!

What is most important?

Do you want to play chess? I know you’re quite good with calculation. I’m more of a positional player, myself. Yes, let’s play chess, but let’s make it more than just a game. Let’s give it life-changing potential, shall we? I’ll wager the key to unlock the meaning of life (as well as a measure of fleeting wealth) against your consciousness, but one must win to claim the prize. In the case of a peaceful resolution, you return home, continuing to believe whatever you like. Curious? You are, of course, so you decide to open your eyes.

Searing light exploding through your corneas, pupils contracting, you slam your eyelids shut against the pain. Dark red, purplish blooms spread across your vision, slowly fading, returning to ever-darkening blackness. You still want to play, don’t you? I mean, really…stakes aside…aren’t you just a little curious about all of this? There’s no need to be afraid. Whenever you’re ready. You can pretend it isn’t real, if that helps.

Despite your misgivings, you commit to do just that. Out of the infinite darkness, a pool of somehow darker black emerges to provide slight contrast. The oddly shaped pool is very large and begins to take a somehow familiar form, that of a…towering tombstone? The prospect unnerves you, but then the welcome dawn of comprehension banishes the panic-inducing shroud of night that had previously threatened to hold you captive.

Turning around, you involuntarily flinch, your hand rising to defend your vision against the light as you blink away tears. The tombstone of darkness remains, now surrounded by luminescence. You sit up. That’s odd. The tombstone’s height remains the same, but the arched top now appears to have a second arch above it, slightly less dark and of an unfamiliar shade, giving it a strange appearance… Depth?  Another epiphany. Your eyes still adjusting to the increased illumination, you stand, tombstone shrinking as your perspective rises.

On the formerly dark canvas before you, the dim light of a fireplace begins to paint a scene. Somewhat blurry at first, the dimly lit shapes, muted colors and shades slowly focus into clarity, revealing more detail than you ever imagined could exist in the world. The now much smaller “tombstones” resolve into comfortable looking, sanguine, velvet-tufted wing chairs; between them an ornate, walnut chess table. You’re fairly confident that you are standing in a Victorian era library, but you aren’t sure how you know this. Nonetheless, you’re grateful for the sense of familiarity this recall of knowledge provides in this unfamiliar place. 

You begin to feel overwhelmed by the sudden realization that all of this has been here the entire time you were doing…well, whatever it was you had been doing. Exercising your option to pretend that none of this is real, the warm and heavy blanket of denial engulfs you, restoring your sense of calm. After a few deep breaths, both the table and your purpose for being here again emerge foremost in your mind.

Drowsily moving to inspect the table, you’re startled into alertness by a presence veiled in the shadow of the tall-backed chair closest the fire.

It is I.

Welcome. I always had faith in you. My hand emerges from the shadow, two fingers indicating the board before us. Go ahead. See for yourself. You will notice the first couple of moves have been made for both sides. Currently, the pieces face neither chair. The bargain is struck, and the game begins when you choose a side, rotate the board 90 degrees, and sit down at the table. 

Studying the board, to your eye, the pieces appear almost lifelike, though not quite as if they might take a notion to move of their own accord. Not anymore. The opening was a familiar countergambit, and you couldn’t help but chuckle. The early position was slightly better for black, but with white to move, was capable of transposing into several interesting lines.

You had agreed to a game of chess, but you had expected to start from the beginning. You see an opportunity, and it is then that you decide to agree to my terms but with one caveat of your own. You want to know the why of it all. Why this unforgiving game, in this anachronistic refuge, with these lost-looking pieces, interred in this position? Arm retracting, my silhouette assumes a thoughtful posture, and after a time, agrees to your terms, with one final caveat of my own: A draw is no longer sufficient for you to walk away. You must win. I need only draw to accomplish my purpose.

A spike of trepidation pierces your heart before you are reminded that this is all just a mysterious sort of hallucination. What have you to lose? You turn the board, take a seat at the table, gamely accept the countergambit, and I immediately offer another: 3. … B-QB4!

After a few more moves, I depart the main line. Your eyebrows raise, but you’ve been down this road before. Playable, but treacherous for the unwary. Probably not the line you would have chosen in my place. A few uneasy moves later, I introduce an intriguing novelty, offering this time to gambit a full piece for the initiative, and you are suddenly on your guard. We aren’t in Kansas anymore, and you abruptly find yourself in a deep, dark wood where 2+2=5, and the path leading out is only wide enough for one. You get the distinct impression that I’ve been here before and am now asking if you’d like to follow…or am I daring you?

Fascinating game, isn’t it? Consequences. Cause and effect. If this, then that. Everything is right in front of us, just waiting to be noticed, and it’s eminently fair; there’s no subterfuge or deception. The board is set and clearly displayed; the goal clearly defined; your own decisions solely responsible for the outcome. If it goes badly for you, the blame lay squarely upon your shoulders. If you do not see the move in a lucid way, you cannot go there. The chessboard of life is littered with the corpses of hopeful optimists. So it goes.

Warily sitting up and moving to the edge of your seat, you involuntarily gulp, discovering your mouth dry. Studying the board, you assess the position and judge it fairly even. You have more material, but I have the lead in development. There are no obvious weaknesses on either side. Threats abound. I have seemingly given away my intentions, but the position is incredibly sharp. Before you lay countless branching paths, fraught with potential pitfalls, traps, and snares. Which lines are winning?

What is most important? 

The gambit seems a legitimate concern, but are you just seeing ghosts? You can’t help but grimace, hoping I didn’t notice. Is it getting hotter in here? You begin to calculate lines, looking down each road as far as you can to where it bends in the undergrowth of your mind. By contrast, you find some more promising than others. All becomes clear. You must accept the gambit. Your hand moves to capture—but wait! What’s this? You’ve noticed something new! Your hand withdraws… 

Your eyebrows knit themselves together as you concentrate. What was that line again? Envisioning the pieces moving and disappearing from the board in your mind’s eye, you work through the sequence, calculating my seemingly forced replies. You become a little confused about the precise move order but determine that transposing these lines still appears to lead to the same winning position. Though calculating and visualizing that many moves ahead over the board in the moment is never a certain thing for mere mortals. Too many variables. Are you missing something?

Your anxiety heightens, and a cold sweat breaks out on your forehead. You reach for the pawn whose march would begin the swashbuckling onslaught, but your hand freezes in mid-air above it, as you have second, third, and fourth thoughts about the bold move. Your hand retreats a second time. Would I really have allowed such a move? If so, I must not consider it troublesome. Why? It looks winning for you, but I’ve obviously prepared this line. What are you not seeing? You nervously lick your lips, and your eyes can’t help but stray apprehensively to the vulnerable, gambited piece on the other side of the board, practically begging to be taken… 

What is most important?

Tearing your gaze from the piece to the pawn, you consider the line one last time, and decide it is indeed likely sound. Heart pounding out of your chest, you move to pick up the pawn again before your hand is inexplicably –maddeningly— a third time, stayed. Why? The Fates? Karma? Instinct? Intuition? Self-doubt? Guardian angel? Tormenting demon? Are you being preserved or hindered by the force staying your hand this time? There is only one way to know.

Fingers hovering over the pawn, your eyes dart up toward my face nervously, wishing you could gauge my reaction to your plan, but there isn’t enough light. Again, your focus strays to the piece then back to the pawn. The piece. The pawn. The piece... The pawn… 

With time running out, your hand floats indecisively above the board to a point midway between the two. Eyes wide with fear, you curiously find yourself thoughtfully considering your outstretched hand, the very instrument of your destiny. You're frightened to discover that you aren't breathing and inhale sharply. Have you outwitted me? Or have I seen everything?

Your move. 

“Musical training is a more potent instrument than any other, because rhythm and harmony find their way into the inward places of the soul.” -Plato

This quote from Plato is one of my favorites. One brilliant book written so long ago, the key to so many unspoken truths today, and he just gives them all away for nothing. I love that. Finding these splashes of color on the otherwise dark canvas of life is a wonderful way to start a morning, I think. Absolutely heavenly.

