When a hunter remembers to do as I was taught by my uncle, then he will be successful. The game animals will take note of his proper behavior and agree to give themselves to him.

Then, with that first squirrel’s warm body inside the game bag slung over my shoulder, I had moved on to the next tree where I knew I would find another squirrel.

As long as I always take care to say thanks in the proper way whenever I take an animal, I will not have to worry about Awi Usdi. Awi Usdi is the Little White Deer who is the guardian of all the game animals. Whenever he comes—as he always does—to sniff at any blood drops left behind, he can tell that I have spoken the proper words, given thanks, and shown respect. He does not follow my trail to send me bad dreams and make my hands twisted with rheumatism so that I can no longer pull back a bow or hold a blowgun steady as I did when I shot each of those four fat squirrels.

The scent of that squirrel stew drifts out to me. It smells so very good. My mother’s cooking is the best in Willstown. And I am very hungry right now.

But even my hunger and the smell of my mother’s cooking does not stop me from thinking about my father and the hard words being spoken about him. I cannot go anywhere around people without hearing such gossip. Ever since he has returned from the West, it seems as if his curious markings are all that anyone can talk about.

With the tip of my stick I scrape a rough drawing in the dirt at the foot of the steps. A body, a head with a big beak, two feet, and then wings. Most people would see that shape as a big bird. But would they recognize it as an eagle or would they think it a buzzard?

My drawing is not good. I scrape my stick across it to erase it from the ground.

Is there really a way to make shapes that are better than just drawings of things. An animal, a bird, a plant. Can shapes be made that talk Tsalagi? Can our people really do as my father tells everyone he can now do? Or do writing and books really belong only to the language of the white men?

“Uwohali.”

I turn at the sound of my name.

My mother is looking down at me from the doorway, an unhappy look on her face.

CHAPTER 2

My Mother Is Worried

“Uwohali,” my mother says, “what is troubling you?”

A little breeze comes up from the river and blows a loose strand of the dark hair in her braid across her round face.

“You know,” I say.

“Ah.” My mother sighs.

My mother is worried about my interest in my father.