Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo

by Ntozake Shange

  “Indigo, I promise you. I’ll get you the best teacher I can find.” Indigo stopped slowly, C#, fifth position, D string.

  “Mama, I’m happy with how the fiddle’s talk . . . sounding now. I don’t want any lessons at all. I just want to play.” Thinking her mother was relieved, Indigo left the window. She put the violin away, even closed the gingham curtains. Indigo smiled up at her mama, who had a most curious expression. No matter what she did, Indigo was always beyond her reason. A good girl, yet out of reach.

  “Mama, what’s wrong? I said you don’t have to get me lessons. I’m just fine.”

  “Indigo, you may have those lessons whenever you like & I mean that. But until you decide to take them, I can’t allow you to make that noise in my house. I’ve got enough trouble on my hands without having every neighbor I’ve got thinking we got banshees living in here at night. Besides, Miz Fitzhugh, herself, even mentioned to me how unpleasant your violin-playing actually is, right now. I don’t mean to say you won’t be a wonderful musician in the future. But, Indigo, you may not submit the whole world to your will. No lessons, no violin playing under this roof.”

  Indigo sat back on her bed ’tween Candace & Marie-Hélène, who whispered: “Listen, I’ve gotta idea, Indigo.”

  “Mama, would you be mad if I played it someplace else? Outside, somewhere?”

  Imagining she could use a nice hot toddy, the mother was going out Indigo’s door, when she turned round to say that Indigo could take the violin anywhere out of the neighborhood & make any noise she liked ’cause then she would have to talk to the strangers beseeching her: “Please, get a lesson, girl,” which is precisely what her mother had said.

  Indigo patted the violin by her bed exactly where Aunt Haydee kept her shotgun. “No, Mama, that’s not what’s gonna happen.” She kissed Miranda good-night & went to sleep. Her mother left a glass of cider & a deep chocolate on Indigo’s night stand. It was midnight & the Moon was full.

  Sister Mary Louise put Indigo & her violin behind the shed where she kept her gardening tools—shovels, vitamins for roses & violets, peat moss, watering cans, heavy gloves, rakes, & strings. Too much of the Holy Ghost came out of Indigo & that fiddle. Sister Mary Louise swore even she couldn’t stand that much spirit every day. “Back there behind the shed, Indigo, is just fine. Come anytime ya like. If I feel callt, I’ma come on out & listen.” That’s what Sister Mary Louise had decided about that. “Good for the plants. Too much order, too much gentility’ll make my flowers more prim than glorious. We all need a lil wildness.” So here came Indigo every day after school plying her new medium out back.

  Indigo wanted to sound like the sparrows & wrens. She mimicked the jays & peckers. Conversing with gulls was easy ’cause they saw her daddy’s soul every day. Indigo had mastered the hum of dusk, the crescendoes of the cicadas, swamp rushes in light winds, thunder at high tide, & her mother’s laughter down the hall. Uncle John told her one time when they were frying porgies by his wagon that he’d got this feeling in his waking up that Indigo was dwelling dangerous on the misery of the slaves who were ourselves, & this feeling directed him to march her toward the beauty of this world & the joys of the those come before us. Indigo couldn’t get enough. No creature that moved escaped Indigo’s attention. If the fiddle talked, it also rumbled, cawed, rustled, screamed, sighed, sirened, giggled, stomped, & sneered. Every once in a while Indigo even played songs. Some colored singing, Tina Turner, B. B. King, Etta James: they songs. This was a secret. Indigo had some pride & couldn’t admit to those who claimed she made noise all the time that she’d found out the difference ’tween her free communion with the universe, primal, unrelenting flights, & melody. She played these softly, for herself. Then she’d blush, hurriedly put the fiddle back into the case, the Colored & Romance having got the best of her. Young boys were alien to her. She didn’t want to be a fool in love, have something terrible getta holdt to her. When she’d had enough of “sweetheart,” “babeee,” & “please, please, please,” Indigo yelped, “Oh Sister Mary Louise, you missed that.”

  There was something moving up her leg, something that was not supposed to be there. Indigo looked down, lost a little fear, just a twig. How was a twig going up & down the inside of her leg, tickling her like the “sweethearts” & “babees” she’d been playing. Indigo looked cautiously behind her where two brown-skinned boys leaned over Sister Mary Louise’s fence.

  “Get that twig from ’tween my legs.”

  “We just tryin’ to get ya attention. Ya so busy fiddlin’ ya don’t see nobody. Where ya learn to play like that, gal?”