Keep me still and we're preserved,

Republics guard us jealously,

In One in darkness I’m reserved,

Conveyed to light the death of me!

A fine, splendid fellow, 

Of red and of yellow, 

And sore green with envy he was,

Set out to the last, 

Of future and past, 

Present to seek the First Cause,

Prepared for it all, 

The spring and The Fall, 

An Advisor in white along trails,

Seeing reality,

Ignoring fatality,

Confident though the wind gales,

A journey of will, 

Of trying, and skill, 

A seeking for that which endures,

Not of its power,

Or wealth to devour,

But rather by Keys procured,

A quest to examine,

Through plenty and famine,

Those precepts some call divine,

A time to take note,

And remember by rote,

The missives of those that we find,

These teachers, these types,

These lessons- once ripe, 

Will light shed along our ways,

For all of us go,

Whether we know,

And meet them for moments or days.

Their message imparted,

The journey has started,

And choices must then be made,

To stay or to go,

Content not to know,

Or act on those paths so far laid.

How much must be seen? 

How much revealed? 

Before the decision of truth?

The entire puzzle of life illumined? 

Or can much, with some light, be assumed?

To reach your conclusion:

The truth; not illusion,

This quest spread before you this day.

Trust in no one, 

Examine every one,

For not all are as some might say.

Be quick to converse,

For better, for worse, 

As all have something to tell,

Some righteous, some not,

Some wise, some sots-

They all think that they know well.

They all point the way, 

"I know!" They all say,

It's their end they've not yet divined,

See, you must. 

Reason robust,

And know now what each yet will find.

Is their path yours,

The same exact course,

But leading to different rewards?

Or see you their fault, 

Portending a halt,

Lest you end up where they are?

Some ways are short,

Some long to retort,

But several can lead to the prize,

But One knows they vary,

And whether to tarry, 

Or shine someone on and then rise.

He knows in his Heart,

Educated by Art, 

He judges the depths of theirs,

Then rises to live,

Forget and forgive, 

And move on to other affairs,

Until the encounter!

A faithful recounter! 

The One who holds keys to your locks!

With this one go home,

Take time to roam, 

Then seek to discover the box...

A word of caution,

As curiosity blossoms,

You may not seek what you find,

Terror awaits!

Doom at the gates!

You may come to question your mind,

But on those who press on,

Meditate these lessons,

Weighing them throughout the years,

The truth shall descend,

Beginning to End,

Revealing the sum of your fears.

Then, knowledge in mind,

And Wisdom in heart, 

The Keeper and guardian you'll know, 

You'll know of that land,

And kingdom within, 

And then, my dear pilgrim...

You'll go.

Jess stepped off the warm bus and into the brisk wind blowing its way through an undisclosed and deserted fast-food joint parking lot, “When A Blind Man Cries” blaring from her vintage Sony Walkman’s earbuds. The kind with wires, not the stupid looking ones. She checked her pocket watch: 13:34. Slightly late, but there was no reason to hurry anymore, she thought, giving it a wind. No reason to dread. It was done. She had actually accomplished it all. Mere formalities to go. Jess smiled, but only on the inside.

There had been only two other passengers the entire final leg of the trip. She had not interacted with them and was certain neither had seen her face. She had cut her hair short, and her choice of clothing had been non-descript, intentionally unremarkable. An old, wool-lined denim jacket with decades of honest wear covered a dark grey hoodie. She had kept her hood up and worn a baseball cap to shield her eyes from the omnipresent eyes and all others. She had tried sunglasses, but it just seemed too much; too conspicuously trying to be inconspicuous. Worn out, paint-stained jeans and a pair of ratty, cheap tennis shoes stained green from push mowing the grass a thousand times rounded out the completely forgettable ensemble. The faded and torn sea bag she wore on her back was the accessory that completed the look, invoking the spell of forgetfulness upon anyone who only glanced at her in passing.

Naggingly, the driver had interacted with her four times now, if in a somewhat limited fashion. He had checked her tickets and been generally congenial. Jess had tried to keep the conversation to a minimum without seeming like she was trying to keep the conversation to a minimum. The spell was potentially broken each time she spoke to anyone. She knew this. Even so, she was probably just paranoid. After all, even the driver had not seen her face. No one had. It went without saying that she took no phone or any modern gadgets and that she paid for everything in cash. This wasn’t “amateur hour”. There were great things at stake in her mind, and at stake even now, in the minds of others she had no way of knowing. She felt a certain way about that.

The past week or two had been a whirlwind of activity and travel to far off places, an essential part of the culmination of a decade’s worth of planning. It had all been extremely thrilling, and her sea bag had gotten lighter with each stop. This is not to say that everything had gone exactly as planned, but everything did end up going as intended. She had seen hardly anyone the entire trip and couldn’t believe the good fortune of the timing of all of this. Those she did see; she had wanted to see. It was like the universe was conspiring with her to make it all happen. Jess watched the bus pull away from the restaurant, shrugging the sea bag up higher on her shoulder.

Some things are only found when we decide to look for something else seemingly unrelated. Sometimes things usurp the rightful places of other things, like when a Starling builds a nest in your dryer vent. If you were looking for a bird nest, I doubt you’d start in a dryer vent. If it was your dryer vent, you would have been getting some clues that it was there, provided you were paying attention while doing your laundry. You’d start looking for an obstruction, and then you’d find it: In the form of a bird nest. And probably a bird.

Jess knew that if someone was attentive and thoughtful, they would become aware of where to find the contrasting resting places of the light and the dark. It would require some discernment and deduction, but the final Domino Rally domino fall of “Aha!” moments for this person promised to be a truly once in a lifetime kind of satisfying experience. Then, other kinds of planning would begin, leading to other rare experiences. “How fun for them,” Jess thought, smirking. She herself lived for those moments, if in a different arena.

Those remaining would be found sooner, in her uncertain estimation, with the possible exception of the box. The box functioned much like an airplane’s black box, in that it would tell the story after the fact. Or possibly before. Jess found that prospect exciting, too. Contained within it were some pertinent photographs, conspicuously marked maps, some of her writings, a video, and a few bits of coin, provided certain instructions were carried out by the discoverer. It was a simple request in her mind. Jess cast her gaze down, smiling on the inside.

Taking care to seal it hermetically, Jess disposed of this item a little later, in a different way, and in a different kind of place. This she left in a very prominent location, in the midst of a vast crowd of witnesses, in full view of the omnipresent eyes, counting on them to help her watch it. To keep it secret. To keep it safe. A moment or two, and it was done. No one had batted an eye.

Jess stared resolvedly down the road ahead. The news would come when it came, and she neither dreaded nor savored the thought of its coming. In fact, as time went by, she would grow more and more indifferent to the entire affair. It was a part of her, but only a part. Hers was a different path. As she began putting one foot in front of the other, the soft opening notes of “The Lonely Man” began playing on a piano somewhere in the background, out of sight.

So long, Jess. Until next time.

Searching a dimly lit corner, you discover a small donation jar labeled "BBBS". You estimate that it contains $5,224.14! If you were lucky enough to obtain a book, you feel good about having helped wayward children.

Erik slouched on his perch, frowning in the flickering candlelight as he carefully considered the work before him. It was a lot to take in. It was bold. Epic, even. So rich with dissonant, tormenting beauty and power. How dare he? A grim smirk slowly spread its way across half of his face. The masses were sure to balk. It wasn’t the usual fare. What they thought they wanted be damned. Erik knew what they needed.

The theater and its performers had agreed to perform his work. They had agreed to every condition. Erik would see to it that everyone got their money’s worth. The noise of something splashing in water echoed through the chamber. Erik froze. He waited. Nothing. His gaze returned to the stack of inked parchment before him.

It was an injustice that he, as the composer, could not conduct the work, but why was another story that had already been told. It just wasn’t possible, but he would be in attendance. It had to be right; well, as right as it could be without Erik holding the baton, anyway. Erik furrowed his eyebrows in thought. Of course. The concierge.

