Metacomet: The Faceless Man

[aneaglesangel]

The Puritans painted a picture of the infamous King Philip that was not one I can imagine. I see a different man when I picture the face of Metacomet, for I refuse to know him by the title given him by the English and meant to ridicule him. When I picture the faceless man, Metacomet, I see a grandfather, brother, ancestor, one who's eyes burned with hope and sorrow for his people. I see the Wolf Hunter in all his glory at the peak of his age, proud, tall. Warrior. Sachem. King? Yes, but not as the English saw it. In my heart I wonder if Metacom knew he could never lead his people into freedom, but even knowing this, he believed he had to try anyway.

History can not give you the true face of Metacomet. It has been lost in the prejudices of the past. The books I read on the history of King Philip's War describe him as a naked, dirty savage. I see him as something more. I imagine a small village. Smoke rises and fish dries on lines, people move about dressed in deer leather. Tall and proud. Women moving just as easily as the men, for they had power, too. The three sisters, corn, squash and beans grow in neat gardens. But when night falls, the village lives in fear. For in the darkness, flashing eyes and teeth stalk the shadows looking for scraps. Wolves have gotten desperate this year. If not for the stores of food, the Wampanoags would have known great hunger and despair themselves. The people live in fear that the wolves will grow more brave. A sullen silence settles in over their nights as they wait in fear.

A brave warrior hears of their plight. He travels and finds the village and is offered food and drink, lodging for the night. The warrior accepts the food but tells the villagers that he will be moving on before the night has fallen. The elders, who recognize the man, try to speak against his plans, they tell him of the wolves who stalk the darkness, who visit the village in the night. Smiling, the warrior strokes his bow and tells them he'll be careful. After he has eaten his fill, made his manners to the elders of this tribe, he moves down the path, taking note of the signs of movements that go on throughtout the forest. Wolf tracks are easy to spy along the soft soil of the path. Everything is soft after the spring melt. He follows and disappears in the trees.

Following the wolves' tracks he devises a plan and settles in. Taking his arrows, he lays them down neatly, running his fingers gently over the feathers and sending a prayer to Great Spirit that their flights be true. Four times tonight in the darkness, his aim must be his best, or he'd pay with his life he knew. The almost full Worm Moon rose above him, turning the woods to silver as he spied movement not far off. He waited. Tonight if he was patient maybe he would survive.

Quietly, he nocked an arrow and took aim. The wolves were in a position finally that would lend his speed with his bow a grouping to shoot for. Taking a breath, he remembered that a warrior must aim with his heart to make a kill, for what else does a man kill with, if not his heart? He loosed the arrow, in a smooth motion, too quick almost to see, he had another arrow nocked and loosed. He followed suit twice more. In the moonlight, the bodies of three gray wolves lay still. The fourth whined and tried to drag itself away. The warrior stood, unsheathing his knife.

Hearing the cries of the wounded wolf, people ran from their weetu and stood watching as the warrior bent to grasp the wolf's head and slice its throat and so end its suffering. Gathering around, they gazed with awe at the pile of bodies at the warrior's feet. Smiling, the men gathered around, slapping him heartily on the back, "Yoaw ontoquas neemat!" (Four wolves my brother! or as close as I can come.) Others called out, naming him, "Metacomet," the "Wolf Hunter."

He could only smile and feel pride for the moment, for in his eyes there was sadness. There was a storm coming, he could feel it in his heart. Wolves would not be the last lives he was to take, he knew this. He had not even known what had driven him here to this village where rumors of wolf attacks had filtered. One night he had walked in the dream world and seen himself standing over the bodies of wolves, but then they had turned into the bodies of his people, women and children. He knew it was an important vision and that the wolves had been let loose upon his people. Where was he to turn? Was killing the wolves really the answer? At the expense of his people? As Metacomet set his feet upon the path toward his home, his step was light. There had to be hope. There had to be a way to make peace. There was always a way. And so Metacomet set his feet upon the path that led him into history......


