“Uwohali,” my mother says, “did you hear what I just asked you?”

Ah, as it sometimes happens with me, my thoughts have made me drift away. What was it my mother asked? Oh yes, now I remember. She asked why I was so determined to go to see my father.

“My father can teach me how to work silver,” I say. “He can teach me to work iron at his forge. Everyone says that no one can draw or paint, or carve, or do blacksmithing as well as my father.”

My mother nods.

“That is true,” she agrees. “Sequoyah is a great artist. When we were first married he drew a picture of a redbird for me. It was so real I thought that it would spread its wings and fly up off the page. And as I have told you before, no one was a better blacksmith.”

Then she takes in a deep breath, as she always does when she has not yet made her point. “He could teach you. But will he? Does he do any of that these days? All he does is show people his strange markings and tell them stories that are . . .”

My mother pauses. She wipes her hands down her apron as if dusting off flour. I know what word she was about to say before she stopped herself. It is the word everyone uses to describe my father. Crazy.

I don’t reply. I stand up and take a few steps forward to look out at the river. This is a conversation we’ve had before. Seven times by my count—at least once every few days since Sequoyah’s return.

I hear my mother sigh again from behind me. Then I hear her feet coming down the steps and walking toward me. I turn to look at her.

She pushes that strand of long hair back from her face. She puts her left hand on my shoulder. She has to reach up to do that. Though I am only thirteen, I’m taller than she is.

“Uwohali,” she says, “my big eagle.”

My mother’s hands are strong from all the work she does. Chopping and carrying wood, repairing the fences that hold in Complainer, our mule, feeding the pigs, and milking the three cows. She even takes a hand in the plowing, which we will soon be doing when the days have grown a little longer and all the frost is out of the earth. Everyone says that she is stronger than most men. My uncles and I are always ready to help, but just as often as not she shoos us off and says that she wants to do it herself.

So when she squeezes my shoulder it hurts a little. But not quite as much as the pain I begin to feel in my heart. For I can sense that she is finally about to grant me permission to do what I want.