  “My name ain’t ‘gal’ & I taught myself. Now go on ’way & leave me be, please.” Indigo hoped they hadn’t heard her playing songs, but her wild sounds. She hadda hunch it was them Romance riffs that brought these fellas by the shed. Nobody ever came behind Sister Mary Louise’s house. There were devils, Mandingo giants, quadroon elves, & wayward ghosts in her shed.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” the taller boy asked. This one in worn jeans particularly frayed at the edges the way the Geechee Capitans wore theirs when they went crabbing. His head was shaved to keep from the ringworm, Indigo surmised. But the boy had such a pretty head. It was not flat in the back, a pancake head, nor was it all forced up above his eyes, a waterhead. No, this boy had a pretty nutmeg head. He was still slipping that stick round Indigo’s ankle though, & she’d told him to stop. The other boy was real stocky, a flathead, but high cheekbones. Indigo recognized the blood of that colored family married Chinese. They all looked like that. Still there was no doubt she’d told them to leave her be & they didn’t. Indigo closed her eyes tight like she was fixing to run or scream; instead she said: “Falcon come in this fiddle. Falcon come in this fiddle. Leopard come in this fiddle. Leopard come in this fiddle. I’m on the prey. I’m on the prey.” ’Fore she knew it, Indigo was so busy bowing the daylights & jungles out her violin, she didn’t notice the two boys duck down on the other side of the fence. When she opened her eyes, she realized she’d stood her ground. & that stick was no longer ’tween her legs. She smiled a tiny smile, peered over the fence, tapped the tall boy’s shin with the tip of the bow.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Indigo chirped, so fulla herself. The boys brushed the sand from their knees, grinned self-consciously.

  “I’m Spats,” the tall boy answered, “& this here is Crunch. We Junior Geechee Capitans.”

  Indigo held her tongue. “Why imagine that. Y’all Junior G.C. Ain’t that somethin’. I’m Indigo.”

  Spats jumped over the fence first. He reached for Indigo’s fiddle. She pulled it away gracefully. “I can’t let anyone touch my instrument. It’s bad luck.” Spats shrugged his shoulders. “Hey, whatever ya say. Ain’t that right, Crunch?” Crunch hanging tough in the alleyway was hardly enthusiastic. A girl with a violin had got him down on his knees in broad daylight.

  “What the hell was ya doin’ on that damn thing?” Crunch grumbled, messing with his elbows, his thick crop of black hair meeting his furrowed indignant brow.

  “I was fightin’ back in my own way. That’s what I was doin’. & you know it. Come puttin’ a stick ’tween my legs like I ain’t got no better sense than to let you do it ’cause you boys. Um-humph. Uncle John, he spoke to me on that. He said, ‘Indigo, when trouble come, get your fiddle.’ ”

  Spats & Crunch stared at each other. How could a girl know Uncle John? What was Uncle John doing giving some girl all his advice & counsel? Why their seniors, the real Geechee Capitans, held counsel with Uncle John. Very impressed, a little riled, the two boys folded their arms cross their chests & began a culturally recognized & universally feared ritual: The Geechee Capitan Cock Walk. Spats took off his sweatshirt with no sleeves, a slit down the middle, turned inside-out anyway, threw it on the ground. Crunch peeled his black tee-shirt from his ample torso, threw it on the ground. They clapped their hands. Clap. Clapclap. Clap. Spit on the ground, once to the east & once to the west. Then they wa
lked in a circle round Indigo. Slow-n-don’t-mess-round clockwise. Slow-n-this-might-be-the-last-time counter clockwise. Again. Humph. Again. Humph. Clap. Clapclap. Clap.

  Indigo’d been round long enough to know that she was either being initiated or ’bout to die. Crunch was not too excited ’bout the powers of her fiddlin’. Spats was probably more physical than his slight frame intimated. Indigo held her breath. Next thing was gonna happen, was somebody’d break the rhythm & whoever that was had better be on the case or die.

  Spats moved first, fast. Had Indigo on his small shoulders ’fore Crunch could move all of himself anywhere. There was still the possibility that Crunch might plow into them or belly-whip ’em to a tumble. Spats glanced up at Indigo, who was delighted to be such a prize & safe. Crunch kept his flat face straight: “Awright man, she in.” Indigo jumped offa Spats, jubilant. The real world was workin’ its way up. Crunch didn’t like that she was a girl, but whoever could scare a G.C., even the Jr. G.C.’s, had the right to be initiated or die. Plus, a somebody who was already a G.C. hadta put his honor on the line: to really save the person from all the rest, or do harm to the person in the face of all the other G.C.’s. Now it was also true there were only two members of the Jr. Geechee Capitans, Spats & Crunch. That’s ’cause they hadn’t met anybody could fight as well as they could. Till Indigo. Crunch really didn’t like that she was a girl. Spats liked that.

