(You may want to read <a href="https://steemit.com/story/@imagin8orr/the-chronicles-of-max-chapter-one">Chapter One</a> to get up to speed with the story)
Max thought back to the other packages, lying unopened in his closet. He knew they were all from the man who approached him that day in the student union. The man's business card was unique in that it didn't have the typical company, name, address, emails and phone numbers. He dug it out of his drawer and stared at it for what must be the hundredth time. It was simple, pure. And unlike a typical business card, it was aligned vertically. An intricate logo of the Aztec sun god - black with a gold background - was centered near the top and below was a Twitter handle, "@Brunelleschi". None of the packages had a return address, but they each prominently displayed that logo, there was no mistaking who they were from.
Max had stared at the business card so many times, always contemplating its import. Could it really be true? Could it be the key to his future? The man spoke of incredible, fantastic things - unlimited possibilities. And Max felt himself drawn to the tale. He hadn't wanted to believe it could be true, that it may be possible, but now that the fourth package had arrived, he felt with growing certainty they weren't going to stop coming. He needed to make a choice. The time was now.
He pulled the other three packages out and laid them side by side on the counter, next to the fourth, in order of receipt. They were all cube-shaped and fairly small, incrementally sized, with the fourth being the biggest one yet. Max wondered what could be in them. The first package was the smallest, only seven inches across on each side. The second was a tad larger, at 11 inches. The third was bigger yet, at 13 inches a side. And the fourth, the fourth seemed significantly larger, at 17 inches a side.
Max selected the first package, sliding it to the counter in front of him. It was fairly light, but had some heft to it. He shook it slightly to get a sense of its contents. No strange sounds, nothing to give away what lay within. He reached for a kitchen knife and used it to slice the packing tape along the seams.The leafs of the box sprang open, released from their bondage. He opened one flap, then the other, and peered in. The box was filled with white packing peanuts, obscuring his view of its contents. He started carefully removing them, slowly revealing something that looked like curved glass. As he removed more peanuts, an orb began to reveal itself. Grasping the orb in his hand, he inverted the box, and lowered it free. It was a snow globe, mounted on base. Inside the globe was a little winter scene of a Victorian style house with stylized eaves and windows and a snowman outside, next to a tiny sleigh. The base read, "Santa's Workshop." He shook it, staring at the snow now floating around the inside. It distinctly reminded him of the time he and Anna had visited the "North Pole" store last year. The store had shelves and shelves of these things, and Anna spent at least thirty minutes shaking each different one up and gazing sentimentally into them. Could she somehow be involved in this? Curiosity piqued, he turned to the second package.
As he reached for the second package, he noticed that in his care to extract the snow globe unbroken from it's peanut nest, he had missed a small envelope that had fallen from the box onto the floor. He retrieved it and noted that the writing on the front, in elaborate and in a swirly cursive hand, read "Pacchetto Un, si prega di leggere." He opened it and extracted a small card with a single word on it...."Sacrifice". He started down at the card then back to the snow globe, with a distinctly uneasy feeling settling upon him.
Placing the card beside the globe, he scanned his memories to recall the moment he received the first email from "@Brunelleschi", directing him to the ornate pergola on the front lawn of the real estate office owned and operated by his sister. He had been terrified that day, waiting in his car in the shadows until work ended, and his sister and her employees had shut the lights, locked the doors and climbed into their cars for the night. He remembers feeling panic rise, bitter and metallic into his mouth, hoping against hope she was not involved, praying he could keep her far removed from all this.
He sat at the counter, trying to piece together the symbols that swirled in his head: A pergola, a real estate office, a snow globe with a Victorian house, and the singular word "Sacrifice" scrawled on the card. He closed his eyes and concentrated, visualizing a complete thought, allowing the symbols to swim and float into the proper order. He opened his eyes and in a flash, he instantly understood. Living in apartments since college, never being able to settle down in one place, feeling virtually unmoored and homeless as he floated from city to city - he suddenly understood that he had been forced to sacrifice the stability of being grounded, of owning a home and putting down roots, of having neighbors and a space that was his very own.
A chill ran through him, with the import that the word sacrifice brought about. He reached for package #2 and with a shaky hand, he grasped the kitchen knife and sliced open the box. This time, the box was full of balled up newsprint. He grasped wad after wad, tossing them on the floor, digging for the next clue. At the very bottom was a small lacquer box, with a hand painted picture of a fierce Japanese warrior on the lid. Max carefully lifted the box free and opened it. Inside was another small envelope, decorated with the same elaborate and in a swirly cursive hand, reading "Pacchetto Due, si prega di leggere." He opened it and extracted a similarly small card, again with a single word on it...."Sacrifice". The panic was back, this time firing his brain with the pattern, firmly taking hold now....email #2 had directed him to the Botanical Gardens, specifically to the Japanese serenity garden. His mind was a blur as he recalled that year that he had not been able to accept a job in Japan, to live abroad, to pursue his desire for design and travel. Sacrifice.
