Nothing to Lose

No human with the base necessities for life could fathom this much discomfort. As he limped down Atlantic Avenue, wind from the harbor pierced through his clothing. He stopped, and tilted his gaze towards the federal reserve building.

His state of mind was difficult to describe. Calm and blank, like the snowflakes falling from the sky, but, lost and frenetic like the wind whipping through the alleyways. He was unemployed, after all.

The building stood ominously against the gray sky. In his mind, strikingly symbolic of the tight-knit network of wealth housed within. He lowered his head and kept walking. He turned right on Congress Street, but, just before the bridge, it hit him. Wind that smacked the air out of his chest. There was a bare pavilion on his left. He quickly staggered over, and crouched in the fetal position against the two-foot stone walls. As his eyes eventually rose, the infamous yellow boat attached to the Boston Tea Party Museum centered his frame of vision. He grinned.

Eventually, he doubled back, taking a left on Purchase Street, and a right on Essex; walking until the road turned into Boylston Street. The trudge continued. Several blocks later, paying no time or attention to the stores around him, he reached the steps of the Boston Public Library.

At this time of year, the majority of students had retreated to their familial homes for the holidays, and the locals were holed up in their habitats. The great room of the library was completely empty, and most importantly, warm. He set his belongings down at the far end of the hall near the cupola, his favorite space in the room. The environment, warm, grand, and vacant, reignited a feeling of wonder and excitement. Shelves full of books, most of which he’d read, eased the gnawing loneliness. Much like sitting in a room of old friends unencumbered by a lull in conversation.

Starting in that ‘cupola corner’, he moved left along the shelves, scanning the titles illuminated by the light of the orbs. This is fairly odd, he thought, stopping at the middle column of shelves, unexpected pairings. The rows contained non-alphabetized texts, varying in subject matter. Newton’s Principia Mathematica, Dirac’s Principles of Quantum Mechanics, Einstein’s Relativity were uniquely accompanied by Buehrens’ A Chosen Faith, and translations of the seminal religious texts. His eyes scanned each title in the shelf, from top to bottom, and back again from bottom to top; slowing and oscillating back and forth at the divide between the dichotomy. As he moved closer, he realized the small black divide wasn’t actually the blackness of space between books. This particular slice of black was a small, thin, leather-bound notebook. Stepping backwards he slid the binding from the cover. A simple message occupied the front page:

For the courageous one, the righteous one. Borromean Spawn - As you know, life is not for the faint of heart. Success follows those who seek it.

Through the rift of the house of three, past the symbol of ancestral faith. You will sit beneath stained glass, and the folly of man. Forward to unitas. We shall sing.

Rips along the spine indicated that the following pages had been ripped out, and the remaining were simply blank. He walked slowly back to the corner. The language was peculiar, but particular. There was no way to know how long the book had been resting, the cover was mildly weathered. He chuckled to himself - reminiscent of a string of clues, like National Treasure. A wide grin was cemented on his face. He had very little to lose, plus, he was fairly certain what the passage was pointing to. Borromean was tied to Borromean Rings, three interlocked circles. Originally, this symbol served as a coat of arms for the Italian House of Borromeo; however, since, the notation inherited scientific AND religious significance. “Success follows those who seek it.” Hopefully this hints that there is a hidden treasure - he thought, laughing audibly. The lone strangers seated within the hall turned to look. He looked down at the passage. The “house of three”, “faith”, “stained glass”. This must refer to the Trinity Church. Simply excited by the possibilities, he grabbed his bag and coat and left Bates Hall. The church is literally one of the only other places I’ll be able to warm-up with little money to spend - he thought, starting the trip across the road.

The doors creaked as he entered the church. Taking his time, he walked straight down the hall towards the stained glass windows. A large gold cross hung below. Sure enough, the pew on his immediate left was engraved with the Borromean Rings. He walked up to the altar, getting closer to the stained glass, not sure what he was looking for. His chin rose to analyze the romantic depictions of biblical scenes. Turning his head, from center to far-right, and far-right to far-left, he looked down in solemn frustration. As he spun to his left, he noticed an engraving at the foot of the altar, hardly visible from his current position. He walked up, and looked down: triangles in the Borromean formation, colored gold, blue, and red. The gold equilateral at the center linked the other two; the red triangle pointed right, and the blue pointed left. Reaching into the chest pocket of his jacket, he removed the leather book; slowly walking towards the pew to his right. As he sat down, his knee hit a book of hymns stuffed in an attached leather pouch. He removed the book, but the action made a specific sound. Leather against leather doesn’t produce a scraping sound. He slowly put the book back in the pouch, only to hear, again, an almost undetectable scraping and crunching. Once again, he removed the book, and pulled back the pouch. Inside was an internal pouch, which, as he fingered, contained a page, the top of which was tattered by friction.

