Talking leaves

Review by Booklist Review

A veteran storyteller pairs Sequoyah, whom he dubs a true genius, with a fictional son troubled by his father's abandonment and strange behavior. Thirteen-year-old Uwohali is slow to approach his estranged father, Sequoyah, who is absorbed in creating his unique syllabary. When Uwohali finally steels himself to make contact, he receives, in addition to a warm welcome, a life-changing understanding of what his father's invention might do to preserve their people's culture and identity against the inroads of the Aniyonega (whites). The book's restrained tone and deliberate pacing may make it a slog for less patient readers, but Bruchac livens the proceedings with inset folktales, low-key humor, and a heartrending reminiscence of the brutal Battle of Horseshoe Bend. Sequoyah's life and achievements get fuller treatment in Rumford's Sequoyah: The Cherokee Man Who Gave His People Writing (2004), but Bruchac's portrayal of a father and son mending fences adds a more universal element. He closes with a complete chart of the syllabary's symbols, a glossary, and notes on his sources.--Peters, John Copyright 2016 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

The Cherokee villagers of Willstown avoid Uwohali's father, Sequoyah-despite his artistry and storytelling skills-believing that his fascination with strange symbols indicates witchcraft. Although Sequoyah has been largely absent from his son's life, traveling and starting a new family with a second wife, Uwohali braves the villagers' ill will to visit his recently returned father and is rewarded with a devoted half sister and his father's new invention, a Cherokee syllabary. Frustrated by false promises and loss of land due to treaties broken by the government, Sequoyah seeks power and community through the syllabary, which allowed the Cherokee to create their own texts, or talking leaves. Based on historical events, Bruchac's (Killer of Enemies) lyrical novel is filled with myths and fables that serve as guides for Uwohali as he comes to understand the importance of his father's creation. Wrenching descriptions of the 1814 Battle of Horseshoe Bend help transform an ostensibly simple story into a profound cautionary tale of what can happen without a language of one's own. An afterword and reproduction of the syllabary are included. Ages 10-up. Agent: Barbara Kouts, Barbara Kouts Agency. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 4-7-Many of the people in 13-year-old Uwohali's Cherokee village are whispering about his father, Sequoyah. Sequoyah has just returned from a six-year stay in Arkansas, and he spends all his time writing strange symbols on paper and scratching marks in the dirt. People whisper that Sequoyah must be crazy, and they fear his strange marks are a form of witchcraft. These murmurings are difficult for Uwohali to hear, since what he wants more than anything is to forge a bond with his father. When he eventually works up enough courage to approach his father, Uwohali discovers the symbols actually represent 86 sounds in the Cherokee syllabary Sequoyah has created. Believing in the importance of the Cherokees having their own written language to hold on to history and stories, Sequoyah is on a mission to create a written language that does not rely on the white man's letters. When Uwohali finally understands the importance of his father's vision and the impact it will have on his community, he is eager to help. But convincing their friends and neighbors doesn't prove easy, and Uwohali must work hard to avoid danger to both himself and his family. Bruchac does a phenomenal job narrating, and his quiet, serious tone is a perfect match for Uwohali's introspective personality. Hearing the Cherokee words spoken aloud makes the narrative come alive. An afterword provides additional information about the real-life Sequoyah and the legacy of the alphabet he created. VERDICT This title helps readers understand how important language can be to preserving a people's culture, and it will be a valuable addition to historical fiction collections. ["This is a strong middle grade novel that offers a needed perspective on Cherokee history and the life of a key historical figure": SLJ 7/16 starred review of the Dial book.]-Anne Bozievich, Friendship Elementary School, Glen Rock, PA © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Horn Book Review

