He loved his family—his wife Krysia, his daughter Aniela, and his son Kuba. He was a good father. He didn't drink, fight, or start fights. He didn't even smoke cigarettes—it's bad for your health, and money goes up in smoke, completely unnecessarily. And that was never a good thing. He had to support his family alone. Krysia used to work at a grocery store, but after an accident, she could barely walk and complained of back pain. She received disability benefits, and they managed to survive on that and Marian's meager salary.
Until he lost his job. It wasn't that he was lazy, late, or poorly put in the work. It was just layoffs at the company—and Marian, along with a number of his colleagues, was thrown out on the street.
They were behind on their rent. Their electricity was about to be cut off any day now.
Marian returned home. He hugged and kissed his wife. They waited together for the children to return from school.
At four o'clock, they ate krupnik soup with the children.
"I love you, my little ones."
"We love you too, Daddy.
" "Now, take one," he said, holding a red leaf in each hand.
"And what should we do with it?" Anielka asked, raising her eyebrows, surprised at such a gift. She would have preferred a cookie or candy.
"Put it on your tongue."
As Marian's daughter and son lay lifeless on the cracking gray linoleum in the kitchen, and his wife sat lifeless in the armchair, he himself took the last leaf from his pocket and swallowed it.
***
The young police officer had just been rejected by his girlfriend. Besides, he wasn't enjoying his job anymore. He wanted to run after bandits with a gun, not guard the park.
He didn't know how the red leaf ended up in his hand.
***
Little Patrick, a second-grade elementary school student, looked around carefully. He glanced back to see if his mother was coming. Then he stuck out his tongue and placed a dry, scarlet leaf on it.
He didn't want to show his mother another three in his diary.
***
Henryk sat alone in a dark, cramped apartment in a gray apartment building. Ashy clouds hung outside the window over the October sky. In that gray time, in that gray place, man didn't even have a shadow. He hadn't seen the sun for weeks. The radiance of an immortal soul, which illuminates the saddest day, which saves him in the darkness, had burned out in Henryk long ago. Perhaps God had taken it from him as a punishment when he took off his habit and rejected celibacy to seek happiness with a woman. First his soul, then a woman, and finally any joy in life. He was left with sadness, loneliness, and emptiness. This was the price a man paid for free choice; for free will. Because although he was bound to the church by emotion, not reason, and he believed truly and served sincerely—an equally strong, if not stronger, feeling followed. And he had to choose. He couldn't remain forever torn between faith in God and faith in love. He chose a place with a woman, a life in a gray apartment building. He thought it was possible to live this way, with the good principles learned from his pastoral work, adoring women, as God commanded in the Psalms. For her sake, he endured the sarcastic words of his neighbors, the contempt of others. All this because he loved her like a goddess.
Her adoration grew weary, sickening after six months. She packed her bags and left—supposedly with a new man—leaving Henryk alone in his apartment building. And the man remained in that apartment building, barely leaving it. He never returned to the church; shame and the last vestiges of his dignity prevented him from returning to the ranks of the pastors. He no longer sought love. He sought solace neither in the arms of random women nor in alcohol. He reveled in his grief, bitterness, and anger. These were the only feelings he still had—so he nurtured them. He had no love. No faith. Only doubt, sadness, and anger.
He rose from the armchair where he had sat motionless for half a day. Without knowing why or what for, he put on his jacket, wrapped a scarf around his neck, put on a hat, and left.
***
He knew what was happening. He had heard rumors of a wave of suicides; of people taking their own lives—adults, the elderly, and children. Yet, sitting in his empty apartment, he didn't grasp the scale and horror of this phenomenon. With no one close to him, he felt no sense of this tragedy. It was as if he lived in a completely different world, and all the evil was happening only on the radio news. Only on the television screen.
He walked down a quiet, gray street. He shook his head.
"This is hell," he muttered to himself. "This is hell. I died and went to hell."
On the sidewalk, on the cracked flagstones, and on the asphalt—corpses lay everywhere. Dozens of human corpses, strewn like toys across the floor of a child's room. As if thrown by a grenade explosion. But they bore no traces of blood, no wounds. They were clean, not even a scratch. Whole, in one piece. Just pale. And dead.
Henryk shuffled between the corpses littering the sidewalk. Fear and revulsion grew within him. He gazed fearfully at the white faces with their bulging eyes and blue lips; at the red leaves whose triangular tips protruded from their mouths like devils' tongues.
"I'm in hell," he muttered to himself. "I'm in hell.
" ***
"Stop!" Henryk shouted. For the first time in days, he opened his mouth and a faint, hoarse cry escaped him. Too late. Too weak. When he finally managed to force himself and scream, the woman collapsed to the ground.
