The Gravity Myth

Shunned

The white started in the center and slowly crept its way through the inky black to the edges of Evan's vision, like cream poured into dark roast coffee. It bled out, permeating the space behind his eyelids.

Light.

The light. Evan slowly blinked, greeting the welcome brightness. He had never thought about how much heat comes from light, but the warmth here blanketed him rather than stifled, like the grave he'd escaped from.

The light here was soft. Not the harsh overheads found in hospitals or government buildings, but the homey low fade of a bar. As his sight focused, Evan swiveled his head around, his neck cracking from the effort. To the left sat a hunched figure. It wore a long brown duster with a cowboy hat, and was writing by candlelight. The roll top desk he occupied was piled with papers and an old black rotary phone, the kind with separate ear and mouth pieces.

Evan heard humming to his right. No, it wasn't humming. Singing. A guttural mumble in a tongue he could not recognize, but a timbre reminiscent of a hymn or spiritual. Evan closed his eyes again as guilt and despair washed over him.

"Cassie", he whispered.

The tune stopped, and the chair the figure sat in screeched as it scooted across the floor. Evan directed his attention to the noise and saw the cowboy facing him. Its face was the same dead gray as the phantoms he had seen, but retained the otherwise normal characteristics of a human appearance. It looked him up and down, waiting for him to speak.

"What are you?" Evan asked warily. He couldn't detect any malice in the thing's eyes, but obviously this wasn't some elaborate prank. Evan knew this was real life-or-death danger.

"A man. Like you. Just been around longer. Seen more." His drawl revealed a Southern accent deeper than Evan's intentionally toned-down inflection. The answer made Evan somewhat easier, and the questions started pouring out of him.

"Why am I here? What do you want? Where am I? Wait... what year is this?"

"Whoa whoa whoa, hold up there, partner. Think before you speak. Calm down, then give it another go."

Evan looked about wildly, taking in the old iron bars that separated him from the cowboy. The man looked like he had stepped straight out of Tombstone. Evan collected his breath. The air here was clean, without decay or death. "Okay. Okay." He settled his reeling mind. "What year is this?"

The cowboy chuckled, a sound laden with gravel. "What year do you think it is, son?"

"Kinda hard to tell." Evan nervously laughed back. "I mean, this looks like a prairie town prison. And you, you look like a lawman from some Western."

"Well, I can assure you that whatever year you thought it was before you woke up here? That's what year it is." The man stood up tall and tipped his hat. "Go on and check your pockets. You'll find your electric portable telephone there. That oughtta convince you."

Evan did so. The cowboy was telling the truth. The cellphone was still there, but now it had power. He didn't stop to think who would have charged it for him, or why they would have given it back. Instead he quickly dialed emergency services. Despite the fact he had no service, it should have worked.

The phone next to the cowboy rung. Evan listened intently, the ringing from his cell and the jailhouse rotary synchronized. The cowboy picked up.

"Y'ello?"

"How?" Evan asked.

"I take it you're starting to understand things work differently around here?" The cowboy hung up.