I have heard before many of the things my father just said. But hearing all of that history from his mouth has been different. He is not just telling the story, but leading up to something more. His words thus far have been like fitting the ground to plant. Like clearing away the stones and weeds from the earth before putting in the seeds.

“I remember,” Sequoyah says, his voice slower, “the first time I saw white men use their talking leaves. I was out hunting with my cousin, Agili, the one who is now chief of your town.”

My father looks off into the distance as if seeing someone there. “If it was not for his being my cousin,” he says, “I am not sure I would be safe here. The fact that he is now chief is one of the reasons I came back this time.” He pauses and places a hand on my shoulder. “And now I see that you are another of the reasons. Because of my work, I have neglected being your father. I hope to do better from now on.”

I feel a warm glow inside me when he speaks those words. “Aho,” I say in a soft voice as he squeezes my shoulder.

“Agili,” my father says, lifting his hand from my shoulder and gesturing toward the sunrise direction where our chief’s cabin is located on the other side of Willstown. “Agili, my cousin, my clan member, and my friend. He could already speak some English back then. That day as we were hunting, we came upon a campfire and a group of friendly white hunters. Agili introduced himself to them, speaking their language.

“‘Hello, friend,’ he said. ‘I am George Lowrey and this is my cousin George Guess,’ he said, using our white man names. That made them even more friendly.

“As we sat and talked with them, one of them, his name was Dee-kee, took out a small square object from his pack. It looked like a little box, but when he opened it up we realized that it was not a box at all. It was many sheets of flat white leaves sewn together. And on every leaf there were strange little markings.

“Dee-kee put his finger on one of those leaves and began to speak.

“‘Those talking leaves are telling him a story,’ Agili whispered to me. ‘When white men want to remember something, they make those little marks on those white leaves. Then when they look at those marks, the leaves talk the exact words back to them.’