It makes my head hurt to think about that. There is so much pressure being put on those of us who remain here along the Little Tennessee. So little of the land that cared for us is left. What the white men now call their states of Kentucky and Tennessee, North Carolina and Georgia was once the motherland that gave us life. But every few years more has been taken as the white men have convinced—or forced—our leaders to sign their names to the papers that tear us from our land. That is why the council has agreed that from here on in any Tsalagi who signs away land without the agreement of our whole nation will be sentenced to death.

But will that stop people from doing that, from accepting gifts or believing deceitful words? And will it just all end up with not only our land gone, but also our people fighting and killing one another?

Better not to dwell on that. I need to turn my mind to what I can do. Think about making things—even if I am not doing so well at that right now.

I look at the other pieces of pine next to me—the other awful attempts at carvings I’ve made this afternoon. The sun has moved the width of three hands across the sky while I’ve been trying to carve and all I have for my efforts are these hacked pieces of pine. Oh, and I also have this cut across my left palm where the knife slipped. It is not that deep. It stopped bleeding as soon as I picked a plantain leaf, stuck it over the cut, and squeezed it in my hand for a while. But it is a reminder of how inept I am at everything I try to do.

It was generous of my father to let me use his knife. But, then again, he is not using it. He is not doing anything other than drawing those strange shapes. Those shapes that keep coming back to my mind.

Why do nothing but troubling thoughts keep swarming around my head like gnats? I take a stick and start to draw those signs in the clay.

No! Stop that! I toss the stick aside.

I turn my attention back to my awkward carving of a fish. It’s still stuck in that eddy, circling around. What is that English word I heard the missionary say a few days ago?

“Uncertain.” That’s it. That’s what my carving is. That’s what I am, too. I am uncertain now about whether or not I will ever learn anything from my father.

I reach out and push my uncertain fish into the main current. It shoots downstream. But it is still not looking like a fish. More like an overturned canoe belonging to one of the Little People.