He chewed on sugar cane and spoke in a low, serious voice. “A long time ago I built this house for people to stay in. I hauled lumber and erected strong beams. I built a solid roof and laid good floors. I built it for all the travelers to stay here. I devoted my life to this house. After my wife followed the road lined with cherry blossoms, I’ve kept my writings with me all the time, so people can read our stories while they stay here. You can stay here, but you should leave. Your heart is in the right place, beloved.”

He brought his pipe, and we shared a smoke while I told him about my family. Oddly, the smoke wasn’t making me cough, and when I told him this, he merely smiled. I told him about Ray-Ray dying. I told him about Rae leaving me. And I told him about my dad’s forgetfulness in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. All this flowed out of me with the smoke, and Tsala listened quietly and with full attention. As he listened, I noticed one of his eyes was blue and the other gray.

“Keep talking,” he said, bringing the pipe to his lips.

“I feel guilty for not going home,” I told him. “My family is having a bonfire. I haven’t seen them since they tried to help me with my drug problem.”

He leaned in close and looked at me. “Drug problem?”

“Drug problem.” It felt awkward to say, but maybe I had not been able to admit there was a problem. My denial overwhelmed me with guilt. “My family came to Albuquerque to confront me about it, but I wouldn’t listen.”

He stared at me intensely. He was a good listener, I realized, and soon I found there were tears in my eyes.

“I feel terrible about it,” I said.

He got up and left the room for a few minutes. When he returned, he set a handful of stones on the table in front of me. He took a pencil and drew a triangle and placed stones within it. “These are the stones that represent the wisdom fire within you,” he said. “Look for the fire.”

I leaned in and studied the triangle and a stone within it. “This stone is a rose quartz,” Tsala said. “It’s for overcoming grief. I want you to take it and keep it with you. Go ahead, take it.”

I reached in and took the stone. I looked at it in my hand. It was rose-colored and smooth.

“Remember your ancestors,” he told me. “Remember they were removed from their homes, and then they had no homes. They walked the Trail, walked and crawled and died. They suffered. But you already know this. Come with me, I want to show you something.”

I followed him outside, and that was when I saw the red fowl strutting around the yard. “The fowl,” I called out, and stopped walking. I realized I hadn’t seen the fowl in some time—I had almost forgotten about it. The fowl saw us, and Tsala moved toward it. He reached down to pick it up. I saw the fowl trying to peck him, its wings fluttering like crazy. Tsala held it with both hands, wrestled it until it stopped moving and went limp. The fowl was dead. Then he took it over by his garden, where an ax was on the ground. He dropped the bird and lifted the ax, bringing it down hard, cutting the fowl’s head off. I could barely watch.

When I approached him, he showed me the bloody carcass. “For you,” he said. “This fowl is now dead. Do you understand?”

“What now?” I asked.

“We bury it.”

He set the carcass down and went inside his garage to get a shovel. I found myself staring at the dead fowl. I saw the severed head with its dark eye, staring at me. I saw the carcass lying dead in blood and soil. No matter how hard I tried, I could not stop looking. A moment later Tsala returned with a shovel and dug a small hole in the ground right where we stood. He used the shovel to toss the carcass and head into the ground. I crossed my arms and watched the whole thing. Each shovelful of dirt made a hard sound as it hit the carcass, and after a moment Tsala had buried it completely.

I was exhausted, but felt like a great burden had lifted from me. I looked at the cherry trees around me and felt somehow connected to each one. I wondered how many people Tsala had helped before me—maybe as many people as there were trees. Tsala then led me to the trail with the cherry blossoms. We heard voices approaching and, turning around, saw a group of men walking down the road toward Tsala’s house. They were wearing masks and headsets, talking loudly. In their hands they carried sticks, long clubs that looked like broom handles. They saw us and stopped walking.

Tsala shouted at them to leave. “Go!” he yelled. “Go away from here, cowards! Leave us alone!”

He made a shooting gesture with his hands for them to hurry away, and, miraculously, they did. I had been bracing myself for a fight, and I stood there stunned for a moment, shocked that they had obeyed Tsala.

“Go follow the trail lined with cherry blossoms,” he told me. “It is not a trail of tears, son. It is a trail leading westward, without sadness or sickness or death. It is a trail to your home.”

He shook my hand, and I told him goodbye. As I started to walk, I turned back to him and asked, “What are your writings? I never asked.”

He called out, “I’m writing the Cherokee stories, beloved. The stories about vengeance and forgiveness.”

I watched his body crumple, and he turned into a phoenix. He spread his wings and flew into the gray sky.

THEN I LEFT THE DARKENING LAND. I followed the trail lined with cherry blossoms, looking ahead to the distance, listening to the sounds of owls and frogs around me. I walked down this trail and wasn’t afraid. I knew I was walking west because I could see in the distance the setting sun. The sky was pink and yellow, and cherry blossoms spilled onto the trail ahead. Feathers were soon falling all around me, flooding the trail, as white as a fresh winter snow. The winding trail was beautiful. I saw my ancestors ahead, but they were not crawling and wailing, they were standing. Their bodies filled the distance. I walked to them and did not grow tired. The trail before me was blazing with light.