  Indigo had a moon in her mouth after all. With Spats & Crunch to run with, her workings, as she called them, were more down to earth. Indigo’s specialities were other worlds, fiddling. Spats concentrated on hands, deft, light knife throwing-get-a-watch-offa-wrist, agile hands. Crunch, himself, was moved by yearnings to tear-the-damn-place-down, your place, you, anybody he hadda hankering to. Awesome trio. The immediate problem was how to identify Indigo as a Jr. G.C. Spats almost slapped the devil out of Crunch when he said, “Man, that’s impossible. She a girl, how she gonna look like us?” Spats snarled, “Ain’t nothin’ impossible for a Geechee Cap-i-tan.” With that the two assembled Indigo’s uniform. ’Cause she wouldn’t look right in a inside-out sweatshirt or in cut-offs like theirs, they decided on a hat. Spats stole a Stetson, the smallest one he saw in Kerreson’s. They didn’t like the Colored to try the hats on anyway. Crunch beat up some yellow hincty boy who was playing ball on King Street & took a fine leather belt off him. Then they decorated it with switchblade handles & a strap for Indigo to carry her fiddle round. What Geechee Capitan would walk round without having both hands free? In her new get-up Indigo was a fierce-looking lil sister. She stuffed her braids up in her Stetson, dark brown & tilted over her left eye. Spats, Crunch, & Indigo, all agreed that she was now presentable. Nevertheless, Crunch felt something was missing.

  “Hey, Spats, I know what’s wrong! She ain’t gotta real name. Ya know, a name particular to us!” Indigo had always liked her name. There was nothing wrong with her name. She was particularly herself. She changed the nature of things. She colored & made richer what was blank & plain. The slaves who were ourselves knew all about indigo & Indigo herself. Besides there was great danger in callin’ someone out their name. Spirits get confused, bring you something meant for someone else. Folks get upset, move with wrath instead of grace, when callt by a name not blessed & known on earth. Indigo was not hot on this new name business. After some discussion, Crunch accepted a shortening of Indigo to “Digo.” Spats had learned enough to know that in another language, Spanish to be exact, “digo” had something to do with “to say” & to his mind, Digo was really sayin’ somethin’. If she chose to get on her fiddle, ya best mind what she say.

  The South in her.

  Coming down Chad Street or running thru the Yards, the Jr. G.C.’s served notice that the colored children were manifestations of the twentieth century. No mythology in the Old Slave Mart approached their realities. Nothing in the Calhoun House reminded them of themselves. Catfish Row was so old-fashioned, dusted pastel frame houses where hominy-grits, oysters, & okra steamed each evening. Crap games went on as usual in the tiny alleyways, edged by worn porches where grandmas made believe they didn’t have any idea all that was goin’ on. Yet they’d smile if somebody had a high streak of luck, sending yelps & bass guffaws over the roofs. Here Digo, Crunch, & Spats performed, mixing the skills of modern wayward children with the past-times of the more traditional colored iconoclasts.

  They especially liked to go round to Sneed’s. Now, Sneed’s was a bakery; fresh breads, muffins, cakes, & cookies every day. But the reasons the Jr. G.C.’s spent so much time there was that Sneed’s was connected to a winding complex of underground rooms where gambling, cockfights, and a twenty-four-hour social room entertained the most adventurous of Charleston’s colored subterraneans. Spats’ brother, Pretty Man, made sure that the transactions in the various gaming activities stayed calm. Whenever possible, Pretty Man believed that money should change hands in his favor, calmly, of course.

  Actually, the bakers in their high white hats & flour-covered aprons carried more than dough downstairs directly under the ovens. They took the daily numbers receipts down to The Caverns, as they were called, & came back up to the muffins & turnovers with a possible change of life-style for a confirmed pastry-gourmet. Indigo didn’t mind the numbers. She played a few from time to time. That meant new dress-up clothes, Eudoxa strings for the violin, a Sunday chapeau for Mama, and spending change for the spirits who still kept Indigo’s company late at night.

  NUMBERS FOR PROSPERITY & FURTHERED

  INDEPENDENCE OF THE RACE

  by Indigo

  164—if searching for hearth & home, more secure familial relations.