Told in a conversational voice, Bruchac's novel introduces Sequoyah through the first-person narration of Uwohali, his oldest son. In the nineteenth-century culture of the Tsalagi (Cherokee) nation, wives could ask their husbands to leave their houses and thus divorce them. That is precisely what Uwohali's mother did, and his father, Sequoyah, moved out, subsequently remarrying, fathering a daughter, and working on his now-famous Cherokee syllabary. But when Sequoyah returns to Uwohali's village, many of the inhabitants view both him and his strange syllabary as witchcraft. Thirteen-year-old Uwohali instead sees a father he would like to know, a father from whom he can learn. But he's uncertain about how this father will receive him. Does Sequoyah even know who he is? Has his new family, especially his half-sister Ahyokah, taken all of Sequoyah's love? Although the particulars of the novel occur two hundred years ago, the universality of fitting into a blended family and looking for love and acceptance from a once-absent father feel strikingly contemporary. Through limited direct address, Uwohali shares historical information naturally within the context of the story: i.e., stickball (modern-day lacrosse) "is not a game you play every day. You need larger teams to play it." And the incorporation of many Tsalagi legends adds a natural authenticity to this fine novel, which includes a historical note, two glossaries of words and names, Sequoyah's Cherokee Syllabary, and suggestions for further reading. betty carter (c) Copyright 2016. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A boy grapples with the return of his father, Sequoyah, and the creation of a Cherokee syllabary.Bruchac reimagines a pivotal moment in Tsalagi (Cherokee) history through the eyes of a boy on the cusp of manhood. Uwohali's father, Sequoyah, has returned from the West with a new wife and a daughter. Raised by his mother and uncles, Uwohali struggles between his longing to reconnect with his father and his loyalty to his mother's clan. Complicating matters are the rumors that Sequoyah practices black magic. Drawn by the desire to learn something useful from his father, Uwohali reacquaints himself with Sequoyah. His father wishes to save Tsalagi tradition by creating a syllabary similar to the whites' "talking leaves." Soon Uwohali burns with the same desire as his father. He and his family must work together to convince the Tsalagi to adopt Sequoyah's syllabary in order to preserve their culture and identity. Bruchac gives readers a vivid look into the life of a Cherokee boy in 1821. His extensive research is evidenced by details such as Tsalagi women's prominent social status and a survivor's retelling of the Battle of Horseshoe Bend. Themes of preserving identity and culture through both spoken and written language will appeal to readers of all ages.A vivid retelling of a pivotal time for the Cherokee nation. (cast of characters, afterword, printed syllabary, glossary, further reading) (Historical fiction. 9-12) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Chapter 1 My Father Is Crazy Crazy. That is the best thing they whisper about my father. Black magic. Witchcraft. What he is doing or trying to do is evil medicine. That's the worst. Since he returned from the West three weeks ago I have heard nothing but bad things said about him. Is it just those bad words that have kept me from going to see him? Am I afraid that when I do see him--if I see him--I will think he is crazy, too? I am also uncertain how he will treat me if I show up at his door. Maybe he will not be glad to see me. Maybe he will tell me to go away. He has another child now, my half sister, Ahyokah. My father spends much of his time with her. She's his favorite, not me. I think he loved me once. I remember the stories he used to tell me in his gentle voice. But if he really cared about me, why did he leave me and go to Arkansas? Why have I never heard anything from him during the years he was gone from our town? Others of our people who emigrated to those western places have sent messages by way of the traders and missionaries who are always moving back and forth between our people. Some, who have learned English, have even sent written letters. But not my father, Sequoyah. No word, either written or spoken, has ever come to me from him. Maybe he has even forgotten that he ever had a son. Still, despite all my uncertainty, I have almost gone to where he is living at the home of his second wife. Last week I walked halfway across town toward their cabin before I turned back and returned to my mother's cabin. How long will my father be able to stay here? Some say that if it was not for the fact that Agili, who is now the chief of our town, was my father's cousin and oldest friend, he would have been forced to leave--or worse. I worry I will not get the chance to see him before he is driven away. I tap the chunkey stick I am holding against the ground. The ground sounds hollow as I do so, almost like a drum. It still holds the cold of winter inside it, even though it will not be long until the leaves return. I don't mind the cold. I know the song to keep frostbite away before going out to hunt for food when it is cold. It's the song that calls on the deer, whose feet cannot be hurt by frost or snow, to share that power with the hunter. I start to sing it to the rhythm of my stick striking the ground. Tusunkawiye. Tusunkawiye, Tsunkawiye, Tsunkawiye Sauh! Sauh! Sauh! Sauh! My uncle Red Bird taught me that song, which must be sung four times, imitating that snort of the deer-- Sauh!-- after each verse. No boy's uncle could have been a better teacher. He also taught me to rub my feet in the ashes of the fire before singing it and then setting out. But no one has ever taught me a song that will keep away the memory of harsh and unkind words. Perhaps Uncle Red Bird, my mother's smiling older brother, knew such a song, but if he did I will never hear him sing it. Almost a year has passed since he caught the coughing sickness and made the last walk to the Night Land. I do not have the words to express how much I miss him. Remembering him just brings back the pain I felt when his spirit passed from us. I need to turn my thoughts elsewhere. Sitting here on the steps of my mother's cabin, I can hear her moving around inside. She is making more noise than she usually does when she is cooking, banging the rough wooden spoon I carved for her against the iron pot. She is making squirrel stew. That's no surprise to me. I am the one who sat patiently under the oak trees as Great Sun walked slowly up into the morning sky, casting her light down on me through the leafless branches. As always, I had taken six long blowgun darts with me and one short one. I had already fired that first short dart at random, sending it off into the woods as an offering and for good luck. I held my long blowgun steady, pointing it up where I knew the squirrel would appear. Only my lips moved as I imitated its call, knowing its curiosity would be too much for it. Soon I heard the scrabbling of the first squirrel's claws against the bark high above me. I drew in a deep breath and then--as soon as it leaned out from the trunk to peer down at me-- whooot ! My aim was true and the first squirrel landed at my feet, its heart pierced by my dart. "Saloli," I said, placing a little tobacco next to it as my uncle taught me to do. "Wado." I picked up the leaves which had been marked by the squirrel's blood when it fell and placed them at the base of the tree where I could easily find them. When my hunting was done, I would make a fire and take all of those leaves and burn them. In that way I would both remove the traces of my hunting and make an offering of thanks to the ancient fire. 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. Excerpted from Talking Leaves by Joseph Bruchac All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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