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Previously on Shades of Surrender

Corwin Creed’s encounter with the mysterious Sable Vane has turned his world upside down. Trapped behind strange glasses that drain the colour from everything he sees, Corwin discovers that the world around him is changing in disturbing ways. His church has vanished, familiar streets have become places of decay, and nothing is as it should be.

Then he meets a stray dog who can still show him a spot of colour, and perhaps a glimmer of hope. Naming his new companion Demetrius, Corwin sets off to find the one person he desperately needs: his wife, Annabelle.

Chapter 5

All That Remains

A man’s pride shall bring him low:  but honor shall uphold the humble in spirit.
Proverbs 29:23

When he passed by the park again, everything was still black and white. What once had been the city council’s prized recreational area was now in a deplorable state. The large chestnut tree that should have been there was still absent. Usually, the park echoed with children’s laughter and their joyful shrieks on the nearby playground, but now only the mournful creak of the wind on the rusty gate hinges broke the silence.

Corwin halted, his gaze drifting to where the church should be. Just as he feared, there was nothing to see.

“Come on, Demetrius,” he said without looking at the dog. “Let’s move on.”

Just as on Maple Street, the pavement was gone here too. Only a dirt path remained, this one even muddier. Corwin didn’t care anymore. He had more important things to worry about than his ruined suit.

A strange, unnatural silence had settled over the city.

No rustling leaves. No cheerful birdsong.

Life was so different from this morning when everything had still been normal and the joyful spring morning had lifted his spirits. But even then, the memory of the dream, with its suffocating weight and chilling images, had foreshadowed a day filled with misfortune.

He shivered as he walked on. This area seemed even more deserted than Maple Street.

At least, there had been signs of life. He recalled the unsavory chaps stumbling out of the Drunken Doozy Bar. But not here. There was no sign of life at all.

It was most unsettling.

Looking up, he noticed dark clouds drifting in. Snow clouds? It never snowed at this time of the year, but he should not be surprised. Nothing was normal anymore.

He turned to look at Demetrius.

The dog was still on his heels. At least, that gave a bit of comfort.

Somebody cared, even if it was only a dog. And perhaps even more important, the dog was in full colour. The rich brown fur on his paws and his reassuring pink tongue were like tiny flames of life in a world gone grey.

Was that dog immune to this world’s curse? Was he perhaps sent to guide him?

But if so, who had sent him?

God?

Thinking of God did not come easily. The thought that God might not be as pleased with him as he had casually assumed was an unpleasant one. After all, God was loving and kind, and nowhere in the Bible was it written that God would take the colour out of your world. He wouldn’t do such a thing.

He couldn’t.

Would He?

It was easier to blame it all on Sable Vane. Made more sense too.

After a few hundred yards, they came to the place where the church should have been. But there was no sign of the glowing stained-glass windows, its mighty oak door that gave entrance to both the church and his office, and the pretty garden with the first daffodils pushing through the soil. In its place stood a large estate with high walls of grey stone, topped with wrought-iron and a sturdy gate. The pristine fence, imposing and unfriendly, gleamed strangely bright in contrast to the surrounding decay. Apparently, not everything in this peculiar world was in complete ruins. Some things, like this strange and ominous building, were new.

As Corwin peered through the bars, his eyes fell on the enormous billboard in the garden that revealed the purpose of this new structure. In large, swaying letters, it read:

Welcome to
S.I.N.

Sanctum of Iniquitous Nurturing
We are shaped by what shatters us.

A jolt of icy anxiety shot through him as he read the chilling words. This world was getting weirder by the minute. The hallowed ground where he’d once tried to preach against self-reliance now housed an institute that celebrated those very things he was against.

His knees gave way, and he slumped against the cool, damp stone wall of the estate. Instead of his beloved church, the place had become a cradle of ruinous teachings and moral inversion. A small metal plate screwed to the wall by the gate caught his eye. More unholy, disturbing information about S.I.N.’s goals.

From virtue we stray, by truth undone,
we drink in the dark, for light has none.
In ruin we rise; in error we bloom,
let the sacred sin consume.

Dear God, please deliver me from this horrible nightmare.

While he fought to regain his composure, a sudden chill touched his face.

Snow!

He had been right. The clouds were full of snow. It began with delicate, almost invisible flakes, but already larger flakes were coming down.

In a way, it was almost a blessing; the heavy snow would soon transform the drab, dark world into a pristine, white landscape, blanketing the ground in a pure, soft layer. That was better than the mud-filled path he was on.

Giving the strange building one last look, he pulled up his coat collar and signalled to Demetrius that they should leave. “Come on, Demetrius. This is not where I want to be.” Demetrius gave an encouraging little yelp, and Corwin moved on, in search of his own house.