Grabbing a clean piece of parchment and the quill from the inkwell, he began:

Madame:

Salutations from below. Please see that the following instructions are passed on to the performers. They are going to be needlessly overwhelmed. The work is not common, but even the most elaborate works can be boiled down to a basic structure and a number of parts in a given key, each singing their own independent lines. 

Tell them that the way to begin is by reading the score and choosing a part they feel confident about. Once they’ve chosen a part to sing, they should practice their part unaccompanied until they’re ready for group rehearsals.

Everyone in the ensemble has a part. To begin rehearsals, those who are working on identical parts should break up into groups and practice together for a short time. Their matching pitches will give each of them confidence in their own prior solo preparation. If any of them are off at any point, they will hear it and can help one another make any corrections. Then, it’s time to combine the parts.

When they sing their part with the others, they will gain a sense of the overall tonal context of the piece. They will hear how each part fits with all the others, and again, if it turns out that the consensus way of performing their individual group’s part is off in any way, they will almost certainly notice it, but harmonies can be complex. It is the job of the conductor to identify and correct these discrepancies. Hopefully they have a competent one that is passionate about my work. Sans the availability of a conductor, if the performers are experienced enough and their chemistry is good, they will be able to figure these things out for themselves as long as each has a copy of the score.

Madame, I know that even were I to conduct this great work myself, the final performance would not be perfect, as human performers are incapable of perfection. Tell them that this is not something to worry about. Perfection is not required of them. Passion is required of them. “To play a wrong note is insignificant; to play without passion is inexcusable."

Lastly, Madame, between you and I, I must say that my expectations are not high. As with the first performance of any children’s ensemble, if the song is recognizable, that’s a win. Sometimes it’s only the bass part or the middle harmonies that one recognizes, even though the other parts aren’t that clear. That’s enough. That’s all it takes. Of course, the conductor should always focus on trying to make sure the melody is heard. The listener’s job of identifying the piece is simplified if they can follow the melody. If the harmonies are there as well, even imperfectly at times, still more listeners will have that “Aha!” moment that is every conductor’s aim for them.

Let us hope for the best and expect the worst. Please reserve my box for the performance, as previously requested.

Highest regards.  –OG

Kyrie couldn’t believe it. What a debacle. She paused the unsettlingly educational Cowlazars video she had been watching and thoughtfully sipped her absinthe. Apparently, an eccentric art dealer had hidden a million-dollar chest of treasure in the Rocky Mountains in 2010, hoping to start a treasure legend and get folks outdoors. In June of 2020, the chest was announced found and the hunt concluded. It was now known that the chest had actually been located nearly a year prior, but shenanigans had ensued. 

The finder, astonishingly, had refused to retrieve it.

Kyrie tried to imagine having hid a significant treasure in a faraway location, then having someone locate, but not retrieve it. The presumably well-meaning amateur treasure hunt creator must have truly had an “oh shit” moment when that intention was shared with him by the finder. If not then, Kyrie was sure he had one a few months later when a searcher died looking for this treasure that had already been found. Kyrie hoped the finder had one then, too. “Private” communications from around this time later confirmed that the then 90-year-old art dealer was considering calling off the hunt. But he didn’t.

It turned out that the finder had attempted to place certain conditions upon the “transaction” before they would agree to actually retrieve it, and that the two had bickered over these for nearly a year before the formal announcement of the find. 

Kyrie had some limited experience with this sort of thing. Why didn’t the old man just retrieve the treasure himself? Even to a layperson, this would seem the obvious solution. Kyrie felt that the reason why was just as obvious: He couldn’t. Somehow, this option was not available to him, and given his frustration with the finder and the most recent death of a searcher, he most certainly would have if it were possible. Somehow, the finder had leverage that prevented the dealer from doing this, even under these, the gravest of conditions. Or he moved it.

Kyrie had been mortified by this idea of someone locating a treasure, then moving it rather than retrieving it. This person would essentially be hijacking the treasure hunt. No one else would be able to find it, and the creator wouldn’t be able to produce it to conclusively end the hunt and prove it all hadn’t been a farce. This hijacker had held all of the cards. Kyrie had never even dreamed of someone doing such a thing. That horrified her most.

The old man had said that he “tried to think of everything”, and he did. He tried. What a mess. Kyrie tried to imagine being played like that after offering such a rare gift to everyone, including the hijacker. Kyrie would have handled that situation differently. Fortunately, an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. Kyrie smirked and finished her drink. Tricky business.

Injecting that little chest of magic into the world did not come without a cost. It had turned out to be Pandora’s Box; or at least, the closest thing to it until now, and that hadn’t even been the old man’s stated aim. Searchers lost their lives looking for it. One of those never even had a chance to find it, as far as Kyrie was concerned. He died, in part, because, for reasons currently unknown, the old man chose to negotiate with the terrorist instead of shooting down the hijacked plane, whatever the personal cost.

In retrospect, Kyrie viewed the totality of that hunt and its aftermath as a parable, and she hoped that others would be able to see it that way in the future. That way, the story of the eccentric old man who hid a phenomenal treasure would indeed go on to be enshrined in legend, if not exactly in the way he intended.

Madness.

It seemed insane in 21st century American culture that someone would just abandon any amount of wealth. It was counterintuitive. In our society, we’re taught and trained our entire lives to amass wealth, to value it above all else, and to generally judge whether people are “good” and “successful” by this standard. If you own a big house, you’re “successful” and probably a “good” person. If you’re homeless, you’re a “failure” and probably a “bad” person. 

Who would care enough to amass wealth one moment, then care so little as to abandon it the next? It seemed impulsive. It was like this person didn’t really know who they were. This wasn’t their first time doing this, either. They had amassed and abandoned wealth before. It seemed a recognizable pattern of instability, almost like two different people were in charge of those decisions at the time they were made. Who does something like this? I mean, people have hobbies, but this seemed extreme even in that light.

It would be different if the guy was a millionaire, but he wasn’t. This wasn’t extra money. Anyone else would have viewed this wealth as their savings, children’s college fund, or retirement. Anyone else in this situation would have been terrified of losing it. This guy just abandons it like it grows on trees or something.

Jen worked long and hard for her money. Jen wasn’t making doctor or lawyer wages, but she was firmly upper middle class and proud of it. She had joined the service out of high school and excelled before taking a high-powered job for a company in Cleveland. She was stressed to the max working 50+ hours a week. She thought about that for a second.

Each day, she slept eight hours and worked ten hours. Eighteen hours. That only left six hours, one of which was probably spent getting ready for work. Another spent commuting. Jen never ate breakfast, but still probably spent an hour eating and preparing food a day. This left her with three hours each day for regular tasks like going to the grocery, doing the dishes, laundry, bills, etc., and to convince her family that, despite her lack of time for them, they really were the most important thing to her. It wasn’t enough time. 

By the time she got to sit down with her significant other in the evening for an hour or so, she was exhausted. Inevitably, during that hour, they would both scroll past ads on their phones while the TV did its part blaring commercials in an attempt to siphon off even more of the linen paper for which they worked so hard. Each night, they sat down on the couch, said “hey” to each other and began scrolling. The hour always felt like ten minutes and then it was time to go to bed and do it all again. Thank God for antidepressants.

But hey, this is what “good” people do, right? They work. They work hard. They work all the time to amass money. Because if you don’t, then you’re a piece of shit. Marcus Aurelius. Everyone knows that. This guy abandoning everything he must have worked so hard for…it just didn’t make sense to her, because it couldn’t make sense to her. This fool deserved to be homeless when it eventually came to that for him, and it would, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

Jen found herself in a pottery studio, working clay on a wheel. It was very satisfying. There were others present, too. It was a class! Next to her, working his own wheel, was the fool. How strange. He looked over at her work and gave her a kind, approving smile. Jen wet her hands again and returned to the bowl she was making. She had always wanted to pursue her passion for the arts, but that was much like working out and taking care of herself. Who had time for such trivialities in this day and age? Fools, apparently— yet, here she was, doing what she loved! The clay was wet and smooth under her fingers, and she gave its rising shape her full attention. Yes, she could see it now, the final form this piece would take! It would be beautiful with a three-step glaze, she thought. She pinched her fingers together and rolled her wrist back ever so slightly, trying to achieve the rim’s flare as she saw it in her mind’s eye– BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Startled and disoriented, Jen struggled to make sense of what was happening. Her now ruined bowl continued to revolve as the scene went dark. The incessant aural abomination ceased with the sound of flesh smacking on plastic, and then, a familiar voice:

“Wake up, Jen. You have to go to work.”

