Conflicting Roots: An Excerpt from the Novel

In this excerpt from Conflicting Roots (2025, Maine Authors Publishing) Weetamoo, an historical participant in King Philip’s War (1675-76), shows her strength and wisdom.

I hope you enjoy this excerpt from the novel.

“MOO! Moo! Moo! Moo!”

Weetamoo’s older brothers and male cousins shouted at her derisively, imitating the foolish noises made by herds of lazy cows owned by white settlers. She raced along the beach just a stride behind

her cousin Metacom. The noisy boys hoped to distract her, so that she would lose the contest. Her younger cousin Awashonka, already a winner in an earlier race against Metacom’s elder brother

Wamsutta, yelled encouragement from atop a fallen birch log splashed with red paint, marking the finish line.

“Faster, Weet! Faster! Faster!” shouted the tall girl.

Shonka’s cheers could barely be heard above the boys’ din. They wanted a boy to win at least one contest and would do anything to slow the girl, except get in her way physically. That would be cheating, according to Wampanoag law, and anyone who cheated could be reprimanded in public by

Sachem Massasoit.

As the competitors turned the corner around a large gray boulder also splashed with red, Weetamoo tripped over her own foot and stumbled, losing another stride. Metacom raised both his arms high to the sky and let out a premature victory yelp. The other boys responded with even louder cheers than before. They were sure their favorite was the winner. Then everyone gasped as the girl’s shorter legs began to pump faster than anyone had ever seen legs move. Her feet appeared not to touch the sand. It was as though her legs had become wings. Now the racers were neck and neck. Shonka jumped off the log, ululating at the top of her voice. When the racers hurdled across the finish line, their leaps carried each a long gun’s length past the marker. Because Metacom’s legs were longer, he

landed a bit further beyond the finish line.

Running to their winner, four of the boys lifted him high on their shoulders and tossed him into the air. Others caught him before he hit the ground.

“You won, my brother!” shouted Wamsutta, removing a string of white shells from his waist.

“To the victor goes the wampum!”

“Wait!” shouted Awashonka. “It is a tie! They both cleared the birch at exactly the same moment. I was standing right here. I saw the end.”

Weetamoo lay on the ground panting, her face as red as a robin’s breast. She whispered to her cousin in between inhales. “Let the boys have their victory,” she said. “It is enough that we have proven we are their equal. You have beaten Wamsutta. I nearly won. Let them save a little face.”

“You give in too easily. They always have enough victories.”

“With all that may happen to them fighting the whites when the war begins, they deserve a few more wins at play to boost their courage.”

“But you forget we need our own courage. We must also keep a strong vision of our people’s future. After the war.”

“After the war? Are you so sure there will be such a future?” As the girls spoke, the boys continued to cheer. They closed around Metacom, hands clasped, dancing round him until he pushed his way out of their circle. He went to his girl cousins and pulled Weetamoo to her feet.

“Weet, you ran so fast. At the end I thought your feet were wings. You nearly won. In fact, perhaps you should be celebrating.”