The Prophecy
Michael's Story

Michael stood in the spotlight. There was darkness all around him, hiding the eagerly awaiting spectators from his sight, for which he was thankful. He lifted his arms as the strains of a Beethoven symphony filled the air and the enchantment began. The audience was captivated by the balls of fire dancing on his palms, the doves flying out of his sleeves and the rays of colourful light streaking from his fingertips.

Michael Ryan was a magician, and he was the best. A few hours away from turning twenty-five, Michael was tall, slim and athletic. With his shoulder length dark hair and intense green eyes, scepter in one hand and a globe of the clearest crystal in the other, he looked like Merlin plotting the birth of a king. Dark good looks combined with immeasurable skill had helped him conquer the world of magic.

The four-hour show was finally over. Michael stood in the middle of his dressing room, his black velvet cloak thrown carelessly over the back of a stiff-backed chair. In his hands he held a book, worn and ancient. As he turned the pages of the book, a musty smell of the years came from the tattered pages, reminding him of time legends were made.

The book was said to have belonged to Merlin, from the time of King Arthur's Knights. It had been in his family for centuries and was said to have been a gift from Merlin himself to one of his forefathers after the prophecy had known. He flipped to the last page. Inscribed on the yellowed page were four lines.

Michael had always prided himself on being a practical man with no belief in curses and prophecies and superstitions, despite making his living from people's fantasies. He had ignored his mother when she had told him the prophecy that dated to before his birth, and warned him, the thirtieth son, of the danger that he was fated to encounter. He ignored her, confident that in these modern times, the prophecy would prove itself to be nothing more than empty air. However, as his twenty-fifth birthday drew near, he found himself looking over his shoulder more often and walking only in brightly lit areas. He had planned to stay home for the week of his birthday -- just in case -- but his manager had scheduled a series performances in New York.

Michael sighed as he closed the book. It was already three in the morning and he was dead tired. The performance had run long. No magician was able to resist the lure of excited applause from the crowd and he was no exception. It was three hours to dawn, and if the prophecy were indeed true, three hours to his death.

He changed into jeans and a shirt and pulled on a coat, the book held beneath the thick cloth to protect the worn pages. He waved cheery good byes to the remainder of the crew still pulling down the props -- they would be here long past dawn while he would be safely tucked in his bed fast asleep. His hotel was a mere two blocks away. He waved away his chauffeur, indicating that he would walk back.

The streets were well-lit. Despite New York's reputation for being a muggers' haven, few thieves were desperate enough to wait into the wee hours of the morning for a victim, particularly not in such a reputable section of town. Michael walked briskly, hugging the thick book to his chest. The night air was cold and crisp, with no trace of the exhaust fumes or pollution that pervaded during the day.

A cat meowed as he walked past a dark alley, a dog barked wildly in response. A crash echoed through the night as the dog attacked.

Suddenly, callused hands grabbed him and dragged him into the shadows of the alley. Michael managed to shout once before the cry was muffled by a large palm. He felt a fist ram into his stomach and gasped for breath, dropping Merlin's book in the process. He was roughly pushed to the ground and searched. His head hit a trash can as he tried to struggle against his assailants. The sound rang in his ears and he saw stars dancing in front of his eyes, much like the balls of fire he made to dance on his palms.

The assailants found his book. He heard ripping pages as they flipped roughly through it to see if it contained anything valuable. In disgust, they threw it back onto his chest. Air escaped out of his lungs in a whoosh.

His pockets were searched thoroughly. He opened his tightly closed eyes cautiously when there was a lull in the movement. A bearded face loomed before him -- the muddy brown eyes, the coarse beard, the ugly scar that ran across the man's cheek from left to right -- the details etched themselves in his mind involuntarily.

"Damn! He's seen my face!" Michael barely saw the knuckles coming towards him and had no time to move, even if he could move. He felt his nose crack and the warmth of blood seeping down his face. Dazed, he just grimaced at the pain -- the prospect of having a badly healed nose to mar his good looks didn't comfort him in any way. He stared back dumbly at his attacker as he pulled out a wicked, gleaming pistol.

"Hurry up and kill him before the cops arrive." The refrain sounded from the dark shadows in the background. He felt as though he was a bystander outside his own body watching what was happening with bizarre calm.

Time slowed. He heard the click as the bullet slid into place and saw the trigger pulled back a hairsbreadth at a time. He saw the brief flash of orange sparks as the bullet exploded from the barrel of the pistol. Strangely enough, the pain he felt was minimal even when three more shots were fired in rapid succession.

The last thing he saw heard before he passed out into oblivion was the bell of the church tower nearby striking four o'clock. The last thought he had before darkness claimed him was that the prophecy had been wrong -- he was not going to die at dawn ...

Michael woke up surrounded by stark white. Was he in heaven? He saw a movement from the corner of his eye. Was that an angel that had come to claim him and take him through the pearly gates of heaven? A familiar face appeared in front of him. Had his manager died with him as well? he wondered.

"Michael, you're finally awake. I tell you it was a damned close thing. That big dirty book of yours probably saved your life. Why were you carrying it anyway? You know, if that broken nose doesn't heal properly, we're going to have to think of a new image for you: how about ..."

His manager's voice continued without pause, and Michael smiled serenely at its familiarity.

He was alive. Merlin was right after all.