Jamal’s foot connected with Mincus’s head, and Mincus went soaring.
 

Jamal’s foot connected with Mincus’s head, and Mincus went soaring.  The world spinning, he made a high arc over the street to land with a thud on the pavement.  His head would’ve probably rolled a bit, but Lewis, Jamal’s best friend, stopped him with a practiced tennis shoe, positioning him before sending him back through the air with a forceful kick.  Of course this hurt, and Mincus’s head had become a gashed and bruised thing, but he’d learned to endure the pain.  It was a testament to his once-powerful magic that his severed head still lived, and that he’d been able to successfully clot the veins where his neck had once been.

Again he went soaring; this time the kick was short and low, his nose scraping the asphalt a dozen or so times before coming to rest under Jamal’s foot.  Ouch!

“Jamal,” Mincus said, “don’t you think we’ve had enough ‘fun’ for one day?  I’m ready to go inside.”  “Inside” being to the boy’s small apartment where he lived with his mother.  Evenings consisted of Mincus’s head being stationed on a desk in Jamal’s bedroom and him watching the lad avoid his homework.  Education and Jamal didn’t seem to go hand in hand, while Mincus, being a wizard, thought erudition the worthiest of pursuits.

“We ain’t had enough fun yet,” Jamal said.  “Besides, it’s still light out.”

“But—”  His head went flying.

When Mincus’s head had been severed in battle four days prior, he hadn’t been overly concerned.  Battlewizard that he was, having it reattached was only difficult, not impossible.  But some low-grade sorcerer of the adversarial Gray clan had tossed a magical petard in his direction, and when the crimson smoke finally cleared, Mincus had found himself in this other realm.  A realm inhabited by this dark-skinned race who dwelled in rude brownstone buildings, using an odd light source whose magic he had yet to discern.

Moments after his arrival, this city youth named Jamal had claimed him as his war prize, and told him to project the appearance of a kickball.  At least to everyone besides Jamal and his friends.  All this wouldn’t be so bad, except for this infernal game they forced him to play every afternoon.  His head had not stopped pounding since he’d arrived here, though some of that might be from the odd music issuing from those ubiquitous booming boxes.  Hippity-hop, he believed they called it.

Today it was just Jamal and Lewis playing, and now Lewis’s more precise return landed him directly in front of Jamal this time.  Mincus liked Lewis’s volleys better, usually, as they didn’t hurt as much.  “Please, Jamal.  I beg of you.  This poor wizard has had enough for one day.”

“Shut up, man,” Jamal said.  “We go in, I gotta do homework.  And it ain’t like you been helpin’ me much like you promised.”

True enough.  Mincus had always excelled at history, and had offered to assist the boy in his studies.  But Jamal’s history was different.  What a strange world this was where the Thaumaturgist Wars had never occurred, where the Dragons of Corsinthius had never held sway during most of the one-hundred-twelfth century.  Here they argued about some Iraqian conflict on the visual booming box—a scrying device of sorts was the best he could figure—and a particular Civil War that seemed important to Jamal’s people.  At least he’d heard Lewis talking about it with passion.  It was all—

“Hey, Jamal,” called a voice, and another youth, this one a bit older and much bigger, came swaggering up.

Before Jamal could say anything, Lewis joined the two.  “Get out of here, T. C.,” Lewis said.  “We don’t want any of your poison.”

“What?” T. C. said.  “This ain’t poison, this here’s one-hundred percent grade-A magic.  White magic.  Finest kind, made on Peruvian time.  Make a new man outta ya.”

“I like the man I am just fine, thank you very much,” Lewis said, a defiant look in his eye.  “Come on, Jamal.  Let’s go in.”

“Not so fast,” Jamal said.  “Maybe we been missin’ somethin’.”  

From his perspective on the pavement, Mincus had to roll his eyes around in big arcs to take in all three boys.  It would’ve given him a headache, if his head hadn’t been pounding already.

“Killer stuff,” T. C. said, with raised eyebrows.

“That’s for sure,” said Lewis.  Lewis was different than the other boys on the block.  Bespectacled, his elevated diction suggested his intelligence was a notch or three above the other swarthy lads.  “Jamal, that stuff can kill.  Remember what Mr. Gillespie told us in school about how it’ll do nothing but mess up our futures?”

“Eh, don’t listen to this squirrel,” said T. C.  “You game, Jamal?”

“I thought that stuff was expensive.”

The older boy shrugged.  “Hey, my treat.”  Then offered an unctuous smile.

Before he knew it, Mincus was left in the middle of the street with Lewis, while Jamal followed T. C. over to a small alcove on the side of a building.  Mincus had seen something on the visual booming box about this white magic T. C. was proffering.  In his own realm, white magic was relatively harmless, but he had a feeling here it could have dire consequence.  Especially on one so young.  But what to do?  He still had a bit of magic of his own left, but should he waste it on Jamal?  It wasn’t like the boy had been overly kind to him.  True, he did supply him with water when he got thirsty, but this kickball was becoming a bit much.  And degrading besides.  Especially to a wizard of his rank and standing.

Finally, his nobler side won out.  Performing a quick yet taxing transmutation spell, Mincus replaced T. C.’s white magic with an abrasive cleaner he’d seen in the bathroom at Jamal’s.  Caustic stuff that had made his own eyes burn, even from a distance.  His plan worked, because a moment later Jamal came walking toward him and Lewis, sneezing, eyes watering, a horrible expression on his face.  Walking past them, he didn’t stop.

“Hey, Jamal,” Lewis cried.  “What’s wrong?  Where are you going?”

But Jamal didn’t reply as he blundered his way toward his brownstone.

The next thing Mincus knew, Lewis had picked him up by what little hair he had left, and was holding him at chest level.  “Well, wizard.  It looks like you’re coming home with me.  Same deal you had with Jamal, okay?  Don’t talk to anyone except me, got it?  Believe me, people just wouldn’t understand.”

Mincus would’ve nodded if he could have, but that required a neck.  Yes, this was agreeable.  Lewis was a much brighter lad than Jamal, and he hoped that would translate into a more benevolent treatment from him.  Perhaps he could convince Lewis that he had a grander purpose in life than to be a kickball.

As Lewis took off walking, swinging Mincus at his side, he said, “Besides, I’m curious about this magical realm you come from.  I wanna hear more about these Thaumaturgist Wars you talked about.  Did slavery have anything to do with it?”

Yes, thought Mincus.  Brighter, and curious too.

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