I made this story up. It is a side of Metacomet that no one has ever seen. A picture I'd like to paint. All of the stories I've read never paint him in a positve light. He's always a savage. I could never see him that way. I believe it took a lot to make this man decide to lead his people into war against the settlers. I like to think he was forced into it. No one will ever know the face of Metacomet, there are no existing pictures of him. If there are, they were drawn by the settlers and depict a half naked savage. Not a proud and determined man who probably would have rather taken peace over the slaughter of his people. I see a man who tried to stand up for what his people believed in, while maintaining that peace and way of life they'd known for so long, before the English set foot upon his lands. When I see the face of Metacomet, I see a tall and handsome man, a brave man. A warrior. A brother. An Elder. Sachem. King.

I hope by making up my story of how Metacomet got his name makes you see that face, too!

[aneaglesangel]

Metacom was glad the meetings were over. There were times when being the Sachem's son could be tiresome. He stretched his arms and rotated his shoulders. Following the small river upstream, he hoped he could find some game to shoot and end his boredom. In the darkness alone with the wolves he had felt more of a man than in the councils, sitting and talking endlessly. He wanted peace as much as his elders did. He wondered if the greedy English could ever have enough of their land. If the tribes were forced from their lands, could there be peace? Splashing and movement up ahead caught his attention and thoughts of the tiresome council left his head as he moved with stealth up the river.

He stopped short in a screen of bushes, his breath caught in his throat. It was no game animal he saw up ahead. It was not rutting or grunting that met his ears. Her voice came to him sweetly on the wind that blew in the salty breath of the sea:


Keihtanit
Taubot neanawayean yeu kesukuk
Taubot neanawayean ohke
Taubot neanawayean okummus nepauzshadd
Taubot neanawayean wutt∞tchìkkìnneasin nippawus
Taubot neanawayean newutche yau ut nashik ohke:
wompanniyeu
sowanniyeu
pahtatunniyeu
nannummiyeu
Taubot neanawayean newutche wame neetompaog:
neg pamunenutcheg
neg pamompakecheg
puppinashimwog
mehtugquash kah moskehtuash
namohsog
Quttianumoonk weechinnineummoncheg:
ahtuk
mosq
mukquoshim
tunnuppasog
sasasō
Keihtanit
Taubot neanawayean yeu kesukuk

(Great Spirit
I thank you today
I thank you for Mother Earth
I thank you for Grandmother Moon
I thank you for Grandfather Sun
I thank you for the four directions:
the east
the south
the west
the north
I thank you for all my relations:
the winged nation
creeping and crawling nation
the four-legged nation
the green and growing nation
and all things living in the water
Honoring the clans:
the deer
the bear
the wolf
the turtle
the snipe
Great Spirit
I thank you today)

Metacom could only stand there, staring at her. The morning rays of sunlight shone down on this Daughter of the Morning Light, her wet hair shining like a raven's wing. Freshly washed, she wore only a loincloth and a spare top. Her clothing hung over the bushes, her jewelry sparkling with the finest Wampum the ocean waves could offer. Her voice seemed to meld with the sounds of nature, the waves, the wind and it wound a spell around him. He was caught in it as the fly caught in the shiny dew spun spider web. Busily her hands did their washing as her voice rose to the final note and held. Her sparkling eyes, filled with mischief and wonder, rose, as if feeling his presence, and met his.

His heart pounding so hard, he was sure she must hear it, he stepped from behind the bushes. "Wootonekanuske, I apologize for sneaking up on you like this, but your song caught me in its spell and I was powerless to stop myself from following it to the source." Her laughter rang out as if all the songbirds in the forest had deemed to sing. She turned to look him full in the face, her dark eyes, so deep and flashing. Her hair lying dark and shining over one breast. Looking for all her youth like a beautiful woman in the peak of her fullness. Her secret of sensuality only now unleashed for him. Of their own accord, he could feel his feet moving toward her, his hands reaching for her body.