  626—if desirous of a journey to one’s true home, spiritual or physical, play once a week for a month.

  208—if in need of immediate assistance for ordinary amenities, play only on Monday.

  176—if seeking a larger dwelling for one’s family, this works, in conjunction with 164.

  508—if yearning for retreat & personal solitude, play on five consecutive Wednesdays.

  141—if conflicted by the stresses of racism, play twice a week for five years.

  999—to be freed from debilitating relations, fiscal or otherwise, daily.

  REALIZING SPIRITS’ HINTS/WHAT YOUR DREAMS

  CAN DO FOR YOU

  by Indigo

  If you see a gull flying over your house, there is a 7 in your combination. If the gull swoops downward, there is also a 2. If the gull flies toward the moon, there is a 9.

  If your Mother is burning something on the stove, and you cannot get up to warn her, play 1. If she is burning up something, and you are able to warn her, play 7. If what your Mother is cooking & burning is your favorite dish, that’s a 123, in combination.

  If there is a lover of yours kissing your best friend in your house, there are two 3’s in your number. If you are angry about this, your number is 353. If you find it amusing, your number is 333.

  If you keep falling down in your dream, there’s surely an 8 in your number. If where you are falling is never reached or is unknown, add a 1. If you fall somewhere, change that to 6.

  GENERAL NOTES

  Flowers—719/ A car—520/ Fires—882/ Beds—231/ The Christ Child—777/ The Crucifix—111/ Judas (someone you know or Iscariot)—001/ A deceased grandmother—803/ A deceased grandfather—902/ Mulberry bushes—756/ Maggots—395/ Guns—246.

  Pretty Man hired Spats & Crunch to clean up after the cockfights. To carry the screeching bleeding birds on outside & kill ’em, if need be, was Spats’ job. Taking the razors off their feet was Crunch’s. Indigo stayed away from the ring after the first time. She’d watched these men shouting out for their favorite to slay the other. All this money waving in their hands, collected by Pretty Man, who must have been a mathematical genius. He kept all the odds, paid out, collected what was due him, without taking his eyes off the match. Indigo felt a steely vengeance growing in her spirit. Grown men laughing at dying animals. She felt birds hovering above her e
yes. She moved the razors off the roosters. Put them in the palms of the onlookers. Let them cut each other to shreds, she thought. Let them know the havoc of pain. Spats & Crunch had suspicions ’bout Indigo’s powers, but couldn’t believe she’d gone & done something like this.

  The cocks stalked the ring quietly. The men round the ring leaped over one another, flailing their razored palms at throats, up & down backs, backsides, ankles. Such a conglomeration of foot-wear swung over the side of the ring: high-top sneakers, lizard loafers, wing-tips, galoshes, work boots. Indigo stood by the door watching this blood-letting. Silent. Pretty Man surveyed the situation. Put the evilest eye he could gather up on Indigo, who startled under the power of his gaze. That was all it took. The men slowly came back to themselves. Looked about, puzzled. Put their hats back on. Shook the sawdust from themselves. Wondered where all this blood in the stands came from. The wounds had closed, no scars. Indigo was not malevolent. Yet Pretty Man would not tolerate such shenanigans in his place.

  Without exchanging words, Pretty Man & Indigo came up with an arrangement. She was, after all, a Geechee Capitan, too. From that point on Indigo spent her time at Sneed’s in the “social room,” playing her fiddle. Since you could only buy liquor in bottles from sunup till sundown, coming over to Sneed’s social room for a glass of beer or a shot of whiskey just made common sense to high-livers in Charleston.

  Table service, some gambling, and that child on the fiddle were a gratifying combination after work for the family folks, and before work for the night labor force.

  Indigo didn’t change her style of playing. She still went after what she was feeling. But now she’d look at somebody. Say a brown-skinned man with a scar on his cheek, leathery hands, and a tiredness in his eyes. Then she’d bring her soul all up in his till she’d ferreted out the most lovely moment in that man’s life. & she played that. You could tell from looking that as Indigo let notes fly from the fiddle, that man’s scar wasn’t quite so ugly; his eyes filling with energy, a tenderness tapping from those fingers now, just music. The slaves who were ourselves aided Indigo’s mission, connecting soul & song, experience & unremembered rhythms. Pretty Man was relieved. Indigo’d found her a place. He could tell Uncle John there’d be no more wanton juvenile Circe in these parts. There was coming for sure a woman in charge of her powers. Training was what she was wanting.