The South in her, the land and salt-winds, moved her through Charleston’s streets as if she were a mobile sapling, with the gait of a well-loved colored woman whose lover was the horizon in any direction. Even her mama knew that, and she would shake her head the way folks do when they hear bad news, murmuring, “Something’s got hold to my child, I swear. That’s why Indigo didn’t tell her mama what all she discussed with her friends. Sometimes when someone else was talking, Indigo excused herself-her dolls were calling for her. Indigo heard them talking to her in her sleep.

These creatures were still her companions, keeping pace with her changes, her moods and dreams, as no one else could. Then eyes from carefully chosen buttons or threads, hair from yarns specially dyed by her sisters and her mama, dresses of the finest silk patches, linen shoes and cotton underskirts, satin mitts or gloves embroidered with the delight of a child’s hand. Tied ribbons made necks, so they could have heads and torsos. As a small child, she stuffed socks with red beans, raw rice, sawdust or palm leaves. Sitting among her dolls, Indigo looked quite mad. I’ve got earth blood, filled up with the Geechees long gone, and the sea.” “Mama, if you pull ‘em off, they’ll just grow back. Whenever her mother tried to pull the moss off her head, or clip the roses round her thighs, Indigo was laughing.

Having a moon in her mouth kept her laughing. A woman with a moon falling from her mouth, roses between her legs and tiaras of Spanish moss, this woman is a consort of the spirits. IF there is a moon falling from her mouth, she is a woman who knows her magic, who can share or not share her powers.

Sassafrass cypress and indigo