Wootonekanuske could feel her heart pounding as she looked up at the young warrior. She had never felt such feelings before. He was so tall and proud, and she knew who he was. The Wolf Hunter, the Sachem's son. But he was more than that. In the times she had met him, she had read his eyes. She saw the sorrow and the hope that filled them, and more. As he gazed upon her, there in the sunlight, with the cool waters of the stream yearning to meet the sea spilling over her feet, his eyes dialated, and she felt a yearning to meet him in the way a woman meets a man. It filled her and took her over. She felt her feet pulling her toward this man. She felt her lips whisper his name, "Metacom."

Just then the lone call of the wompsikuk (eagle) sounded from overhead. The spell broken, the two young people looked up. Riding the thermals the great white tail (bald eagle) soared, looking for prey. Recalling themselves, and their positions in their tribes the two looked at each other once again. Metacom, knowing he had to have this beautiful ussqua (little woman) turned to her. Smiling he came closer. Taking her hand gently, he said to her, "I will speak to your father, beautiful song bird." Plucking the white eagle tail feather from his headdress he left it in her palm. With a smile, he turned quickly and ran off toward her village, Pocasset.

Wootonekanuske stood in the gentle current of the river for a moment more, trying to get her emotions back under control. Smiling every time she thought of the Wolf Hunter, she gathered up her belongings as the eagle cried overhead.

Later, Metacomet and Wootonekanuske were married. My idea of their first meeting is fictional. I wonder if the story of how they really met for the first time is told in the histories. Even if it is, I think I'll always think of them my way. Her singing and him being brought under her spell, the eagle soaring overhead offering his blessing to their union.....

[aneaglesangel]

"Oh father, how will I ever keep the peace?" Metacom sat in silence in front of Profile Rock, his heart filled with sadness. He had come here following his brother Wamsutta's death to find solace in the stone face that so resembled his father. "Did they poison him as some say, or was it the white man's disease that took him?" In his heart Metacom knew that he may never know the answer to that question. What he did know was that he had watched as his people were humiliated by the white man's rules, watched as they grew sick and died, watched as peace became harder and harder to hold onto. Now that his brother was gone, it was left to him to lead the tribes to peace. How could they ever find peace when the white man seemed to come in numbers that rivaled the stars, the ants that crawled upon the ground? Their thirst for resources and greed for land seemed never ending to Metacom.

The sight of Wamsutta being carried into their village on the warriors' shoulders was one Metacom knew he would never forget. The hands that wrestled with him, the hands that held him when Metacom's first child was born, those same hands that had tried so hard to work for peace, hanging limp and lifeless at the ends of his stretching arms. Wamsutta had been more than a brother to him, he had been a confidante, a friend. Metacom felt tears rolling down his cheeks as he recalled the last time he gazed upon his brother's body. "Oh my brother, may you walk in peace in the arms of Keihtanit forever. You will be greatly missed." Metacom stood and began to climb the rock.

Once on top, he circled, scanning the lands that stretched out before him on all sides. Before the white man had come here, these lands where the Wampanoag's lands. They were peaceful and blessed by the rays of the morning sun. Now the lands were stained with the blood of his people. Was there a way to cleanse these lands and save his people? "Father I can not see the way to peace, I only see blood and death. Please help me to find my path."

Metacom remembered all the times his father had spoken to him. He was a wise man. Massasoit had commanded respect, not by being a hard man who ordered people around, but by being the heart and the life of the tribes. By being kind and wise, by listening to his people when they spoke. Finally, Metacom had an idea. Words were wisdom, words were power. Metacom would call a council. He would bring together advisors who would speak truth, who would fight for peace if it came to that. Together, his people would find a way to work things out with the white man. It would take many wise and powerful people to help to work toward this goal, but he had faith it could be done.

