<<     >>

Previously on Shades of Surrender

Corwin Creed’s world had turned into a colourless nightmare. His beloved church had vanished, replaced by the ominous S.I.N., an institute devoted to everything he had once preached against. The familiar streets had become desolate, and even his own luxurious home had been reduced to smouldering ruins.

As he wandered through this strange new world, memories of his past behaviour began to trouble him. The board members’ accusations, Mrs. Redhead’s gentle rebuke, and his unkind words to Annabelle all forced him to confront an uncomfortable truth about himself. Thankfully, he was not entirely alone. Demetrius, the mysterious brown dog, remained faithfully at his side. When Corwin’s frustration drove the animal away, he soon realised just how much he needed him. And Demetrius had something to show him: Annabelle’s long-lost leather diary. And so, amidst the ashes and the snow, small signs of hope remained. And perhaps, just perhaps, his journey was about to take an unexpected turn.

The Road to S.I.N.

Why art thou cast down, O my soul?
And why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God.
Psalm 42:11

Corwin’s spirit lifted. Warmth spread through his body as he clutched the diary against his chest as if it were a dear treasure. It truly was. To find something from Annabelle in this black and white world had to mean something. Holding it was almost as if Annabelle was walking alongside him. Oh, precious hope in the midst of trouble.

He glanced once more at the smouldering ashes of his luxurious house. Gone. There were the ruins of his fortress of safety. No longer could he hide in the sanctity of his own study. The place where he could just be himself with nobody bothering him no longer existed. At least, not in this dimension. He ought to feel devastated. Horrified. But… he was not.

There was the diary, and there was Demetrius by his side. These were clear signs that there was still a connection to the normal world. Sable Vane had bewitched him. There was no doubt about it, but there was hope. Annabelle had to be around somewhere. He just needed to find his way out.

But how?

There had to be a key. Something he needed to see, to learn perhaps?

He glanced at Demetrius, who tagged along through the snow.

The dog looked up and stared at him as if to said, “I did good, didn’t I, Corwin?”

A feeling he’d never experienced before stirred inside him. A strange mixture of gratefulness, adoration, and genuine friendship. How strange. He had genuinely despised dogs. All dogs. These smelly creatures would jump on your furniture. Their dirty paws would soil your pants, and they would even stick their hairy noses in the garbage cans. But dogs weren’t so bad after all.

For a moment, their eyes met. A new poem formed in Corwin’s mind.

What are you looking at?
Would you rather have me not instead?
I am pretty good at helping out,
for that is what I am all about

Corwin grinned.

If that was truly Demetrius speaking, that dog was right. Yes, Demetrius, you are pretty good at helping out. Thank you.

He walked over to his furry friend and patted his ear. “I am so happy to have you around, doggie.”

He could have sworn Demetrius was smiling. Nonsense, of course. Dogs don’t smile.

A shiver rolled over him. The cold bit through his clothes, pulling him back to reality. He needed shelter, a place to warm his frozen fingers and read Annabelle’s diary. Maybe he should still find the hospital. Surely, it would have changed like everything else, but perhaps it still offered some sort of refuge.

And so he walked on. But something had changed in his step. For the first time in his new dimension, a flicker of hope stirred.

Yet the situation remained dreadfully grim.

As he came to the intersection, he realized that the street he had just entered had once been one of the city’s busiest. It was a place he usually avoided. Motorcycles roared, tires screeched, neon signs flashed. But not now. Everything was drab, cold, and indifferent.

There used to be a life insurance ad from MacDud and Dreadwell. Both fellows sat on a sun-drenched beach, sipping cocktails and promising customers the same treatment if they insured their lives at their office. He had never liked the ad. MacDud and Dreadwell were known cheaters who had made millions off poor, unsuspecting clients. Shady fellows who needed to be avoided.

The thought stung. Shady fellows?

What about himself? Was he not a bit like them, too? He did not cheat with life insurance, but he stole sermons from the internet and put his own name under them.

An irritating thought. Yet it was the truth. Why had he never seen that as wrong?

At least, that billboard was gone now. Somehow, it made him feel better.

But how strange it was to stand here.

Everything was now so drab, so grey, and so dirty. In his normal world, crossing here when the light was red could be fatal.

But not now.

The entire scene resembled a painting from a medieval history book. The streets were muddy and unpaved, lined with crumbling houses, sagging chimneys, and windows veiled in tattered curtains. Only the peasants and armoured knights were missing.

And silence reigned.

