael by the shoulders. “The British are coming, sir! We must fight!”

Then he flew down the stairs, leaving Michael alone in the steeple.

Michael wished he could have done at least one more trick to raise their spirits before the fight. He wished he could give them the encouragement of knowing they would win, though he suspected that would be reckless, historically speaking. He even wished he could somehow let Longfellow know of his involvement in the whole thing. None of his opponents would ever be able to say they had been immortalized in poetry.

But instead, he sighed, took one last look at the lanterns, and made for home.

Several months later, while sitting on his couch, drinking coffee and absolutely not tea, Michael scrolled through videos of English fans arriving in the United States for the World Cup. History, he decided, really did have a way of repeating itself.