INDIGO MOSS

The family Moss are an old Timey, bona-fidey bunch of God-fearing, Revenuer terrified young men and women folk. Oh Lord! sweet spirits o'cats-a-fightin', rukus juice fuelled foot-stompin', Mossers. amen.

The Family met one dewy morning in a small hillside forrest clearing. What brought them together in the most unlikely yet inevitable manner is nothing short of the trickster Esu himselfs doin'.

Trevor Moss was, and presumably still is, on the run from the law for bootleggin' the goddamn best Hillbilly Pop this county ever saw. His stump 'ole was entrapped by a couple of scaundral officers more than willin' to sample the white lightening, and then hangs him for the pleasure. He, by his slippery ways, escaped wearin' their rope as a trophy necklace into the night, headin' for the hills.

Hannah-Lou Moss is real proper. Always finely dressed, frilled, and fair of face, her Daddy had twenty six daughters, each one a belle I can tell ya, but none could ask the nightly price Han could. One night short of her sixteenth year, and her first 'visitor,' her Daddy woke by the sound of her wondow banging in the draft. Unlocking her door to find her gone forever.

Tappin' Bee Moss. A tragedy and a legend. Son of the shiny mine owners up county, orphaned just short of his first year by Mad Joe Madison and his '45. Legend says he survived on the fruits of the forrest, brought up by the spirit of Deaf Johnny Johnson, himself silenced by Madison's hand, to one day reap revenge, he communicates only by rhytmic tapping, although may have learnt language now amoungst the Family. His enduring soul was noticed only by the missing eggs and livestock of the village. However now the eggs remain.

Lil' Daisy Moss of the Great River. The Elizabeth I, named in her honour by her father and Paddle Steamer Pilot, used to gleam in the sunlight and glide passengers in luxury the whole length of the life giving water. A fault line in the steam boiler resulted in casastophic destruction of the Elizabeth I, and her father. Thrown into the fast running current she managed to cling to the severed painted name plank and was washed onto the bank some miles down stream, unconsicious, to wake one dewy morning, lucky to be alive but now homeless, peniless and alone.

The enigmatic Simon Moss's reluctant path to the hillside is littered with the broken hearts of our southern belles. Reluctant for he is not the family type. Some say he is the reincarnation of casanova himself, others henry the eighth, due to the mysterious dissappearance of many of his wives. His hypnotic, dark and deep wooing eyes, and rare softly spoken words, undermine their defences before they can say 'dang-nabit.' A regular saloon goer, and fond of his whisky, we still don't understand his sudden family orientation, and who'd have predicted his hauticultural nature, meeting the Family upon the hillside with dirty hands and a shovel.

So, from far and wide, by fortunate misfortune, the family was founded in that small clearing, amid the glistening trees and spongy indigo Moss. Who knows how, and who really cares why, it just was.