According To The Pattern
There was great joy and peace among the People. For as long as any of the eldest great-grandparents could remember, they had lived in harmony with one another according to the Pattern. It was so much a part of the identity of the People that they saw the Pattern everywhere that they looked.
According to the Pattern, it was good for the old to instruct the young and for the young to amuse the old. So it was that Grandfather was playing blocks with his daughter’s daughter one day. Now, the trees of that place – according to the Pattern – grew roots that had many bends with tight corners. These were harvested and made into toys for the youngsters, amongst other things. Granddaughter was trying to build with these, seeking clever ways to put them together. But no matter how she tried to assemble them, the L-shaped blocks kept falling down and her buildings collapsed.
Grandfather chuckled as he watched her.
“Are you laughing at me, Gumpa?” she asked.
“No, dear one. I am remembering. We old ones see much in very small things, for we have seen what may come of them.”
Granddaughter looked down at her fallen blocks.
“They don’t look very funny to me,” she complained.
“Stand them on their feet and let them lean on one another,” Gumpa instructed as he picked up a flat rock. She did so. They did not fall over, but they seemed flimsy. Then Gumpa laid the rock upon them. The weight stabilized them. They pressed against one another and the arch of sticks stood firm. Gumpa sat back with a smile and a look that saw more than what stood before him.
“Two weaknesses leaning upon each other to form a strength,” he said. Then he ruffled his granddaughter’s hair affectionately, noting, “This, too, is according to the Pattern.”
* * * * *
Years passed. Flowers of spring and summer covered Gumpa’s winter grave. Grandmother, now alone, helped her daughter’s daughter prepare for her first Harvest Dance as a woman of the People. The little girl had grown up. All that year, she had done her part. After the men had cleared the ground, she had planted the seeds. While the men had hunted the wild beasts that loved to trample the baby crops, she had pulled the weeds that would choke out their life. When the men had stood watch in darkness against the dangers of the night, she had brought them fire and light and food to keep them strong and brave and alert. Now, as one of the People, she would join the celebration and rejoicing.
“But what if I can’t dance, Gramma?”
The old hand fixing a wreath of scarlet leaves in her hair shoved her in gentle rebuke.
“Don’t be silly. You’ve watched the dancing all your life.”
“Yes, but you and Gumpa always made it look so easy, as if you were one person moving along with all the others through the pattern of the dance. What if I trip?”
“Then your partner will catch you. That’s his job.”
“And what if he forgets the dance? He does sometimes, you know.”
“Then you’ll remind him. A glance. A touch. That’s all it takes. That’s your job.”
“And when he steps on my feet?” she asked with a hint of petulance.
Gramma smiled sadly, “Your Gumpa used to trample my feet terrible when we were learning the Dance. How I miss it now.”
She smoothed granddaughter’s hair and kissed the top of her head, saying, “Trust the Pattern. All will be well. Follow the music and keep in step with it. You and your partner will both learn the proper steps. Then, one day, you will teach them to others.”
Soon it was time. The music began. The lights glowed.
Granddaughter took her partner’s offered hand. Hers trembled a bit. So did his. Together, they joined the Dance, taking their places among the People.
* * * * *
Years passed. Old ones departed and new were born. The People grew. At times there came unrest or danger or sickness, but these things must come now and then. The only time there was real trouble was when the People forgot the Pattern. Granddaughter – now a mother, herself – saw this only once.
Her husband was one of those who was impressed – for a time – by those bold ones among the People who had called for changes, saying that it was time to follow a new way. But, with a look, with a touch, she reminded him of the goodness of the Pattern. The danger passed, and the People went on.
Together, she and her husband and the others held the weight of the People. At times it seemed that it must be too much for her. At times, she felt that she must fall or fail in her tasks. But then, his strength supported her. He carried her load and helped her back up onto her feet. She loved him so for that.
He was her strength, and she was his beauty, and they had many children, according to the Pattern.
* * * * *
Years passed. The children grew and had children of their own. Her sons had sons, and the littlest boy claimed her as his own special caretaker, fussing when anyone else tried to watch over him.
One day, she was minding him while his father and his older brothers hunted down the deadly beasts that would trample and ruin the new, tender crops if no one drove them off. It was dangerous, difficult work, and she had seen first-hand what could go wrong in a moment of carelessness. She sat, trying to remain still and at peace, despite her concern. Looking down, she saw her grandson playing with tree-root blocks.
He was trying to build with them, but the L-shaped blocks kept falling over. She chuckled at the sight.
“Don’t laugh at me!” her grandson scolded.
She knelt beside him and gently lifted a flat stone as she said, “Stand them on their feet and lean them against each other.”
He did so. She set the rock – and her fears and worries – upon the arch made of sticks. It held.
“Two weaknesses, leaning upon each other to form a strength,” she told him, “So you too should build – my boy – according to the Pattern.”
Michael Somerville is the author of several short stories, as well as an in-progress high-fantasy series called the Tales of the Broken Realm. He loves telling stories of hope about ordinary characters doing their small part to help heal a broken world. By day, he pays the bills as a hands-on storyteller and project manager, leading and envisioning professional teams in the "real-world", even as he is busily building and illustrating imaginary worlds in his evenings and on the weekends.
Outside of work and writing, he enjoys a wide range of hobbies, including playing music with his family and friends on keyboard or guitar, drawing, sculpting, painting, sewing, and blacksmithing, or walking the length of the Appalachian Trail in his home neighborhood in the Shenandoah Valley, where he serves as a Board member on his local civic association.
Most important to Michael are his family and his church. Michael and Jessica celebrate their 20th anniversary in 2026 and are happily raising three wonderful daughters. He serves actively in his local church, playing music on Sunday, teaching the older elementary kids, and leading a small group of wonderful saints. He hopes to hear "Well done" one day, and plans to keep serving his true King until then.
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