Climbing back down, as graceful as a mountain goat and just as quick, Metacom knelt before the image of his father's face engraved in the stone for all time. "Thank you my father, I hear your words, and I thank you for your guidance. May Keihtanit always smile upon your soul, my father." Standing, he laid his hand upon the stone and closed his eyes. He hoped that in finding peace, he would not lose many more of those people that he loved, that he held so dear in his heart.

Starting out at a fast jog, Metacom set his feet on the trail that led him home to his tribe. In his heart there was hope. For his father's wisdom that he had found in the woods of what the white man called "Freetown" rang in his heart. There was a way, he knew there had to be. And believing that with all his heart, he ran home to begin setting his council to find a way to win a peace that would last for all time.........

[aneaglesangel]

When the Pilgrims landed in 1620 Metacomet's father, Massasoit was the Sachem of approximately 31 tribes. The Pilgrims had a rough voyage and the New World was a wild place. They had little food left and did not know how to gather food to make it through that first winter. The first Thanksgiving tells a story of a feast in which the Wampanoags and Pilgrims celebrated a bounty that the Pilgrims wouldn't have had if not for the Wampanoags. They would have starved to death, but the Wampanoags shared their stores of the three sisters, corn, beans and squash with them. They taught them to hunt the turkeys that were prolific in this area, and so the first Thanksgiving wasn't just a feast of friendship, it really was a giving of thanks. To the Wampanoags, for they never would have made it through the first winter without them. The Pilgrms came here seeking religious freedom and almost met with death. If not for the Wampanoags, I don't think the Pilgrims would have lasted that first year. How different would things be in this country if the Wampanoags had refused to help their fellow man. Later, they were called dirty, naked savages, but without them the very people who called them this, would have been dust in the wind. I think the Wampanoags proved to be better "Christians" than the Puritan Pilgrims themselves, who later murdered the very people who saved their lives.

Now think about this. Massasoit died in 1661 and left his son Wamsutta, who the English named Alexander, as Sachem. By 1662, Wamsutta was dead, either by poisoning, as many of the Wampanoags believed, or by contracting influenza which the English had brought with them and the Wampanoags had never been exposed to. So by 1662, Metacomet was left to lead the tribes as Sachem. If he was such a bloodthirsty naked savage, then why did it take THIRTEEN YEARS for him to finally call war on the English? The actual war did not start until 1675 and in that time, Metacomet tried desperately to keep peace between his people and the English. During this time the peace became harder and harder to hold onto. More and more rules were being laid upon the tribes. The white man hungered for land, and its sale was forced upon the Wampanoags. They were humiliated and forced to do the bidding of white man. The struggle within Metacomet must have been great. Imagine watching your people humiliated, forced to sell their land, told that they must worship a God that wasn't theirs, all by people who should have been grateful to the people who had saved them from starvation. But a kindness given is one easily forgotten?

Within a year the war was over. It lasted from 1675-76 and was filled with horrendous acts by both sides. Women and children were killed. Villages were burned to the ground. It all started when finally, Metacomet saw that there would be no peace. That the white man thought he ruled over the Wampanoags and had the right to do as they pleased with them. After the murder of a "praying Indian" named John Sassamon, the English used this as an excuse to execute Metacomet's three advisors. After the execution the English called Metacomet to come to a counsel, which he did accompanied by 40 warriors. His words ring in my ears as I type them. Metacomet spoke plainly, "My elder brother became Sachem, he was seized and confined and thereby thrown into illness and died. Soon after I became Sachem they disarmed all my people, their land was taken. But a small part of the dominion of my ancestors remains. I am determined not to live until I have no country."

