The Lost Magus of Michigan
The Macho Man Chronicles: Volume 2
The Lost Magus of Michigan
The sky split open, and Balthazar fell.
His body, wrapped in flowing silks of the East, crashed through a snow-laden pine and landed face-first in a frozen drift. The air was sharp and foreign, filled with the scent of pine and gasoline. Somewhere in the distance, wolves howled, or perhaps that was just the wind.
Balthazar groaned and rolled onto his back, staring up at the swirling gray sky. The Star of Bethlehem was gone. No desert sands, no caravans, no Melchior or Caspar. Only a frozen wasteland.
"Blessed Father," he whispered, breath curling in the frigid air. "I have made a wrong turn."
A voice crackled behind him. "Buddy, you all right?"
Balthazar sat up with a jolt, squinting at the figure before him—a man clad in thick boots, a Carhartt jacket, and a fur-lined Stormy Kromer cap. He held an ice fishing pole in one hand and a can of KBC beer in the other. Behind him sat a small shack with a wisp of smoke curling from a vent.
"Have I arrived in Bethlehem?" Balthazar asked. "I bear frankincense for the newborn King."
The man scratched his chin. "Bethlehem? Uh, nah, bud. You’re in the U.P."
Balthazar blinked. "The U...P?"
"Upper Peninsula. Michigan. Cold as hell." The man peered at him. "You hit your head or somethin’?"
Balthazar stood, his silk robes stiffening in the cold. He clutched the clay jar of frankincense to his chest. "I must reach Bethlehem! Where is my camel?"
The man snorted. "Ain’t seen no camels ‘round here. Closest you’ll get is a deer with an attitude."
"Then how does one travel?"
"Snowmobile’s your best bet, but ain’t nobody givin’ theirs up for free. You got money?"
Balthazar hesitated, then reached into his pouch and pulled out a gold coin.
The man whistled. "Well, ain’t that somethin’. Tell ya what, I know a guy who’ll take ya south. Head to the gas station in town, ask for Big Vern. Tell him Tiny Lou sent ya."
Balthazar bowed. "You have my thanks, Prophet of the Ice."
Tiny Lou shrugged. "Yeah, okay. Want a pasty before ya go?"
Balthazar frowned. "A... pasty?"
"Meat pie. Warms ya up."
Balthazar accepted the steaming bundle and bit in cautiously. His eyes widened. "By the grace of the heavens, this is divine."
Tiny Lou grinned. "Yeah, they’re pretty good."
The Journey to Frankenmuth
Balthazar’s journey south was an exercise in confusion. While he understood the general meaning of words, much of the dialect and slang of these northern men baffled him.
His first attempt at snow travel ended abruptly when he was handed the reins of a snowmobile. The roaring machine took off faster than any camel he had ever commanded, sending him hurtling into a bank of powder. As he lay half-buried in snow, his guide, Big Vern, simply chuckled and said, "Guess we’ll take the truck."
The truck, a rusted Chevy that smelled of gasoline and old fast food, rumbled southward with Balthazar shivering in the passenger seat. The man driving, whose vocabulary was limited to grunts and the occasional "yup," nodded in satisfaction when Balthazar handed over another gold coin in thanks. "Nice tip," the driver muttered, pocketing the coin as they pulled into a roadside diner.
Inside, the warmth was overwhelming, the air thick with the scent of butter and coffee. Balthazar, still adjusting to this frozen land, eagerly accepted a stack of steaming pancakes. When he attempted to pay with yet another gold coin, the waitress simply laughed and said, "Hon, you keep that. But if you’re looking for work, we could use a dishwasher."
"I am on a holy mission!" he declared.
"Yeah, sure thing, sweetheart. More coffee?"
At a late-night campfire, Balthazar huddled among ice fishermen who shared cans of beer and regaled him with stories of the legendary ‘Michigan Dogman.’ The tale of a half-man, half-wolf creature lurking in the forests sent a chill down his spine. "This land is cursed with demons?" he gasped. His companions howled with laughter.
