Henry was an angry man, enraged to madness, brokenhearted, sick and tired. There was no treatment for what ailed him. He was well versed in philosophy, science, politics, doctrine, and literature of all sorts, enough to know better than to be superstitious. He also knew root medicines and how to divine knowledge from reading objects other than books, so he knew that also made him a little superstitious. Still, he took no comfort in ancient or modern ideas. There was no cure. The terrible scene was trapped inside his head. His left eye saw the world as most see it, but his right eye saw only death. No matter how his aunt and uncle tried, the bitter pill of hatred ate at his core. His spitefulness was directed at one person only – the man he knew as Big Jim Southland or Beelzebub…

His was no Road-to-Damascus conversion. Instead of “I was blind but now I see,” he was as blind with rage as ever and filled with vengeance – pure, calculated, and alert to all its possibilities. He’d plotted revenge night and day, propelled by the stone he’d carried in his heart since childhood.   He’d seen Botticelli’s map and studied every angle. If Hell were a place, he would go there.  Everyone goes to the grave in small steps, and Henry St. James would be no exception.

Wizard never expected to end up on the street corner doing devilment of all sorts, but he was part of the oldest struggle. He’d long understood that good didn’t fight evil; rather, it took another kind of evil. Indeed, this was the perfect place for that, ideal for spinning the bones, riddling out tales that cut deeper than a sword. True, pollution was so bad it rivaled that of the red ore district and the Black Warrior together. In fact, it was a place where some walked about putting on airs, yet so many had nowhere to wash out the filth.  Birmingham sucked out the life of nearly everyone, especially the poor.   So remaining on the street must have seemed like pure madness, but he was invisible here, just the way he wanted it – a teller living his tale.