The center is the key. Unitas.

Inside the home of the reflection, lies one of these.

It began in the center. 5 left of 0. 8 greater than 5.

Moving back to center, will help one find where this key lies.

This is a bit more cryptic - he thought, staring at the passage. “the home of the reflection”. The last two lines seemed to be directions. He sat in silence, thinking about what had transpired. And then, a light bulb moment occurred, flashing back to the shelf where he had found this mysterious black book. The odd collection of books. There is a reflecting pool adjacent to the Christian Science Church. After some deliberation, and, considering he was currently sitting in a church, he decided to move in that direction.

The quest continued - a left on Boylston, right on Ring, and a left on Huntington. The wind pierced his soul, as his feet slipped and shuffled through the snow. He could barely feel his body as he approached the reflecting pool. Instantaneously, he lurched to get inside the church as if he was the last number waiting for a bed at the homeless shelter.

Standing at the center column of pews, looking down towards the altar, he reached into his jacket to retrieve the book. His fingers were barely able to flip the first page. He turned the words over in his mind - “Began in the center. 5 left of 0. 8 greater than 5. Moving back to center, will help one find where this key lies.” Suddenly he noticed - five columns of pews made up the center array. Considering his right as zero, he moved to the fifth column on his left, and up to the eighth row. And back across to the center… He sat down in the pew, elbows on knees, head down. At least there are cushions.

He decided to lay down and warm up. With his face towards the back of the pew, he fidgeted to get comfortable. And that’s when he noticed - a small braid protruding from the far corner of the cushion. The same emerald green worn by the cushions. It practically looked like a loose thread. He tugged at the string, and sure enough, out popped a key. He closed his eyes and began to laugh at the ridiculousness of this quest. Turning his body upward to face the curved walls of the church’s domed ceiling, he looked closer at the key. Finely inscribed were the words:

Our true kingdom, and church, is all around. The common ground.

Those who realize will find what is to be found.

His eyes slowly closed, already understanding where he needed to look. But the weather was harsh, and there was no guaranteed protection from the elements on this leg of the journey. Beaten by the day, he closed his eyes and drifted away.

“Let’s go bud. You can’t sleep here!”

He was shook awake by a security guard. Confused, he stood up. With nowhere to go, and still, nothing to lose, his traipse through the city began.

By the time he reached the Boston Common, it was starting to get dark, but still dimly lit by lamps and city lights. There was no starting point, he just began to wander the maze of paths. The cold was unbearable at this point. If he didn’t find shelter soon, he could freeze to death. Quickly, he dropped his bag and pulled out his security, a thick wool blanket. Last winter, in Maine, he cut a hole in the center to fashion a makeshift poncho. This will help, for now.

Having circled the southern portion of the park, he crossed the baseball field on the north side, and approached the northeastern edge.

Just ahead was an amphitheatre, a domed structure, ornately decorated, and supported by robust columns. Laying under the dome would expose me to the harsh elements of night.

As he circled the stone base, he stopped abruptly. A small downward sloping staircase protected by stone. A perfect barricade. The steps led to, in comparison, a much larger door forged in, what appeared to be, weathered copper. He pulled a tarp from his knapsack, and began fastening the fabric across the stone walls, forming a small but cozy enclosure. Squatting down, he began to stretch out his legs when his left heel hit something that produced a noise that rattled against the stone walls. He grunted, his hands fumbled around where his feet should be, and clasped around a cold metal box. He unfastened one side of the enclosure to let light inside.

In his hands lay this intricately-crafted metal box, the freemason symbol etched front-and-center. I can’t believe how today unfolded. The same weathered copper as the door that gates whatever is beneath this amphitheatre. His thumb grazed a small key hole. He slowly pulled out the black book, removing the key. It took him three attempts to get the key to its rightful destination. His numb fingers began to warm up; his heartbeat sped up.

The concept of time evaporated from his conscious mind. His eyes were glued to the contents of the box, and his mouth dropped lower. Stacks of Jacksons, clasped by solid metal clips. He slowly pulled out each of the bands - $20,000. There was a page at the bottom of the box, inscribed with the Borromean Rings. As he pulled out this piece of paper, he noticed a second, with yet another message. However, this time, with ecstatic urgency, he shoved the pages into the black book, locked the box, and placed both in his bag. He closed his eyes.

All he could think about was warm summers in the Boston Common, the park filled with people. He could almost feel the warm breeze, could faintly hear the music of buskers.