On June 24, 1675, the Wampanoags attacked Swansea and went on to destroy half of the 90 settlements. Whole indian villages were massacred and the tribes completely decimated. By the end of the war, most of Metacomet's relatives had been killed, his wife and son captured and sold into slavery. It is said his daughter, "Lucy" escaped to Canada by canoe. While the English forces were being powered by England and being sent food and supplies, the Wampanoags were short on weapons and food. It was only a matter of time before the end came for the Wampanoags. I still can't help but think that the Mohawks made a mistake when they refused an alliance with Metacomet. It was only a matter of time before it would be their time to be pushed into war with the White Man. I can't help but wonder how things would have turned out if the Indians had stood together to push the White Man back. Maybe this would not be the United States of America, maybe it would be the United Lands of the Tribes.

For me it seems ironic how Metacomet met his end. For it was an Indian, one of his own tribe, a man named Alderman who betrayed and shot him in the back. If I had a time machine, not only would I like to meet Metacomet himself, but I'd like to ask Alderman, if it was worth it. Did he really think that the White Man would treat him fairly, as one of them? They would never allow him the same standing as they themselves enjoyed. He would always be looked down upon and his freedom depended upon his cooperation with the White Man's laws. Was it really worth it to betray your own kind? For people who had no empathy for the very people who saved them here on this continent? I wonder what his answer would be.

I see Metacomet as a spirit now. For what else could he be after the end he met up with? After he was shot by his own kind, the English took his body, it was drawn and quartered and his head was mounted on a pike outside Fort Plymouth for 20 years. Later Anawan's head joined his, so at least it wasn't alone. But I have to point this out. The English called the Wampanoags savages, yet not many know what being drawn and quartered is. Let me explain, in detail for you. When a body is drawn and quartered, it is cut (or torn) into four pieces. The pieces are then taken and dragged to the four corners of the compass. Barbaric? Savage? I think so. For me, they desecrated the body of one of the greatest men in Wampanoag history. The man who stood for peace and held it, even at great cost, for thirteen years before calling war on people who called them the savages. Those same people who reverted to savagery and medeival methods when dealing with their enemies. Metacomet may be responsible for killing many, some women and children died at his hands, whole villages burned to the ground. Yet, didn't the English do the same to his people? Who was the savage here? For me, it will always be the white man, who pushed these people into this war. The white man who thought themselves better than the People of the Morning Light. For that is what the word Wampanoag means. They had their own god, and he was a merciful god, that allowed his people to save the first white men to appear in Wampanoag lands from starvation.

So do I think Metacomet's spirit still wanders the lands of his people? Yes, I do believe that. I can see that spirit welcoming the morning sun, standing by waiting for his ancestors to need his guidance. Does he forgive the atrocities done to his people? I can even believe that. For once upon a time atop the rock called Anawan Rock, where the bedraggled last remnants of the tribe made their last stand and were captured I heard the voice of a Wampanoag call me and Gabby "keetompoag" or friend, kinsman and I knew that the heart of these people was still open and still pounded to a native beat. I heard the call of drums out there and it fills my heart with joy. Maybe they've forgiven us, or maybe they know what's in my heart. I'll never know the full truth. But I do know this, the Wampanoag spirit lives on, not only in the forgotten places they used to roam free. It lives on in their people who still live, who bring the traditions and language to life, and it lives in my heart too. For now I feel as if a part of them will always be with me. It will always live on in my heart. I will never forget them or their fight for freedom. Or how we almost extinguished this light.

And I have to ask. If aliens came tomorrow and did the same acts to us that the English did to the Wampanoags, would we stand as true? Would we be as brave and courageous as once Metacomet did? For really if you look at it, it's the same thing. People who were more advanced and had better weapons and funding came and almost drove a people to extinction. I can only hope that we would stand as true as these people did. For to me, the People of the Morning Light stood true and fought for their homes and what they believed in. For me, it will always be our mistake how we handled this. Greed and prejudice won this country away from the native peoples who once populated it, like standing fields of corn. I can only hope that those aliens are a bit more advanced than we can ever claim to be. So I call out, long live the Wampanoags, and hope that they hear my call.......