Madness.

Erik peeked out the small slit in the “structural” column in Box 5. The box was empty, as requested. His eyes narrowed. Halfway through the first act, the theater was still nearly empty as well. He saw only three people in attendance, each well dressed and known to him, sitting in the front row. Ah, make that four. One cowled patron had sprung for a box seat. Kudos, sir.

Erik’s theater was not the largest around. It was certainly no Fennway Park, seating a reported 350,000 plus. His was a modest venue, boasting 20 box level seats, each of which could hold five patrons, overlooking two sections of seating: One in the front for those who arrived early, seating 50, and then a general admission section in the modestly proportioned balcony for overflow which appeared, for the moment at least, beyond superfluous.

A knowing, half grin-smirk slowly crept across his face. Not all bombs went off immediately, after all, and few who lit such long, slow burning fuses saw any wisdom in advertising that fact. It certainly wasn’t about the money. Admittedly, the tickets were not cheap, but Erik was no capitalist. Erik was an artist. As any good theater house manager knows, higher prices tend to draw those who truly appreciate the art form while discouraging the riffraff.

Of the four patrons in attendance, the tall, lanky fellow was first to arrive. If he had been paying attention the whole time, he likely had more of an idea of what Erik was going for than anyone else. Erik was familiar with his methods. This man was gifted in several areas of observation, and he kept meticulous records. Erik expected he would be coming at the piece from multiple directions, attempting to glean just enough from each of the different parts to discern the whole. It could be done. “Records” was not one to underestimate. He had attended, appreciated, and even understood Erik’s previous works and so Erik had no doubt that he would also enjoy this variation on the theme. His early arrival seemed to indicate support. Or was it a challenge? Erik took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

The bearded gentleman to his right had entered a little later. Erik’s eyes widened slightly in recognition. He knew him as “La Machina”, and he had also managed to understand Erik’s previous work. He consumed complicated passages for breakfast, then reviewed the analysis his clockwork “machines” had come up with on other pieces during that time. He was a genius of theory, a living, breathing circle of fifths. Jupiter Jones, in the flesh. Erik had no doubt that he would be analyzing the coded passages of the score, attempting to discern the piece that way. He could certainly succeed. Erik gulped.

The man was way ahead of his time. It didn’t take much. The Machine had only to see the cover of secrets, and it would confirm his suspicions and bolster his confidence, and he would get the message. He was just good like that. Unexpectedly, the man turned his head to survey the boxes, his gaze coming to rest on Box 5, before giving what Erik thought was an acknowledging nod. Impossible. Erik, safely hidden inside the column, returned the nod, nonetheless.

Sitting next to The Machine in the front row was…Oooh. Yes. It was her. Wait! in the box- was that-? Oh. It was. Erik’s face fell. It was her husband. Anyway, Erik knew this lovely vision despised the coded passages, and also didn’t enjoy extended works. Erik shifted his gaze to the cowled figure in the box across from his own. Unlike him, Erik knew the way to this woman’s heart; the way to every enlightened, enchanting young woman’s heart: Poetry. Yes, if she would just listen, Erik had laid everything bare in the libretto as well.

Erik had nothing but the highest regards for this gentleman and his wife. They had their own shows, which were far better received, and deservedly so. Between them, they had it all: She had wit, beauty, charm, insight, discernment, enthusiasm, great hair, and he… well, he made some great noises. They were quite a team. The man’s cowl elicited a scowl from Erik. What was he hiding? He knew more than he said. Always. He always said what he knew, but before he said it, he knew it. And for how long? Erik didn’t like the feel of his work under this man’s eyes. He saw much, quickly, and his stamina and endurance were legendary- in most cases, anyway, Erik thought, stealing a glance at the Mrs...

Erik had thought of giving them all box seats, compliments of the composer, but there had been ideas of fair play and the donations to the ragamuffins to consider. Erik didn’t want to rob them of their gesture of goodwill. He appreciated that they hadn’t asked for any special treatment. Of their own accord, they simply chose to partake in something fun that, with their talents, they had an all too good chance of understanding. Erik regarded them all with the highest esteem, and he attempted a heartfelt half-smile.

Erik hoped they would enjoy the work and the overarching story it told. They could comprehend the piece just as easily by doing only this. Erik would have preferred it to be understood like this. Would anyone even notice the sketches in the margins of the score? They told a story as well.

Regardless of the number of patrons, the show was on, and would go on, as it must. A momentary narrowing of the eyes, a downcast glance, and the slight tightening of the muscles around his mouth the only fleeting hints of any remorse before morphing into resolve, his eyes moving to the stage. Not remorse for having made the omelet, you understand, but rather, the eggs that had to be broken to make it. One could not unbreak an egg, even if they wished to unbreak it.

Erik had long ago passed the point of no return. No backward glances. The games he’d played till then were at an end. He was well past the thoughts of “if” or “when”. No going back now.  He’d crossed the final threshold. If only four were able to get tickets, then the show would be just for them. They would have the entire theater to themselves in perpetuity, most likely. Someone might eventually come across the remaining tickets at some point, but would they know what they were? Would they realize the potential each held? If they did, would they be inclined to share them? Would they throw them out with all the other garbage? This performance had never been meant for the many, but rather for the few. The ragamuffins wouldn’t gain as much, and Erik had known this, but it had been Erik’s experience that folks never much cared for ragamuffins anyway. 

Erik tried to imagine being one of just four individuals with tickets to a $300,000 production. What a thrill that must be! Erik envied each of them. He imagined it must feel like having an entire park to yourself. No lines, no waiting, everything pre-planned and set up ahead of time, just for you. At this point, there were more sites to discover than there were patrons to discover them. And these four had a massive head start, as long as they didn’t get bored with Erik’s games.

The next movement was about to begin, and Erik reveled in the sweet resolution of harmony into blissful, chaotic dissonance. One day, the mysteries of his harmonies would be solved. If not by one of these, then maybe by that federale on Riverside Drive. This case was right up his alley. The entire sordid tale coming hopefully not too soon to newspapers worldwide.

Erik slid the viewport closed and climbed down the ladder. The second movement involved a little more preparation. It was time to close some doors. For now.

Yes, we’re here,

Eight, 9 and 10 needing,

So would have been bored,

If not for our meeting,

Our intentions revealed,

By heart’s fickle focus,

Our Will led and Fooled,

By hardship that broke us,

Sun and moon and stars above,

We’re in love with being in love.

Your pallid reality fades, then returns in vibrancy. You find yourself seated around a table, holding hands with several others in a poorly gas-lit Victorian library. An older woman’s voice instructs you to close your eyes and concentrate, then, she calls out:

“Spirits beyond, we beseech you! Send us our Diogenes, we welcome you! We summon you here, now, to this ordered plane for answers! Tonight you cross over! Tonight we pierce the veil!” Thunder and lightning punctuate her final words and a heavy rain begins to drum on the windowsills.

Silence.

“Diogenes, are you with us?” her voice timidly inquires.

YES. 

Everyone is startled by the emphatic finality of the declaration.

“Have we angered your spirit? Why are you yelling?”

Sorry. Caps lock was on. Go ahead.

“Please, Diogenes, tell us about the book left to us! We know you can tell us!”

It's a fun little riddle, I hope. I’ve always been a fanatic of treasure hunting puzzles, the places they sometimes take our minds, and eventually, our bodies. I thought it might be pretty metal to make some of my own.