Did it?

Not quite.

A peculiar sound near a crumbling old shack caught his attention. The weary sigh of a labourer chopping wood drifted towards him.

“You hear that, Demetrius?” Corwin said, coming to a halt. Demetrius stopped, too.

“Hello!” Corwin called. “Somebody there?”

He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted contact with anybody in this unpleasant monochrome world, but he needed to take a chance. Somebody might know what was going on or perhaps know the way out.

“Hello?” he called again. He heard his own voice being carried away by the wind. “Anybody there? I need help!”

The chopping stopped. For a moment, all was silent. Then came the crunch of footsteps in the snow. Someone was approaching, and a moment later, a farmer emerged from behind the old shack. He had a goatee, messy, uncombed hair, and a lazy, disinterested expression. He wore a coarse tunic, and a giant axe rested across his shoulders.

“What?” the man demanded in a deep voice, glaring at Corwin with obvious irritation, as though he had no business interrupted such important work.

Corwin gasped.

He knew that man. He would recognize that fellow anywhere, even in a world as drab and dreary as this one.

The caretaker of his church.

There was no doubt about it. Right in front of him stood that lazy custodian of the Third Congregation of the Faithful. He had never cared much for the man, but seeing somebody he knew filled him with delight. Even Hemingway’s obnoxious goatee was suddenly a welcome sight.

He had to suppress the urge to run up to the man and hug him. Ridiculous. Corwin hugged nobody. That wasn’t something he was fond of, and nobody expected it of him.

Squinting, he mumbled, “Hemingway… W-what are you doing here?”

When he saw the suspicious, weary eyes of his custodian, he knew a hug was out of the question. It appeared Hemingway did not know who he was.

Struggling for words, Corwin mumbled, “What? How?”

Hemingway stared at him, his expression unreadable. Finally, he said, “That’s a stupid question. I have lived here all my life, and my name is not Hemingway.”

Not Hemingway? But he was. There could be no mistake. Even the old wart, that repulsive, bumpy, discoloured growth on the man’s cheek, was still there. No, no, no… this truly was Hemingway.

“B-But you are,” Corwin stammered. He placed his hand on Demetrius’ warm fur, seeking comfort. “There’s no mistake. I am Pastor Corwin, remember? You’re the one who so faithfully dusts off the pews before and after every service. Oh, Hemingway, I am so glad to see you. Please tell me you’re happy to see me too.”

Corwin stepped forward and held out his hand to shake Hemingway’s.

“Stay right there,” Hemingway said, taking a hesitant step back. “You are crazy. I never saw you in my life. My name is Steinbeck.”

“Steinbeck…? But you look like Hemingway.”

“Get off my property,” Steinbeck growled, tightening his fist around the axe on his shoulder. “I don’t trust the likes of you.”

Corwin took a step back too and raised a hand in apology.

Of course, this wasn’t Hemingway. He had been stupid to assume that anything in this dimension would be as it had been before. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that you look like someone I know, but I must be mistaken. I thought you were Hemingway, the custodian of my church. Sorry.”

Steinbeck relaxed and studied Corwin for a moment. His eyes rested on Corwin’s suit. Tilting his head, he said, “Why don’t you wear normal clothes like we all do? Did you escape from prison or something? You look weird.”

His question confused Corwin. It was true that his suit was covered in stains and dirt. There was even a rip near the right knee, but that was only because of the terrible situation he was in.

“N-No,” he said. “I have never been in prison. But I’m sorry about the way I look. I’m going through a difficult time.”

“I can see that,” Steinbeck grumbled, clearly not satisfied. “And what’s a Tshurtsh? I have never heard of such a thing.”

“You know what a church is,” Corwin said, desperation creeping into his voice. “Everyone knows that.”

“No, I don’t,” Steinbeck said. His voice was more like a suspicious, low growl, which told Corwin the man wouldn’t trust him to even carry garbage around.

“It’s a place of worship where you can learn about God,” Corwin said, making one last attempt. “It’s a place of happiness and joy where lots of people gather to sing and read from the Holy Book. Surely, there’s a church here somewhere?”

“There is not,” Steinbeck growled, his face reddening with barely contained fury. “Let me clarify: we have only S.I.N. here.”

Only S.I.N., that horrible building that had replaced his church?

Corwin stared at Steinbeck in bewilderment. “So… so… you haven’t heard about Jesus, either? You don’t know about the cross or the Word of God?”

Steinbeck tilted his head. “The cross? And Djeezuz? What are you talking about?”

