But my father just shook his head. “My friend Turtle, what I am doing is not foolish. What I am doing is for the people. And I shall go on doing it.”

The whispers about my father grew stronger. It was said that one group of men was planning to waylay Sequoyah with rifles and shoot him to death.

Finally, those who cared about Sequoyah decided that there was only one way to turn my father from his dangerous path. They made a plan to hide themselves in the woods near his cabin while Sally drew my father away.

“My husband,” Sally told him, “come with me. There is something you must see.”

When Sequoyah was far enough away, his concerned neighbors came out of the woods and went into the little building. They were shocked at what they saw. Those symbols that might be witchcraft were not just drawn on pieces of paper and chips of wood. They were scrawled on the walls, carved into the table and the chairs. Those brave enough to go into that cabin only stayed long enough in that frightening place to set it ablaze. Because it was filled with all those papers and dry chips of wood, it took almost no time at all before the roof collapsed as the flames roared up.

My father came back to the cabin almost as soon as it started to burn. Perhaps he had smelled the fire or seen the smoke rising. But he did not behave as Sally and the others had expected. He didn’t try to put out the fire or save anything. That’s what I would have done if everything I’d worked hard to make was destroyed. I might also have shouted in anger or wept in despair. But not my father. He just stood by, his face calm as he watched it burn. That was strange.

But even stranger is what they say he did when it had all burned to ashes. He stuck one finger into them and rubbed it on his palm, leaving a black streak. Then he stood up and . . . smiled.

“Hawa,” he said, “all right. Now I can have a fresh start.”

Now, even though she helped destroy my father’s work back then, my stepmother no longer seems worried about his markings. She can pick them up and move them. She can even joke about them.

Has she gone crazy, too? Should I leave this house before I am also made insane?

My father is saying something.

“Wado, Edoda. Thank you, Our Heavenly Father.”

In his warm, gentle voice, he is thanking the Creator for the gift of this food we are about to eat. It calms me, takes away some of my uncertainty.