Scene II

After leaving the castle and breaking the centuries-long covenant of Father’s bloodline, I had immersed myself in the knowledge of the outside world. A part of me had believed that the whole notion of the Internet was just a cruel joke that adults tell children, in the same vein as ghost stories and tall tales. But it was real, and as much of a near-infinite wellspring as everyone had made it out to be. Besides playing around with the devices that Father’s guests had brought to show my family, I had never learned to use a computer or a smartphone. I could never have imagined that the millions of tomes’ equivalent of knowledge on an old hard drive could be dwarfed by the torrent of data flooding each and every second through a fiberglass cable connection.

With eleven billion people scouring the Internet for fresh content, the daily tabloids and cat videos posted in a single year made up hundreds of exabytes - and was quickly nearing the zettabytes. With the sheer volume of information available, it was a miracle that it could all be indexed by search engines, the boatmen who ferried me to mystical lands within milliseconds. After getting my first laptop — a MacBook, a most delectable forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge — many days and nights were spent on Google, searching any and all questions that popped into my head.

It was during that sleepless period that I learned, in an article about Isaac Newton’s life and legacy, that the oft-repeated apple story was apocryphal. The main source, I gathered, was Catherine Barton, Newton’s beautiful niece who provided directly to Voltaire that famous account about her uncle. And though I wanted to trust that she was telling the truth, it was wishful thinking to believe that a popular socialite could not spin a tale now and then.

This all came to mind as I strolled outside Woolsthorpe Manor, the birthplace and family residence of Isaac Newton. After trying and failing to get a good shot of Newton at work indoors, all that was left was outdoors. It was said that it was from the branches of the tree in the garden that an apple fell. If it did ever happen, it must have been during those precious years away from Cambridge, while Europe was afflicted by the bubonic plague. A fence surrounded the tree’s perimeter, preventing visitors from sitting under it like Newton might have. How lonely it must be to be cordoned from the world with a wooden enclosure that did no justice to its timeless majesty.

Seeing the formidable plant that had stood proudly for centuries, outlasting the pitiful lifespans of noble men and vast kingdoms, I thought of those verses penned by Lord Byron:

When Newton saw an apple fall, he found
In that slight startle from his contemplation —
'Tis said (for I'll not answer above ground
For any sage's creed or calculation) —
A mode of proving that the Earth turned round
In a most natural whirl, called "gravitation";
And this is the sole mortal who could grapple,
Since Adam — with a fall — or with an apple.

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose,
If this be true; for we must deem the mode
In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose
Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road,
A thing to counterbalance human woes:
For, ever since, immortal man hath glowed
With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon
Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon.

While I silently appreciated the poetic weight of the serene stage before me — one that rivaled even the paradise left behind by Man’s exile from Eden — a family of four also approached the fence. The father grinned at his wide-eyed son and daughter and pointed at the tree. Forced to eavesdrop, I noticed their American accents.

"It was while sitting right there that an apple hit Mr. Newton right on the head! And what did he say?"

"‘Eureka!’"

The two children’s proud mother beamed and linked arms with her husband. Meanwhile, I adjusted the exposure on my camera.

"Excuse me, miss. Could you take a photo for us?"

Realizing a beat late that she was talking to me, I met the mother’s eye and mustered a polite response.

"I—"

"Here, let me give you my phone. One second." Her husband produced a flip phone from his pocket and handed it to me. "Do you know how to use it?"

With no more reason to refuse, I accepted their request. "I can figure it out."

After some fiddling around, I took five pictures of the family. The first was by accident, the second was out of focus, the third was slanted, and the fourth was great. The fifth, I took just in case.

"My jaw hurts from smiling," the young boy whined.

"Shush, now." His mother chided him gently. "She did us a big favor."

"But Mommy," said the daughter, "they’re just photos."

The father knelt down and spoke softly. "They’re not just photos, dear. They’re mementos."

"Mentos?" The boy perked up. "Like the things you put into Coke?

His mother giggled, but quickly composed herself. "No, silly. Like frozen memories. Snapshots in time that fit in the palm of your hand."

"I want to hold them!" the girl exclaimed. "Can I hold them, Mommy?"

"Of course, dear. But first, what do we say to the kind stranger?"

The young girl stepped forward and spoke to me with upturned eyes. "Thank you for the memories."

Was I ever as adorable as her? A smile crept onto my face, and there I allowed it to stay. "The pleasure is mine." 