The words hung in the air like ghosts from a forgotten world.

Corwin’s breath caught. A chill ran deeper than the surrounding cold.

This man truly didn’t know about God.

Panic rose. Apparently, God had been erased from this world.

But that couldn’t be. God was everywhere. Had King David not said, “Though I make my bed in hell, God is there too”?

“You are crazy,” Steinbeck went on, his voice laced with disgust. “The moment I saw you, I knew you were bad news. Never heard of Tshurtsh or Djeezuz. You’d better leave, or I will call the authorities.” He shrugged, and Corwin could see the muscles in his arms tighten beneath his worn tunic. A second later, Steinbeck held the axe in front of Corwin’s face. “One word of advice,” he hissed. “Ask for help at the S.I.N. building. They will set you straight…” He paused, then added, “…or lock you up.”

Corwin felt a heavy weight in his chest as he gazed at the menacing glint of the axe. His instincts urged him to flee. It was obvious he would not get any help here. Making one last attempt, he blurted out, “Forgive me for bothering you, Mr. Steinbeck. One last question, and my dog and I will be out of your hair. Where can we rest for a moment and get warm?”

“Are you deaf?” Steinbeck growled. “I told you. Go to S.I.N. It’s the only place where people gather, get warm, and where people like you can get a proper education.”

“What about a bar or a restaurant?” Corwin asked.

Steinbeck shook his head. “You can only go to S.I.N. I bet you don’t even have a S.I.N. card.”

“A S.I.N. card?”

“Right,” Steinbeck scoffed. “I knew it. You don’t even have a S.I.N. card. You can’t go to a pub without one. In fact, you can’t go anywhere without it.”

Corwin felt tension in his chest. He searched for something clever to say, but no words came. At last, he stammered, “So how can I go to the S.I.N. building, then?”

A learned expression crossed Steinbeck’s face. “Since it’s the learning centre, it’s the only place you can go without one. It’s our haven of quiet contemplation, where the poor can find refuge in a vast library of books that promise enlightenment and hope.” He eyed Corwin with renewed suspicion. “Of course, it’s quite possible they won’t issue a S.I.N. card. You seem to be…” His voice trailed off. “…a rather peculiar sort of person.”

Corwin shivered again. The cold got to him, although this time the source was not the snow but Steinbeck’s attitude.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. “I am sorry to have bothered you. Goodbye.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked off. Demetrius walked beside him, seemingly determined not to leave his side.

He walked as fast as he could, suppressing the urge to look back. He wanted nothing more to do with Steinbeck.

“What do you think, Demetrius?” he asked in a low voice as they moved beyond the reach of Steinbeck’s lingering gaze. Demetrius didn’t react. Instead, he turned and headed back in the direction of S.I.N., stopping for a moment to see if Corwin would follow.

“No way,” Corwin cried out. “That’s the direction of the S.I.N. building. I won’t go to that horrible place.”

Demetrius looked at him with his big doggie eyes and sat down. Again, a short poem rose in Corwin’s mind.

Don’t be afraid to step inside
nothing will be won without a fight.
I promise you’ll be safe
as long as it is the truth you crave

Corwin let out a sigh, feeling slightly ashamed.

Steinbeck may not believe in God, but I do. I’ve been on the sidelines for too long. It’s time I showed a bit of courage and put the little bit of faith I have into action. Demetrius is probably right.

He looked at Demetrius. “Really, Demetrius? The S.I.N. building?”

Demetrius did not answer. No new poem came. Corwin sighed and finally nodded. “All right. S.I.N. it shall be. Who am I to argue with you?”

Demetrius immediately rose and continued on his way. Corwin followed him in the direction of the imposing S.I.N. building. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as Steinbeck had made it out to be. Steinbeck had been wrong about so many things, anyway, and Corwin needed a place to sit and read the diary. If he had understood the poem he had heard earlier correctly, the diary offered a clue to his situation.

It did not take long before the large, ominous building reappeared as they turned the corner. Oh, how he wished it had instead been his beloved church. From where he stood now, he could just look over the walls of the estate and see some of its windows on the second floor. They seemed to stare at him like dark, empty eyes.

Demetrius, undeterred, walked on and only stopped right in front of the gate. Corwin sighed, pushing his apprehensions aside. The diary throbbed against his chest like a second heartbeat. If answers lay ahead, he’d find them, even if he had to enter the S.I.N. building.

_____

Previous Chapter     Next Chapter