The street was now unfamiliar to Corwin. Sean’s butcher shop was gone. So was the house of Old Mrs. Jeanine Redhead, the kind widow who, despite her name, had lovely silvery hair, tucked away in a bun. Gone was her cozy dwelling with its cheerful red floral curtains and sparkling clean windows; in its place stood a sagging, ramshackle house, dark and defeated; its very timbers seeming to weep.

Thinking of Mrs. Redhead almost brought tears to his eyes. With a warm smile, she’d always present him with his favourite chocolate-cream cookies, a comforting, familiar treat during his mandatory house calls. How he would have longed to ring her doorbell just now, see her wrinkled face and accept her hospitality. A pang of shame welled up as he recalled his last visit to her house, only a week earlier. He’d been furious. The old woman had dared to challenge his interpretation of a Bible verse. Somehow, that made her words all the more disturbing. She had challenged him, and now that he thought about it, her words had been remarkably similar to those his board members had spoken this morning.

“If you don’t listen to your sheep and try to see things from their perspective, I am forced to find another church.”

With a pious lecture on the need to obey your elders, he had tried to correct her. He had been harsh. Even a bit self-righteous. Not much, perhaps, but still… Even as he had lectured her, he had seen the pain in her eyes.

He winced at the memory.

Come to think of it, Jesus never spoke like that. Was that what Jefferson had meant when he used the word proud to describe him?

These were disturbing thoughts, and he couldn’t push them aside.

Why am I so insensitive? I desperately need to change. But how?

Demetrius nudged him again, as if to stop him from daydreaming.

“What is it, Demetrius?”

He turned, and a gasp escaped his lips. The front door of Old Lady Redhead’s house had changed. While the house itself still carried a story of decay and defeat, the door was no longer black and white. A deep, rich red shone before him, a startling splash of colour in his muted, colourless world. Even better, the door was no longer sagging and rotting but looked clean and solid, just the way he remembered it.

The rest of the house still sagged in ruin, its windows like hollow eyes. The red door stood out against the decay, strangely beautiful and almost unreal.

“De-Demetrius,” he stammered. “Do you see that?”

While he didn’t expect the dog to answer or even pay attention, talking to Demetrius now came naturally. He patted Demetrius on his scruffy head and yelled, “Color, Demetrius … it’s all coming back.”

Oh, what a relief! Maybe the black-and-white torment was ending, and before long, everything would be normal again.

As he walked on, the image of Mrs. Redhead’s red door faded, and Corwin’s thoughts turned inward, toward the only other place that had once felt safe.

His own house.

Perhaps there, something would be in colour as well. His front door was green. He had painted it himself in a lush emerald green, like the finest golf course. And maybe Annabelle would be there. He pictured her in the kitchen, preparing a nice plate of buffalo wings while smiling at him. She’d give him a gentle kiss and motion for him to sit in his favourite chair near the hearth while she brought him his food.

Thank you, dear Lord. Things are changing.

The snow, as he had expected, was accumulating fast, lending the world a certain charm.

And his glasses? Were they still as stuck as before? He tugged at the frame. Still stuck. But hope fluttered inside him.

Then, he turned the corner, expecting to see his home. His glorious, luxurious house, with all the comforts this world had to offer.

Safety, security… the end of his nightmare.

But his shoulders slumped. His house… was gone too.

There was nothing left of it but the smouldering remains of a fire and a few blackened, crumbling walls. The roof had collapsed, leaving behind a wreck of fallen beams. Corwin stared at the smoking remnants of what should have been his house. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he sank onto a large stone to steady himself.

“Oh, Demetrius,” he sobbed, shaking his head in bewilderment. “Where’s my house? What am I going to do?”

Demetrius looked up at him, and his brown eyes took on that strange shine again. Something curious stirred in Corwin’s mind. Almost instantly, a small poem formed there, light and airy as a summer breeze.

I understand, but don’t despair
For God is One to care.
All will be well if you won’t give up
For you must drink the suffering cup.

Stupid poem.

Corwin pushed the words aside. It was rather nice to discover he had a talent for writing poems, but what good would that do him now? God didn’t seem to care at all. In fact, God had deserted him, and all would not be well.

The image of Sable Vane surfaced in his mind, along with the chilling words the stranger had spoken. You shall not see me anymore until you ask for me.

Should he try calling his name?

No, no, no. A thousand times no. Sable Vane was the last person he wanted to see right now.

No, he needed to find Annabelle. She had to be somewhere. If only he could remove those terrible spectacles, everything would be fine again. Some unknown force had flung him into a strange world.

Demetrius nudged him again, emitting an enthusiastic yelp.

Did that dog want to play with him?

Not now. That was ridiculous. Corwin cast Demetrius a scowl and shoved him off. The thought of playing fetch at a time like this filled him with a profound sense of irritation. This was why he didn’t like dogs.

Yet Demetrius persisted. He nudged Corwin, then jogged a short distance away, only to return and do it again.

Another poem formed in Corwin’s mind.

“No!”

He didn’t want to hear it and pushed it aside. This was no time to play with dogs or create dumb poems.