Silence.

The person seated next to you whispers, “A puzzle book that can take you places. That sounds fun. I wonder if we have to go to these places?” You decide to ask. “Must we go?” your voice rings out, echoing slightly in the large space.

Only if you’re interested in the full experience. The correct solve will confirm itself many times over, so if that’s where your interest lies, I recommend you stop there and dispose of the book in the prescribed manner.

Silence.

The woman’s voice calls out loudly again: “Tell us about the puzzles and their creation! How many are there? We want to KNOW!”

Overall? There are lots of individuals in the book you’ll confront periodically on your quest. In the beginning, there were three distinct, overarching puzzle lines on the table that led to four dispersed places, each offering its own unique beauty and experiences inspired by the story.

Hear now this elemental's message!

A couple of those places are linked to a single “Main Quest” puzzle line. You should consider this puzzle the main subject, focus, and theme of the book and all but one of the obvious puzzles within it.

A second, shorter puzzle line, a bit more in the background, leads to a third place. Go ahead and consider it harmony or “Side Quest.”

Still a third puzzle leads to a fourth place, but this one can only be performed with accompaniment or by blind dumb luck; call it fate, if you like. I find this one the most exciting for personal reasons.

Finally, during the creation process, opportunity met preparation and I was able to add a bonus puzzle leading to a fifth location in what I thought was a very cool way while paying a thinly veiled homage to someone in the community who has done a lot for the less fortunate. Even so, I’ve never communicated with this person in any way, and they have no idea that I did this, so please don’t bother them if you recognize their work.

Receive the elemental message!

Nervous glances are exchanged around the table. “We understand. Do you intend to release detailed solutions as things are solved?” the woman frantically inquires.

Absolutely! I’ll add a spoiler tab to the home page when it’s needed. I've made every preparation. We will speak again. All will be revealed; One leads to two. Three lead to four. And then there were five. Goodbye. Goodbye.

Gasps and anxious, confused chatter erupt from your small assembly. “Wait!" "Spoiler tab?" "What’s a home page?" "I don't know, do you?" "It's all so cryptic!" "Wtf is caps lock?” The voices begin to sound further away and vibrant reality fades. You find yourself back where you were, staring at a screen, once again reading some weird stuff. Good times.

Pat turned the page. It just wasn’t certain how it was going to end. Pat had to pronounce judgment at some point. I mean, it had been five years now. Saturation of data had been achieved. Bob knew it was time for it to go and decided to bite the bullet and take this bull by the horns.

“Pat, you’ve been studying that book for far too long. You know what you have to do. Let’s get this over with. I’ll go with you.

“You will?” Pat looked up.

“Yes, if you’ll pay for it,” Bob reassured. “I’ll even take video and pictures of our trip for the documentary you’ll no doubt want to share and the book you’ll want to write. I don’t completely understand all your ideas, but you seem to think you understand him pretty well, and I have faith in you.”

“So what are we waiting for?” Pat rhetorically stated, and bags were packed. Pat even emailed him to tell him they were coming. Weeks later, they went, and man, that airport really was as creepy as they say.

“I know it’s here. I just know it is. I’m sure this is it,” said Pat of this particular mountain range, huffing and puffing. Bob huffed and puffed as well. They were only a couple of miles in, and he’d already had to bum extra socks from Pat due to bloody heels. Bob hadn’t prepared for this level of effort, and besides that, he’d gotten hammered last night instead of going to bed early with Pat. Bob had had to take a dump since they got up. Pat had been so rushed and adamant that morning. Pat even seemed put out anytime Bob wanted to stop and take some B roll. Wasn’t that why he was here?

“Hey, next time we rest, I’m seriously gonna have to poop,” Bob gasped.

“Sure, whenever,” Pat answered, striding along, glancing back at Bob and scowling at the GoPro black box mounted to his chest. "For my documentary, right? Are you literally going to record everything?"

"Yep. But for my own documentary. It's apparently going to have a lot of footage of you being an ass," Bob joked. Suddenly, Pat stopped walking.

"Hey, what's this?" Pat asked.

Bob looked perplexedly at the “No Trespassing” sign hanging from a chain across the trail, suspended between two trees. This was a public trail. I mean, it was near private property, but…not that near. Had someone recently bought this land somehow? Was that a thing?

“I’m not sure,” Bob replied. Pat looked thoughtful for a moment.

“We can try to skirt the edge of the property, go around it, I suppose. We kind of need to stay somewhat close to the trail so we aren’t lost,” Pat replied. 

It wasn’t long before Bob realized they were lost. Pat, however, seemed only slightly perturbed that things were not going exactly as they’d expected.

Two or three more miles of huffing and puffing later, they came upon a well-maintained gravel road, thanking their lucky stars for this good fortune. They had gotten all turned around after leaving the trail but were reasonably sure they were not on private property, if they ever had been. Maybe this road led back to the main road, where they could try another route to the spot. They set out.

Directly, a cloud of dust appeared ahead, slowly resolving into an antique beat-up pickup truck driven by one of the most unfortunate looking women that Bob had ever seen. She had to be almost eighty, mid-eighties, in his uncertain estimation, with thinning white hair, and plain, easily forgettable attire. She pulled up to the pair, coming to a stop.

“Do I know you?” asked the crone in a slow, raspy drawl.

“No sir,” Pat replied. “We just got a little turned around.” Bob winced and the woman peered quizzically at Pat for a moment, looking highly offended, in Bob’s view.

“You’re trespassing,” the old woman accused in her slow and laid-back lilting manner.

“Oh no, sir. That’s not our intention at all, sir. There was a sign blocking the path, so we took a wide birth hoping to skirt any private property.” Bob winced, uncomfortable, and looked away. Again? Really, Pat? The lady looked at Pat quizzically a second time, appearing flummoxed.

“You need to go back the way you came in,” said the old woman more emphatically.

In his head, Bob was pretty sure that both he and Pat were thinking the exact same thing, that being: Yeah…. that’s not gonna happen. There was no way Bob wanted to try to hike the four or five miles back through the mountains just to get back to where they started. Besides, he still had to poop.

“You’re trespassing,” the lady repeated.

“Sir, we’ve been hiking a long time, and I don’t think we could even find our way back the way we came,” Pat explained. Bob winced a third time as the quizzical look reappeared on the lady’s face. This was just getting worse and worse. Pat was digging quite the hole, it seemed.

“What are you looking for?” the old woman asked.

Pat thought quickly. “We’re trying to get a view of Mount of the Holy Cross from this ridge, sir,” said Pat, pointing, oblivious of his insulting speech. Bob couldn’t handle it. Bob began walking back up the gravel road, looking for the place where they had come out of the wood.

“You need to go back the way you came,” Bob heard again faintly in the distance behind him, before being out of earshot, any conversation drowned out by his uncomfortable boots crunching on the gravel with each step. The last words he heard were Pat apparently beginning to inquire about getting a ride to the main road. Yeah, I’m sure she’s super inclined to do us a favor right now, you blind fool, Bob silently scoffed.

Bob was really beginning to question why they were even here in the first place. Why had he indulged Pat’s whims? He really shouldn’t have encouraged Pat in this whole thing. It had become an obsession and Pat just couldn’t let it go. Bob himself thought the story was interesting, but this mountain range was huge. Could they really be in the right spot? Odds were, No. This place was dense, too. It could be ten feet off the trail, and you’d never see it. Moose poop and bear poop everywhere, too. Speaking of…

After maybe 10 minutes of walking and trying to forget Pat even existed, Bob came upon the place where they had exited the wood. He turned around to see the long white lane of gravel below him. Just shy of a mile or so in the distance, Pat appeared to be leaning in toward the truck, bent at the waist, listening intently. The lady was probably giving Pat what for for not being able to see what was right in front of them. Bob didn’t blame her. Suddenly, the truck took off, leaving Pat standing there, apparently rooted to the spot, staring at the gravel where the truck had been. Then Pat looked up and waved Bob back down.

