“See, you thought that I was gonna just go on & do what Mama said & never play witya no more or go explore & make believe. See, see, ya didn’t have no faith. What’s that Sister Mary Louise is all the time sayin’?”

“Oh ye of lil faith . . .” Miranda rejoined.

Uncle John didn’t come out of his wagon first. A fiddle did. Uncle John was holding it, of course, but he poked the fiddle out, then one leg, his backside, and the other leg, his precious greying head, and the last arm with a bow in his grasp. Indigo & Miranda were suspicious.

“What we need a violin for?” Miranda sniggled.

“Hush, Miranda, Uncle John knows what he’s doin’. Just wait a minute, will ya?”

Uncle John sure nuf had intentions to give this fiddle to Indigo. His face was beaming, arms wide open, with the fiddle & bow tracing the horizons, moving toward Indigo who was smiling with no reason why.

“Indigo, this heah is yo’ new talkin’ friend.”

“A fiddle, Uncle John?” Indigo tried to hide her disappointment, but Miranda hit her in her stomach. “Uh, that’s not what I need, Uncle John.” She sat back on the stool like she’d lost her backbone. Uncle John was a bit taken back, but not swayed.

“Listen now, girl. I’ma tell ya some matters of the reality of the unreal. In times blacker than these,” Uncle John waved the violin & the bow toward the deepening night, “when them slaves was ourselves & we couldn’t talk free, or walk free, who ya think be doin’ our talkin’ for us?”

“White folks, of course,” snapped Indigo.

Uncle John’s face drew up on his bones like a small furious fire. His back shot up from his legs like a mahogany log.