I gave the flip phone to the girl, who excitedly brought it to her mother. Her father, meanwhile, laughed to himself. "Heh-heh. Can you believe Nokia still sells models with that design?"

"I had no idea."

"The lens and the software are new, but there’s still something nice about holding onto a piece of the past." He pointed at the Polaroid. "But I’m preaching to the choir. You seem to like vintage technology, yourself."

I wiped away a speck of dust off the top of the camera. "There is a certain charm to it, yes."

Just then, I felt a tug on my laboratory coat. "Excuse me. You dropped this." 

I looked over and saw the boy holding a Polaroid print. Rather hastily, I took it back and stuffed it into my back pocket. The father sighed and furrowed his brow.

"Son, what did I say about touching things that aren’t yours?" 

"But it was on the ground!" he protested.

I, noticing that I was holding my breath, exhaled slowly. He did not see anything, I convinced myself.

"He is right. That was my own fault." I bent down and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. "Thank you. You are a nice child."

His mood brightened. "It fell because of gravity, you know!"

The man shrugged and put his hands on his son’s shoulders. "They’ve been interested in science ever since watching Bill Nye."

I did not know who that was, but nodded with a knowing expression.

"The older one said he wants to become a scientist. Do research in a lab somewhere."

"In outer space!"

"Yes, yes. In outer space." 

As if to find his son’s future workplace, the man looked up at the sky. 

"Pushing humanity forward is great and all. But you know what I think? Young people need to learn to look back first. Only then can we all be ready for the challenges up ahead. The future will always be out there waiting for us, so it would do some good for everyone to slow down and think about the past." He looked at me with a wistful air. "The way I see it, why give up on old magic for new science before at least trying to keep both?"

Little did he know that among those who willingly relinquished magic for science, I was the worst of them all.

After some more idle talk — I learned that they were Canadians visiting family in Lincolnshire — we parted ways. As they headed to the farmhouse, the boy spoke to his parents loudly enough for me to overhear.

"Luckily the photo didn’t hit anyone, or else they’d yell ‘Eureka’! Just like Newton did."

Catherine’s fib lives on, I mused while walking to the parking lot. Fact is often weirder than fiction, but weirdness is hardly a mark of craftsmanship. And well-crafted fiction wins against fact whenever and wherever we seek not the latter.

As much as I wanted to stay around longer, there were still other places to be. Newton was only one of many giants in a long line of scientists. The past held more mysteries than could ever be recorded with even ten or a hundred times the film I had left.

Moreover, the taxi fare was adding up. Though I had no better uses for my money, I preferred if the driver would put those idle fees to good use. Maybe he has a wife and two children, a happy family like the one visiting Woolsthorpe — not that I was about to pry into his personal life. Politely enduring his erratic turning and braking, I flipped through all the shots I had taken at the Manor.

None stood out to me. Newton did in the kitchen and dining hall as one would expect, and I had refrained from invading the privacy of his bedroom. The most noteworthy of the photographs was one of Isaac’s first moments, when he was still a wailing newborn clinging to his mother. But of course, that image of Newton was no more than trivia, an accessory to the man he would become. It too was met by my disinterest, and was put aside.

It would not be until I was at a hotel that night that I remembered the one shot I had taken of the apple tree. When a damaged picture fell out of my back pocket, I recalled that I had been distracted by the family at Woolsthorpe Manor. Oh well, I thought as I picked it off the floor. That was the price of my carelessness. Ready to dispose of yet another dud, I examined the photograph of the apple tree.

I gasped upon making out two figures under its shade. A middle-aged man was speaking excitedly to a little girl on his lap, enrapturing her with the apple in the palm of his hand. Though I can never prove it, I am convinced that it was the moment where a young Catherine heard from her Uncle Isaac that the laws of the universe literally hit him on the head. 

She did not lie to Voltaire after all. Instead, she spoke her truth right into reality itself, blessing history with an anecdote rivaling the second chapter of Genesis in splendid grandeur. I sniffed, sensing something rising from my chest to my nostrils.

As soon as I arrived in Bern the next day, I made a detour en route to my destination — the Swiss Federal Institute of Intellectual Property where Einstein worked as a patent clerk — and found a print shop. A blonde Swiss girl helped me package and ship a single high-quality print of the photograph to my apartment in America. As much as I wanted for someone else to appreciate the weight of that image, the bubbly employee humming to herself would not understand. Also, the guys back at the laboratory would give me an earful if they found out I was disclosing confidential information. 

Oh well, I thought as I waved her goodbye. Though secrets were more fun to share than to keep, there was always a time and a place.