Prologue
Trinity College
Cambridge, England
November 5th, 1692
The candle's flame danced, performing a show of shadows in Isaac's room. A drop of hot wax cried down the candle until it joined the hardened pool of old wax coating the corner of the table.
Isaac reread the letter from his friend in the twisting light. His friend had asked some bold questions. Isaac thought how to respond. Someone was playing a lute in the college courtyard, no doubt a student. Isaac spooned a bite of the sack posset - a mixture of sweetened cream, dry sherry, and spices. He set down the bowl designed for alchemy, yet filled with food, and took up his quill.
Isaac searched for the words. His eyes fell upon his hand held mirror. The mirror was cracked, but did its job. Isaac set down the quill and picked up the mirror. He studied his reflection, then pivoted the mirror to reflect the candle. When he faced the candle directly and looked at the candle in the mirror, he found the mirror was parallel to the imaginary line made between him and the candle. In fact, no matter where he held the mirror, it was always parallel to the line connecting him and the candle.
Isaac replaced the mirror and continued his letter.
Isaac accidentally spilled a drop of ink on the desk. He looked at it, the way the edge of the drop rounded and reflected the flame. Isaac flicked a few more drops of ink into the same splotch and watched the tiny puddle grow. He saw the relationship between the growth of the ink's circumference and the growth of the ink's area. For a brief moment he calculated the mathematical relationship, and then returned to the letter.
Isaac set down the quill and finished the sack posset. The spoon scraped the bottom of the wooden bowl with a series of satisfying sound waves. Isaac licked his lips. He returned his attention to the mirror. The lute outside was still playing as Isaac examined the candle's reflection in the mirror. And the way the light was able to choose the shortest distance from the candle to the mirror to himself, it made Isaac stare with wonder.
New York, N.Y.
April 7, 1958
On the 22nd floor, the financial analyst was typing his report on the electric typewriter when he heard his name inquired in the distance. He turned around and saw his coworker point two men in his direction. Who were they? They walked towards him and the analyst noticed their muscles. Their T-shirts and jeans made them look out of place. The analyst also noticed the Visitor stickers on their chest, the only requirement to get past security.
When they arrived at the analyst’s cubicle, one of them said, “Sir, there’s something you need to see.”
At least they were polite. The analyst looked at their stickers. Their names were nondescript.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Please come with us, sir,” the other said.
“Just tell me what this is about.”
“Better you see for yourself,” the first one said.
“See what?” the analyst persisted.
They looked at each other, then back at him. “Can’t explain here,” the first one said. “Later, you’ll be glad we didn’t talk about it around your colleagues.”
The analyst studied their faces. They didn’t seem worried. So whatever they were here for, it couldn't have been that bad.
“All right.” The analyst flicked a typewriter switch to turn it off. “I’ve got a lot of work to do so you’ll have to make this quick.”
He followed the visitors to the elevator watching them chat as if he wasn’t there. The same thing happened in the elevator. The three of them got in, one pressed the button for the top floor, and the visitors talked to each other about sports.
The analyst looked at his watch and sighed.
The elevator doors opened, and they all saw the rooftop designed with a flower garden and benches.
“Wow, this is a really nice place,” one of the visitors said.
“So what’s this about?” the analyst asked.
“Come over here. We’ll show you.”
The visitors walked to the concrete wall. The ledge was waist high. They climbed on top of the ledge.
“Hey, careful!” the analyst said. “I don’t want you to fall.”
“You’re absolutely right. Better grab on to our ankles. Make sure we don’t fall.”
The analyst looked at their size. “I’m not sure how it’ll help, but…” He reached out to hold an ankle of each visitor.
They grabbed the analyst by the arm pits and hurled him over the edge. The analyst was in free fall. Cold air slapped his face and his ears deafened from it. The air filled his lungs so fast he couldn’t exhale. How could he stop his fall? It was a pointless question. His last.
#
The visitors’ boss took the urgent phone call in the empty office. The receiver of the black rotary phone lay on the desk. He snatched it to his ear.
“And?”
“Fell to his death, like the others,” one of the visitors said.
The boss hung his head.
“Sorry about that,” the visitor added.
“All right, I’ll mail you your checks.”
The boss placed the receiver into its cradle, filled his lungs with air, and took brisk steps back towards the church’s sanctuary. His wife, family and friends studied him.
He whispered to his wife, “He didn’t survive. It’s back to square one.” She pouted and rubbed his back.
“Is everything all right?” the priest asked.
“Yes, Father,” the boss said. “My apologies. Please continue.”
“Hold the child over the water.”
The boss’ wife cradled their newborn above the large, stone font. Everyone smiled. The priest cupped his hands in the water and poured it over the baby’s forehead.
“Luke McCourt, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
The baby giggled.
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