Bob told Pat that he had found the spot they exited the wood. Pat wanted to continue down the gravel road, presumably still convinced it would take them back to the main road. Bob shrugged. They walked in silence for a bit, both lost in their own thoughts before Pat finally spoke.

“That old man was kind of a jerk, huh?"

Bob looked over at Pat, waited to make eye contact, and simply replied, “That’s probably because it wasn’t a man.” Pat’s eyes got big. “And what were y’all talking about?”

“Nobody,” Pat replied, apparently not in a mood for conversation. Bob didn’t blame Pat for that. This was turning out to be a huge waste of Pat’s time and resources. At least the scenery was nice. What an adventure.

They crossed the creek, scaled the steps, and found the falls, still highlighted by snow. May was early, here. Beautiful. A fitting tribute. Not long after they split up to take a look around, Pat was ready to go and asked Bob for a moment alone there in that spot. Bob obliged, seeing disappointment in Pat’s eyes. After a bit, they exited a different, much easier way via some switchbacks, Pat striding with purpose, so much so that Pat led by a mile or more at times. Bob wondered why they didn’t come in this way if Pat had known about it. Nary a word was spoken between them. It seemed Pat was definitely in a mood.

They eventually reached their rental car and went back to the hotel.

“I know you gotta go, so go ahead before I take a shower,” Pat offered.

Bob replied, “You’re not gonna want to be in there after me. I’ve held it this long; I can wait another ten minutes.” Pat laughed, and then laughed harder. Until he cried. Bob didn’t think it was that funny, but okay. Maybe Pat was okay after all.

After returning home, Pat asked for all the recordings and pictures Bob had taken. Bob thought it an odd request, as Pat had specifically said none of it was useful. Pat even suggested he should go ahead and delete that material afterward to make room for new things. Of course, Bob hadn't, as a card erased was a memory lost, in his mind. He'd always just bought more cards. And the more time that passed, the more Bob was convinced that holding onto those things was the right thing to do. One never knew what might be useful in the future.

Huh. Malibu, California. Huh. Fitting, he thought, but it wasn’t right. Jarvis stared at his phone, a little shocked, even though this was why he had this app in the first place. At some point, it might move. And it had. It had moved well over a thousand miles before finally settling in Malibu, California. Huh.

In the days following the sudden flurry of movement, Jarvis had expected the tracker to continue on to the designated location from Malibu. It had not, and this indicated a great number of things, none of them good. Jarvis had also expected to hear from the person who had done the moving. He had not, and this, in combination with the former, indicated only one thing: An interloper.

Jarvis had known this was a possibility, however remote. He did not recognize any specific names or addresses near where it had come to rest, but the location was not precise from this distance. He needed to be closer. And he needed a plan.

Stepping off the bus, Jarvis looked around warily and removed his sunglasses. The air was hot. The neighborhood was just down the road. Jarvis stepped off, admiring the lush, green environs of southern California and going over potential prepared scenarios in his mind. All ended with his retrieving the piece, one way or another, depending upon what the situation required. As a last resort, he was prepared to pay for it, but he hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. 

Entering the neighborhood, Jarvis pulled out his phone and opened the app. According to the map, he was nearly standing on it.

Wait…It wasn’t in a house? Jarvis kept walking, slowly, surveying the black-mulched landscaping along the sidewalk in front of the home before him. Nothing. He scanned more thoroughly. There it was! In the shade of a large hasta. Unbelievable! Jarvis looked around briefly, but didn’t break stride, continuing to the back of the neighborhood through the roundabout. There was no one around, but waiting for the cover of darkness was always best in his estimation. No homes had been built back here yet, and the area was overgrown, providing suitable cover for Jarvis’s pup tent. He made camp there in the shade and napped all afternoon and evening, waking sometime in The Small Hours of the morning.

Jarvis stretched and packed his tent. He donned his mask again -wouldn’t want to catch covid, after all- and made his way to the entrance of the neighborhood and nonchalantly climbed up into the large bed bordering the property. He slung the backpack off his back, loaded it with that which had moved, and calmly returned to the bus stop. What a rush! It was 24 hours, but no one was working at this early hour. Jarvis paid $2.25 for the worst cup of coffee ever from a vending machine there in the lobby and waited.

In the coming days, he would return it to its rightful place, quite sure the previous possessor would be unlikely to suspect it having returned from whence it came. He was equally sure they would be unlikely to find it a second time without the instructions. This person obviously had no idea what it was, or if they did, they were unaware of its value. This was no mere landscape decoration. Jarvis' early-morning activities could have earned a second degree grand larceny charge in a state like NY. In CA, this was still felony grand theft, but fortunately, only he knew that. They would likely consider the theft of their "cool looking rock they found on vacation" an act of petty teen vandalism and not report it. Hell, it could be days or weeks before they even notice.

Jarvis understood someone picking it up, though. It was strange, unique, and beautifully sculpted. Dark. Heavy. As ancient as the universe; older than Earth itself. Upon arriving at the spot, Jarvis decided that this person must have literally tripped over it. The progressive growth and death of vegetation had all but covered the spot. During the summer months, it was well protected from sight by the brush and tall grasses. One could be ten feet away and not have a line of sight. When the overgrowth began to die back each year, however… Yes, Jarvis imagined it would be more easily found during the winter months. Now, once again, it sat plainly upon the earth in that spot he had chosen, a spot that the initiated would know that it decidedly had no business being.

Jarvis paused to reflect a moment in that place, taking it all in. How small it seemed sitting there under that huge sky. What an adventure this was turning out to be. If those participating only knew! Someday, they might. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. He decided to share this little episode with them, thinking they might get a laugh out of it. Jarvis took four steps away from the specimen before turning and looking for it. It was already out of sight. It was unthinkable that someone had just happened upon this very spot, but then again, truth was certainly stranger than fiction.

Jarvis arrived home, retrieved the Faraday bag containing his phone and inserted the battery. He turned it on and checked the app. Yep, still there. He laughed softly, wondering if the person who had decorated their home with it had even noticed it was missing yet. This could have been a much more difficult or disappointing situation. As it was, everything was back to zero. Jarvis frowned.

A box of journals had been lost a while back. They were left behind in an old home, along with some other basic housewares and castoff possessions. Jarvis wondered what the new owners did with them. They had no way of knowing what they were short of reading them, and to be kind, they didn’t seem like the reading sort. They likely ended up in the trash, but Jarvis liked to think that they just shoved the box in a closet somewhere, and that there they’d wait, for who knows how long. 

This was one of the most unbiased ways of letting the universe have its way with the project that Jarvis could think of. He was determined to slowly disperse them one way or another. A few had been surreptitiously placed on public library shelves; in the Mystery section, of course. Those who wanted one could still get one, though, as long as Jarvis had them. They take up space, you understand. And they’re heavy. And they’re the key to life-changing treasures with a story sure to fascinate the world, whenever it’s finally told. Jarvis wasn’t sure that anything he’d done actually mattered, but maybe it did. Jarvis would let the universe decide, in its own time. Truth will out.

Fusajiro woke early as he usually did. He put on his robe and started coffee. As he waited, he glanced around at his simple living quarters. Where he’d once found comfort in the rare antiques and collectibles that surrounded him, he now found comfort in the sparsely furnished room with its bare white walls. Simple. Easy. Light. Unburdened. Free. The older he got, the heavier “stuff” became.

The pursuit of stuff was entertaining for a while, but after a time it bored Fusajiro. Always, always. Every single time. Fusajiro found purpose in the day-to-day struggle that he so loathed. It gave him meaning. Motivated him. Success was boring. Chasing success was exciting, if not enjoyable.

How many times had he created a character in an RPG, played to a certain high level, then blew it all up to start over due to boredom? Plenty. The excitement of starting again was irresistible. Success had nearly killed him. Anytime he began to be comfortable, he would abandon that measure of wealth or give it away to people who were also starting over or otherwise in need. The joy of giving is so much greater than the joy of getting. Fusajiro enjoyed the act of getting until he had enough, and he didn’t need much. Then he enjoyed the act of giving for the same reason.

