Metacomet’s long straight hair was deep black and draped over his shoulders. His face was rugged, but not aged. Now he was 31 and quite handsome in the way of a Wampanoag; a rugged man of the elements, whose complexion exuded an aura of grand wildness. He was at his apex as a warrior and a man.

He chanted and spoke, “Ya...tah...hah...wah... Spirit of my Father and my father’s Fathers. Fill me with cunning and wisdom that I might know how to destroy my enemies and the enemies of my People. Mother of Earth, make me whole. Give me the strength to honor Wampanoag in death as well as life.”

He sensed, no...He knew...his spirit was being filled with the power of Creation and that power, once clearly formed, would be embedded into his very being. His very character, that inward sense of right over wrong, could be used either to create or destroy. His prayer was being answered. His mind flooded with memories… of the past, of the dead, of what was to come... The way was clear... He would wage war until the whites were driven back across the sea from where they had come.

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