“Stop it, Demetrius,” Corwin said, realizing he had raised his voice in anger. “I don’t want to play with you. Shoo, shoo. Away with you. You don’t understand the misery I have to endure.”

No sooner had he spoken these words than Demetrius walked off and disappeared behind a heap of rubble.

“Nice friend you are,” Corwin muttered. “Typical. Just like people. As soon as they don’t get their way, they take off.”

As his eyes rested on the spot where he had last seen Demetrius, a knot tightened in his stomach. Shame washed over him. Now, he had chased away the only friend he still had in this world.

“Demetrius?” he called as he got up again and peered over the ruins. “Come back. I didn’t mean it. I’m just so confused, but I’ll throw you a stick if it makes you happy.”

Demetrius didn’t reappear, and Corwin sank back onto his stone in despair. The board members’ words from that morning came back to him. You take everything so personally. You chase everyone away…

Maybe they are right. What a lousy man I am. Can’t even befriend a dog.

Tears welled up as he thought again of Annabelle. His words to her that morning had not been kind either. He recalled how he had rebuked her for making the supposed noise in the kitchen.

The pan. Annabelle. That stupid frying pan, or whatever it was, you dropped.

He had seen the hurt in her eyes, and now she too was gone.

As a pastor, I am supposed to be filled with the fruits of the Spirit, but all kinds of rot come out of my mouth. I am skilled at speaking great and swelling words of wisdom, gleaned from sermons I stole from the Internet. But it’s all a big joke.

A sudden bark startled Corwin. “Demetrius … come back.”

But the dog did not come. Instead, he seemed to be calling Corwin to follow him. Corwin hesitated. Walking through the rubble was a dangerous undertaking. It was snowing heavily now, and he had to watch his step to avoid twisting an ankle. Sharp metal, smouldering wood and broken glass lay scattered everywhere. But Demetrius’s persistent barking finally got the better of him, and he decided to give it a go. Cautiously, he made his way towards the sound.

There was Demetrius, just behind the heap of rubble. His tail thumped out a happy rhythm against a metal pot, and his eyes shone with pride as he looked up at Corwin.

“What is it, boy?” Corwin muttered, his eyes falling on a brown leather book lying in the snow before Demetrius.

A book?

And what was more … the book was brown.

Instantly, another poem formed in Corwin’s mind. How weird. But the lines came again, unbidden, like a wind whispering verses he hadn’t asked for.

Look at what I found,
nice words, all leather bound.
They will give you the needed clue
for they contain words warm and true.

Corwin’s heart raced. Not only was the book in colour, but he knew it.

His breath caught.

That cover … the familiar curve of the leather, the tiny embossed star in the corner. No doubt about it. That was Annabelle’s diary.

Her sacred, secret world, its worn leather cover bearing the quiet traces of years of whispered thoughts.

He had promised himself that he would never read it, as it contained his wife’s most precious secrets. He stared at it for a moment, not knowing what to do. But when he saw the wondrous excitement in Demetrius’s eyes, he felt he was meant to pick it up and read it. Surely, under these circumstances, Annabelle would forgive him for breaking his promise.

Bending over, he picked up the book he had so often seen lying on Annabelle’s bedside table. His eyes grew moist as his fingers traced the worn, smooth leather cover. At least, this book was real and, like his friend Demetrius and Mrs. Jeanine Redhead’s door, it was in full, original colour.

He slid the book, its cover already damp with melting snow, under his coat and gestured for Demetrius to come along.

“Thank you, Demetrius,” he whispered. “I judged you wrongly. It is something I seem to do a lot. Forgive me, and let’s find a warm place where I can read this journal. Perhaps we can figure out what to do next.”

The dog let out a joyful bark that echoed through the quiet, snowy, monochrome world, and gentle words welled up in Corwin’s mind.

Just have faith instead of fright,
for all will turn out right.
Put your trust in God above,
and follow where He leads in love.

These poems weren’t his. It was clear. They came from Demetrius. It was a revelation that defied logic, but so did everything else in this strange world. And somehow, this discovery encouraged him. It appeared that God had not deserted him, even though he had done nothing but complain and wallow in self-pity.

How long had that been going on? He didn’t dare answer his own question. But he feared that his faith, back in his normal world, had been nothing but a charade for far too long. He charmed the congregation with carefully chosen words and songs. With his hair impeccably styled, he presented a picture of piety from the pulpit. Yet a nagging question lingered, one he had always avoided. Now, it clawed at his mind like a persistent itch he could no longer ignore.

Was his faith genuine? Was it as real as he publicly declared?

He knew the answer. It was not. His faith had been little more than a pretence. His heart had been far from God. His heart was as lacking in true colour as the world around him.

And yet, there was Demetrius and there was Annabelle’s diary. There was still colour. There was hope, and hope had come alive again.

He looked up at the grey sky and whispered a word of thanks to God. Despite it all, God had not turned His face away from him.

____

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