Fusajiro had found lots of interesting things over the decades he’d been a searcher, but one in particular dominated his thoughts this morning. He remembered gazing into the monitor all those years ago, struggling to understand what exactly had happened. Had someone died? That had to have been it. No one would so casually discard such a thing. Right?

Then again, the thing had been in his own possession for nearly a year and Fusajiro hadn’t even known. It was rather non-descript and unlikely to have any value, though. He could understand someone throwing it out. Amazing it hadn’t been, honestly, if the person had indeed died. It had all begun so innocuously.

Fusajiro was…different. He didn’t know anyone that approached life as he did. Approached wasn’t even really the right word. Maybe it was more accurate to say that Fusajiro didn’t know anyone who coped with life the way he did. “Approach” implied a certain understanding, confidence to engage, and a chosen method. There was no “approach”. This was the only path. Life happened TO Fusajiro. He certainly was not in control. He had been thrust into this world with its unwritten rules for success and happiness and was just feeling his way along in the dark. Occasionally, he tripped over something. This time, it was a small black box.

That particular Friday morning in August eight years ago had been just like the others before it. Fusajiro had checked the newspaper classifieds for yard sales and estate sales in the area, then made the rounds. He probably found something good to resell at one out of every ten he attended. It was a grind, but one that he found at least a little interesting. Once he had bought a box of old kitchen stuff for $5 because he saw a Strawberry Shortcake lunch box in there. He had tried to buy just that lunch box, but the lady wanted to sell the whole box, so he took it. Also in that box had been a rare orange-bordered Scooby Doo lunch box from 1972, complete with thermos. He had gotten $650 for it. The Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox netted him just $40. Boxes of assorted junk had been good to him in the past. This was just one example.

Fusajiro had found everything from gold jewelry and 90% silver coins to binders of early Yugioh, Pokemon, and Magic: The Gathering cards. Treasure was everywhere if one only learned to see it. You wouldn’t believe what people sometimes gave away at sales like these. Just like Fusajiro couldn’t believe this.

The unassuming box had sat in the corner of an older home in small-town rural America, just waiting. Waiting for Fusajiro. This was his final stop that day, and he had walked through the home once already, just getting the lay of the land. Apparently, someone was moving or something. The entire home had been boxed up and people were digging through totes and loading antique furniture in a bustle of activity. Fusajiro had seen some NES games in a box he’d halfheartedly sifted through. “This is where they separate the men from the boys in treasure hunting,” he’d tried to tell himself as he hastily checked box after box, finding nothing.

He'd attempted to buy just the games, but the seller wanted to sell the entire box. It appeared to be full of office supplies; calculators, adding machines, various electronics cables, boxes of pens, pencils, rubber bands, and paperclips. As many of these were just loose in the box as well. Hey, maybe there was a gold ring in the bottom somewhere or something. Fusajiro handed over the $20 bill in exchange for the box and went back to his car.

Digging out the NES games, Fusajiro tossed aside some smaller containers of office supplies, a snarl of cables, and a black plastic box with ports on it. Jackal was a great game, but not very valuable. Fusajiro remembered playing it in his youth. Super Mario Brothers was another classic, but again, not very valuable. These two finds alone probably made the purchase worth it, though. The best were the Dragon Warrior games. III and IV brought $100-$200 each. Great games, and they came out late in the NES lifecycle, so not many were sold. Fusajiro was satisfied and went on home, sitting the box on his back step until he had time to go through it, or maybe he’d just sit it out for the trash in the morning.

Nearly a year later, Fusajiro was very glad to have decided to go through the box. Really, he hadn’t even decided to go through it. He just needed an older USB cable to update a guitar effects pedal and decided to check that box. It was then that he again noticed the black box with ports on it and had gotten curious. It looked like an external hard drive. Fusajiro wondered if the capacity was large enough to be useful. Plugging it in, it was nearly a terabyte. Fusajiro thought the box a bit large for a terabyte, so it was probably older. Only roughly half the memory had been used, mostly by mp3’s. Someone’s music library, it seemed. And a strange text file titled, “seed”, containing some random words. And a crypto wallet that was later determined to contain exactly ten Bitcoins.

Fusajiro had heard of cryptocurrencies. He didn’t really understand all the ins and outs, but he knew that some people found value in crypto. Personally, Fusajiro had no confidence in anything he couldn’t hold in his hand. Apparently, the previous owner of this drive had disagreed, or perhaps bought in for a pittance before Bitcoin got huge. Fusajiro hadn’t been sure what a bitcoin was worth at that time, so he looked. $1,000!?!? A thousand dollars bought an ounce of gold, for crying out loud, he thought. Who is paying that for crypto? Fusajiro was skeptical. He’d found a $10,000 hard drive? At a yard sale. No way, right? Best thing he’d found to that date, for sure.

A month later, Fusajiro had made his first withdrawal from a Bitcoin ATM. Hard to believe there was such a thing and that one of those was all the way out where he was, but apparently cryptocurrency was becoming more mainstream. He’d just bought pizza with something that didn’t even exist, in his mind. Thinking about it, he decided fiat currency really wasn’t that different. But people seemed to view crypto like bullion, not fiat currency. Fusajiro guessed time would tell if crypto would act as a safe haven like bullion, or whether value would come from confidence only, as with the American dollar since 1971. He had expected the latter.

Fusajiro had been tempted to cash it all out to buy gold coins. Turn that nothingness into something tangible before a solar flare rendered it worthless. But he hadn’t. He’d bought a few ounces, but Fusajiro left over half of it in the wallet. Just in case. One never knew. It was around that time that he began to think about hiding it.

Fast forwarding back to the present, Fusajiro sipped his morning coffee and chuckled to himself, thinking back to that day when he had peered into his computer monitor in disbelief. He decided to check Bitcoin values for the first time in very a long time and promptly soiled himself. He then changed his shorts, soiled those as well, and changed again. Holy Moly. The black box had been a comparable prize to the dark or the light when he had published his book. Maybe slightly larger. Three solid prizes, in his mind. No longer. The black box had become the main prize, and it wasn’t close, even though the others had also apparently increased in value. This was somewhat troublesome.

Fusajiro had intended the black box to be an afterthought for searchers. This development changed everything. 

Everyone would be looking for the black box, not the others. Would people even still care about any of the other four? Seeking first the black box would be like only looking for the blaze in that other guy’s hunt. At least, Fusajiro was pretty sure that was the case. He had been surprised by the ingenuity of searchers before. What if people decided to try and forgo the others and jump straight to the box? The box held everything but the other treasures. Photos, documents, marked maps, the entire solution, the explanation for everything…as well as the justification. The manifesto… Evidence, all of it. Enough to put him away for the duration.

Fusajiro wasn’t threatened by the thought of spartan living, free room and board, hot meals, and access to higher education on the public’s dime. Fusajiro lived much like that now, only without the “free” part. Or hot meals. Sure, he was currently free to come and go as he pleased, but he had been so for 50 years. He was at that stage in life where you’d rather just stay home and read anyway. It seemed that in this life, one could either be free or get things for free. Not both. No, Fusajiro just didn’t want it to end before more people had a chance to search and have this experience. He guessed people might seek out his book after the fact, though. Morbid curiosity sells a lot of books and other media. He imagined those with copies should be able to get back out of them what they put in at that point, at least. The race to the other four treasures would be entertaining, too, he guessed. Fusajiro was pretty sure you got to watch the news in jail.

People were sure to search the image now, and then they’d know more about the veritable Box of Orden, its contents, the exact amount of Bitcoin, and everything else, bringing the wrath. They’d discover his cowardice. What was done was done, Fusajiro thought, and besides, he still planned to go through with the last part, just… not yet.

Fusajiro pulled out his phone and checked the all-seeing eyes that kept it secret; kept it safe. Still there. The area was somewhat crowded, even in that weather, as it seemed always to be.