His legs weakened and he grasped the edge of the counter to lower himself to the stool. How could these packages be related to his past, to all the experiences he did not have, could not envision, like some fateful breeze that swept him up, tumbled him over and scattered him to the winds. He glanced at Package #3 and deep in the pit of his stomach he speculated upon the demon awaited. Email #3 had sent him to the base of large grove of aspen trees in the park he used to frequent with friends in his single days. Anger rose warm and fast, driving an adrenaline rush that caused his hands to shake and tear at Package #3. The knife slipped in his haste, tearing into his finger, releasing the red in a slow oozing puddle. Grasping the flaps he plunged his hands into the box, leaving bloody smears, and removed something rectangular, thoroughly encased in bubble wrap.
He tore at the plastic pouch, ripping the wrapping free. His eyes began to water as he realized he was holding a framed photograph, blurry from both the lack of focus of the camera that caught it, and from the salty tears that streamed down his cheeks. It was a photo of a man and a woman, standing on a balcony, overlooking the ocean. The man was embracing the woman from behind. The photo was clearly taken from a vantage just below and slightly diagonal from the couple. There was an inscription along the bottom edge of the frame that read: "To my Mobius Doodle - Our love is Infinite. Anna." Tucked in the bottom flap of the box was the edge of a small envelope, exactly like the first two. Max dropped the frame, glass shattering across their faces.
He reached down to pick up the shattered picture, pulled the envelope free and opened it, half expecting to see the word "Sacrifice" again. Again, there was one word, scripted in ornate calligraphy: "Betrayal." He reeled. Taking care not to cut himself again, he gingerly pulled the glass shards from the frame and put the photo back on the counter.
He took a moment to address the cut on his finger, running it under cold water to clean it and slow the bleeding. While he was rinsing, his mind was racing. Why are these packages, these items, pressing all his buttons, triggering such memories? Who was this Brunelleschi, and how did he know so much about Max? He was unnerved. The bleeding was now stemmed and he turned his attention to the fourth package.
Package #4 was the largest of the set. He hefted it in his hands, getting a sense of it's weight - it was significant. Trembling slightly, he reached for the knife and began to slice it open. This one was filled with packing foam, which he slowly removed. Inside was a small Native American statue of a pipe-playing dancer, rust-colored and cut with a torch from plate steel. He recognized it immediately. He searched the box, looking for the expected envelope, and didn't find one. Turning the statue around in his hands, he inverted it. Affixed to the bottom was the envelope.
He pulled the envelope free, contemplating it in his hand for a moment before opening it. He reached in and removed the card. It read, "Kokopelli."
Memories of Moab instantly fired when he saw the statue. It was the first time he had ever been mountain biking. He and three of his buddies attempted to bike the 92 miles across the desert from Colorado to Moab years ago. Finding bike paths overrun by rivers overflowing with snow runoff that turned the rivers muddy and flooded their banks. Having to bushwhack their way around the mesas, finding an alternate route, safe river crossings. Only having the map from a restaurant placemat to guide them. Seeking refuge from the burning midday sun in a train tunnel. Listening at the tracks for any oncoming train before sprinting through the darkness, knowing they'd be trapped if a train came before they reached the other side, a half mile away. Nearly dying from lack of hydration because the muddy waters clogged their only filter, requiring an hour of pumping to filter one quart of water, which was desperately shared amongst the four of them. Reaching the half-way checkpoint after two days of riding, collapsing on the ground and waiting for the support van to arrive. Giving up on riding the rest of the way, taking the van the rest of the way. Finally reaching Moab, collapsing into beds in a hotel room. Taking showers and drinking lots of water - cold, glorious water. Recovering overnight and then venturing out into the canyons again the next day. Riding the 26 mile Slick Rock trail, where huge, smooth, rock formations burst from the sandy ground along the rims of deep canyons. Were the guys somehow involved? Could all of this be a prank they were playing on him, just fucking with his mind?
Deep down, he knew this wasn't a prank. This was serious, deadly serious. He replayed the events in his mind: Four packages. So far. Each with a message, an icon from his past. Sacrifice was mentioned twice. Does each have a different meaning? Or maybe the repetition served only to reinforce the word, remind him not to forget it. The "Betrayal" one filled him with a sense of foreboding. He was no stranger to betrayal, was it just another reminder? They all came from his past, so he thought it must be so. And what the fuck did Kokopelli have to do with the other three? Anna was involved in this, somehow. He was sure now. His heart skipped a beat when he thought of her, still...
<b>Tune in next time for the further adventures of Max! What do the packages mean? Who is Anna? WTF is going on? :)</b>