At each side of the gate was a house: one a small church, with a steep roof and pointed windows; the other a cabin with a fire blazing high in its wide chimney.
Big Sue yelled out at the top of her voice, “Do, Uncle! Please, suh! Go all de way wid us.”
But the old man pretended not to hear her, and said to Breeze, “Son, I knowed you’ grampa good, when e wa’n’t as high as you. You’ grampa was my own sister’s chillen.”
Then he got out of the cart, went into the cabin and came out bringing a big iron key. He unlocked the gate and opened it wide enough for them to pass through.
Big Sue shouted in a coaxing tone, “Do, Uncle, let Julia take us all de way. I so scared o’ de boggy place yonder in de middle o’ de avenue. If I was to git in em Gawd knows how deep I’d sink down.”
At the thought of such a dreadful thing Uncle joined in Big Sue’s gales of laughter, chattering in between his cackles. “Great Gawd, daughter! Sho! You right! I better go long wid you! Da bog can’ fool me. I know em too good. I’ll go long an’ show you de way.”
“You ought to try an’ git em drained befo’ de buckra comes home dis winter. Dat bog likened to swallowed up a big awtymobile las’ year.”
Breeze was sure Uncle Isaac heard her, but instead of answering, the old man gave a powerful grunt and said the weather would be casting up for rain soon. The misery in his crippled knee had been jumping up and down all day long.
Big Sue told Breeze “de buckra” were white people who owned the plantation. They didn’t stay here much, but they would come from up-North as soon as frost killed out the fever here and wild ducks got thick in the rice-fields.
The wabbly cart creaked slowly on. The weird loneliness and strangeness of the twilit avenue made Breeze feel very lonely and sorrowful. The mule’s feet were heavy and made unwilling logy steps as they slowly carried Breeze farther and farther from all the paths and places he’d ever known.