Fusajiro finished his coffee and put on some worn cotton shorts and one of his old, stained t-shirts. He grabbed his bucket hat, donned his ratty walking shoes, and crumpled a hundred-dollar bill into his pocket. He should probably shave, but what for? He knew he looked homeless, but that enhanced the surprise when he approached someone actually homeless and silently handed them the bill and walked away. One day Fusajiro might be like them, and he hoped someone would do something like that for him. Just a random act of kindness. Far preferable to wealth and possessions. It just felt so good. So...right.

Fusajiro checked his mail and discovered an interesting letter from someone who had apparently solved The Message in Red. He smiled. This person or their group would have some valuable insight into his mindset at the time he began this endeavor, as well as on one of the puzzles inside.

He’d received just a few pieces of mail in the past couple of years. People sharing their progress in the book. Fusajiro thought that was fun. He pulled a few of them to peruse. 

Someone had solved the Enochian cipher. He wondered if they did it as intended or if they were able to come in the back door somehow. He wondered the same about the people who had solved the Theban puzzle. 

Fusajiro cocked his head as he remembered the lemon juice message he’d added to early orders. He wondered if it had become visible yet. It took some time for the oxygen to activate it, and the book had to be open for that to happen quickly. He’d wanted the book to talk to the reader after a time, like Tom Riddle’s diary; to give them a helpful hint. No one had mentioned it thus far. Perhaps it hadn’t been necessary. Everyone seemed to have found most of what it hinted at, anyway.

Early orders had also gotten a specific kind of pencil that he himself had sharpened with his own pocketknife. Their books had been packaged in a certain way as well. Fusajiro had wanted to reward those who supported him early, even if those perks weren’t required to solve the puzzles. Besides, Fusajiro had fun with all of that. He wondered if anyone had later thought to check the packing materials with UV light, only to remember that they’d already thrown them away. Fusajiro chuckled again.

Going back to the letters, he saw that some had solved their bookmarks and retrieved the words eight. None had, at that time, divined their meaning, or if they did, they didn’t say. Likewise for the cryptic chapter heading symbols. Five tower riddles solved between all of the letters he’d received, but no more than four from any one person or group. Too bad they weren’t working together. Fusajiro was unsurprised that no one had been able to do anything with less than at least six of the seven, though. He thought six might be enough to make the connection.

Someone had solved Death's puzzle and no others, but three of their tower riddle solves were correct.

It appeared that puzzles like The Itinerary, The Star Map, The Missive, The Diverse Tower, Poor Edward, The Mountain, and Pieces of Eight were still a mystery to those precious few searching. Fusajiro was somewhat surprised. He’d hinted at the key to these puzzles and more in several of his short stories. Repeatedly. The entire thing had become a bit of a running theme at this point, in his mind. No one had luck with the copper plaque, either, it appeared. From the website, Reverie and The Hard Goodbye had also apparently gone unsolved thus far. Or maybe their solvers had not contacted him. Fusajiro just hoped everyone was entertained.

He was somewhat disappointed that no one had even mentioned the space between FA and Q on the website. Come on. That’s funny. Oh well.

Some less obvious puzzles in the book didn’t even receive a mention from anyone. Yet. Like the simply hidden one leading to the black rock. The first letters of a few words in a sentence. Not too difficult, right?

Eventually, it would all come out, Fusajiro was sure. And then the dominoes would fall for some well-rounded searcher, he was sure. Sooner or later, Truth will out, thought Fusajiro, beginning his morning stroll to the library. He gulped. Truth will out. Unless there was a giant solar flare, of course.

Sam, ever the zoomer, sped into Brantris with a screech. She leapt from her conveyance, landing dramatically on one knee and pulled out a Mellow Yello. She wasn’t a ripper like Zeb or a waver like Rio, whom she lovingly regarded as Memu and Geega, respectively, but she was no slouch. She stared at the text block on the back of her container and nodded knowingly.  Sam tossed her drink aside and grabbed her side hopper, ready to begin the black raid.

“This is neither fun nor fair,” said Sam grimly. 

“Mella Nova ran the gamet and found a dragon playing a viola, so calm down,” said Zeb.

Sam thought quickly. “Zebbo!” She said sharply, doing her best impersonation of Lou Holtz. “We have to help Leyenda."

"It was a brain fart, okay, Sam? A total and two parts. A simple mistake. I just wasn't thinking," Zeb explained.

"Calm down. It's done, okay?" replied Sam, glancing over to the container. "Let's just make the correction."

Unfortunately, in order to rid Leyenda of her first rink, a team, she had to find a brain in a jar. This was no easy task. It would be a thrilling battle, and she would go alone. Time was of the essence. The faster, the better. If it was fast enough, maybe she’d take her clothes off and surprise everyone.

12-13-14-4-5-25-17-11-15-6-15-18-1-2-29-7-16-28-43-26-11-70-3-7-10-17-5-10

The sound of rehearsal filled his theater, and deep below, Erik was ensconced in thought. It was not the beginning. But it was a beginning. 

An amused look graced his features. It had only been a matter of time, of course. The second act had finally concluded, and patrons had veritably stormed the venue during the intermission in hopes of gaining entry for the third act. The entire front section had sold out in minutes, he’d been told.

Well, that wasn’t completely true. Eric caressed the Punjab cord at his waist, almost lovingly. He had kept three for himself. One was a copy of that score that he had not processed because it had a few blank pages in it. It was the only flawed score in that lot. 

There was also a single comb-bound rough draft copy he'd printed for his beloved dying grandmother. It had not been processed, but contained many things that were later changed. He hadn't cared if anyone else ever read his work. To be certain she could, he had made this copy. She had died not long after. She liked it. That had meant the world to Erik.

Lastly, there was one other copy remaining: The prototype. Erik gulped and shifted uncomfortably before finally standing and beginning to pace, his boots echoing through the dungeon of his glad despair. A flick of his wrist and the cord became a lasso. Another, and he fluidly mounted the cord on his belt again. Keep your hand at the level of your eye.

The prototype was a normal score, identical to all the others in its printing, but he had...experimented…on it. He had processed it like the others, but this had been his first try. It contained ideas, hints, concepts, and yes, even a puzzle, all abandoned in successive copies. Information. Hints he had decided not to use for one reason or another. If any of the early arrival scores were special, it was this one.

Well, and maybe the one that he messed up in and so decided to write a comical apology. Erik chuckled a deep, melodic tenor. That score went out randomly, though. He didn’t know who got that one, but it contained no unique information.

Had some of the hints and puzzles in the prototype been discarded because, upon further reflection, they were too overt? Too pointed? Had some revealed too much? Absolutely. Without question. Erik shuddered visibly. He needed some air.  He would go above, visit his Box, and see what he could see.

He slid open the viewport and peered through the slit in the column. Boxes 1-7 were full, save Box 5, of course, which was reserved for him and him alone. Boxes 8-14 were a complete mystery to him. Boxes 15-20 were filling up fast. Eric’s gaze slid to the roped-off overflow balcony above. The cheap seats. The seats weren’t bad, understand. There wasn’t a bad seat in the house. They just weren’t as good. The Box seats, however…

Erik had randomly included something extra with some of the leather-bound scores. A small watercolor painting. A mischievous half-grin split his face. Some lucky performers were getting an exclusive hint for one of the puzzles; again, chosen at random. Erik wondered how each performer would handle their unique insight into one specific passage of the piece. Would they share it? Or would they keep their secret hint to themselves and publicly claim to not have received any painting? Everyone had plausible deniability. The hint had been given to each person alone, and they had not asked for it. Erik had made them take it. It was theirs to do as they pleased. What would you do?

The third act would begin soon, he was sure. He had been very vulnerable in his treatment of this section of the score. Erik would bare his soul in Act 3. It was already out there on the corner for any who wished to stomp on it, once they finally noticed.

“Let them,” Erik drawled quietly, absentmindedly thumbing the Punjab cord at his waist.  Erik slammed the viewport closed and retreated back down into darkness.