The next day, he hitched a ride with a snowplow driver named Earl. "Truly, you command a powerful beast," Balthazar told him. Earl, shaking his head, simply replied, "Whatever you say, bud. Buckle up."
As they neared the Mackinac Bridge, Balthazar gaped at the massive structure rising into the sky, its towers stretching toward the heavens. "What divine gate is this? Surely it marks the passage to a sacred land!" he exclaimed.
Earl let out a chuckle. "That’s just the bridge to the Lower Peninsula, bud. Ain’t nothin’ holy about it, ‘cept maybe when the wind don’t knock ya clean off. Also, folks down there? We call ‘em trolls—‘cause they live under the bridge. We Yoopers stay up here where it’s real."
Balthazar crossed in awe, clutching his jar of frankincense tightly as the mighty suspension bridge swayed slightly under the weight of traffic. The great expanse of water below seemed endless, a cold and mysterious abyss. He murmured a prayer under his breath, convinced he was passing through some grand celestial trial.
Each stop along the way, he continued asking for "Bethlehem." Each time, someone corrected him: "No, no, you mean Frankenmuth."
After crossing the bridge, Balthazar found himself in an entirely new land—one with larger towns, busier roads, and an ever-growing sense of movement. He wandered from town to town, following vague directions from well-meaning strangers, convinced he was nearing his divine destination. Eventually, he found himself at a bustling roadside rest stop, where a friendly trucker took pity on him.
"You still lookin’ for Bethlehem?" the trucker asked, eyeing Balthazar’s robes and the jar of frankincense he held tightly.
"Indeed, noble sir," Balthazar replied. "The place of the divine child must be near."
The trucker grinned. "Well, I’ll tell ya what, hop in. I’m headin’ to Frankenmuth. If you’re lookin’ for holy stuff, that’s about as close as you’ll get."
Hours later, as the truck pulled into town, Balthazar gasped. The towering Bavarian-style buildings, the streets lined with twinkling lights, and the giant Christmas store—it had to be the sacred land he sought.
Stepping out of the truck, he inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of cinnamon, roasted nuts, and pine. Before him stood a grand temple of Christmas, its sign gleaming in the soft glow of holiday lights: Bronner’s CHRISTmas Wonderland. It was overwhelming—the sheer magnitude of holy decorations, nativity scenes, and an entire section dedicated to incense.
He staggered inside, the warmth washing over him like the desert sun. A woman in a red vest approached him with a bright smile. "Welcome to Bronner’s! Looking for anything special?"
Balthazar knelt before her, offering his jar of frankincense. "I bring this sacred gift for the King."
She blinked. "Oh, uh... wow, that’s authentic! Where’d you get it?"
"From the lands of the East, where the star guided me."
She glanced at a coworker. "You know, we could put this in the display. Next to the nativity scene?"
"Great idea!" the other worker said. "Looks real."
Balthazar exhaled. His journey was complete. He had fulfilled his duty.
"Sir," the woman said gently, "Do you... have anywhere to go?"
Balthazar looked around at the glowing lights, the smiling families, the shelves of holy symbols.
"Yes," he said, standing tall. "I believe I shall remain in this land of wonder." The towering Bavarian-style buildings, the streets lined with twinkling lights, and the giant Christmas store—it had to be the sacred land he sought.
Balthazar, Employee of the Year
And so he stayed. Bronner’s hired him for his "historical authenticity." He worked the nativity display, telling customers grand tales of the ancient world. He embraced Michigan life, learned the art of shoveling driveways, and grew fond of flannel shirts.
By the following Christmas, he had a nametag: Balthazar - Incense Specialist.
He never did make it to Bethlehem.
But, in a way, he figured he had found something just as miraculous.
Every morning, he burned a bit of frankincense in the back storeroom. Customers would wander by, take in the scent, and feel something they couldn't quite describe. Peace. Warmth. Nostalgia.
And so, with his pasty in hand and a snow shovel slung over his shoulder, Balthazar walked home through the snow-covered streets of Frankenmuth, content that he had, at last, found his place in the world.