Or perhaps his efforts were in vain? She intended to kill herself, and she would have done so even if he had called out louder and sooner; before he could reach her and snatch the scarlet leaf from her hand. He couldn't keep an eye on her. Even if she didn't do it right away, she might commit suicide tomorrow or the day after. And if not her, then someone else, someone Henryk, preoccupied with this woman, wouldn't have kept an eye on. He couldn't protect the entire world with just a word of warning and encouragement. He couldn't save them all. He couldn't remedy the plague of evil and madness that roamed the streets. He couldn't pick up every crimson leaf the wind blew.
Madness would persist as long as the source of evil existed. Death would reap its harvest as long as the tree stood in the center of the Garden.
***
At the edge of the Garden, Henry crossed himself. He muttered "Our Father" under his breath—a prayer long unsaid, almost forgotten, yet indelible. However, this wasn't a prayer for the souls of the dead, whose mortal bodies lay side by side among the trees. The man stood face to face with pure evil—and he felt he couldn't cope alone. The breath of hell overwhelmed him, smothered him, and filled him with fear. Henry felt like nothing. Nothing. Evil surrounded him on all sides, breathing in his face, seeping into his nostrils, his mouth, his fearful thoughts. For the first time in a long time, he felt the need for God. He felt he believed again; that there had to be something to counter the hell he walked through. He believed in God—in the Almighty, who would help him help the world. Who would guide his steps and with his hands defeat evil. As he walked, swaying on numb legs, he recited prayers and verses he had once tried to forget—but still remembered; and only they saved him from madness, they propelled him forward through the thickening mists of evil.
The Devil stood deep in the Garden, well hidden, obscured by ordinary trees. But once he was seen, he was unmistakable. Black as pitch, with foliage red as hellfire—repulsive and terrifying. Twisted, blistered, and swollen, saturated with the harm he had done.
As Henry approached, the tree shed all its leaves, and a gust of wind hurled them at the man. He recoiled, feeling the hot breeze and the touch of dry, red leaves. As they fell to the ground, Henry opened his eyes and looked back at the tree. It stood bare.
Suddenly, crimson buds burst from the twisted branches, and in an instant, crimson leaves unfurled. The tree rose above Henry in its full glory. Henry was choking. Seeds of evil floated in the air, trying to enter him with the air he inhaled—through his lungs, into his blood, and with it, into his mind. The man held his breath. Over time, he began to faint, weaken, and his will crumbled. In his brain, dazed by the lack of air, strange thoughts arose. Thoughts of surrender. Thoughts of defeat, of the end. A desire for death.
The tree mercifully dropped a single leaf, which the wind carried directly into Henryk's hand.
The man looked at the crimson, rounded, pointed devil's tongue in his hand. He stared at it, captivated, mesmerized. Dazed by the power emanating from it. Mindlessly—unable to think—he stroked the dry, red surface with his thumb.
He shuddered. Tossed the leaf aside in disgust.
He leaped to the tree and began pounding on it. He pummeled the black, boil-ridden bark with his fists. It cracked under his blows. It crumbled and fell away.
Thick, dark burgundy blood flowed from the holes punched by his furious blows. It flowed in a slow, viscous stream down the black bark.
However, the wounds were closing up. They were overgrown with more black boils.
Henryk stopped pounding the tree, seeing the futility of his struggle. When he tried to harm the tree, it regenerated. When he wanted to defeat evil with violence, he only gave it strength. By using his fists, he himself became the devil's servant.
He stepped back. He took a few steps back and surveyed the demon in all its glory, ruffling his brow, searching for a way to defeat it. For he already knew he couldn't defeat it by force. He wouldn't crush it with a blow, wouldn't scratch it. He wouldn't cut it down with a silver sword. Not even the flame of a torch could consume that tree.
Then he remembered the old methods he had been taught, which time and anger had blurred from his memory. Proven methods, used for thousands of years. God taught that true power lies in prayer; that sincere prayer—the right incantation—would protect from evil, heal the soul, or obtain help. So he began to mutter almost forgotten verses, and soon the words of exorcism poured from his mouth, from somewhere deep within his subconscious, without the mediation of thought.
"I cast you out, unclean spirit... in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ..."
He uttered them as if in a trance, with incredible power. He thundered like the most ardent intercessor, whose voice captivated the lowly, those of weak faith. He summoned the demon, beckoned it to appear, to emerge from the tree and show its true face. He feared it not. He awaited it, to finally destroy it with a word.
"I adjure you, Satan... enemy of the salvation of the human soul, acknowledge the justice and goodness of God the Father, who with a just verdict has condemned your pride and envy..."
But the tree remained unmoved. It stopped hurling scarlet leaves at Henry. It didn't try to kill him, though he tried to defeat it. It was resistant to his efforts. It mocked his efforts, taunted him with its inaction. Yet the man refused to give in. He couldn't. He felt his feet rooted to the ground; that he had taken root, like the tree itself. He was unable to move—neither to escape nor to fetch a suitable tool. He knew he would remain there until either the tree or he fell.
"I adjure you, Satan, prince of this world, acknowledge the power and strength of Jesus Christ, who did not bow before you in the desert, defeated you in..."
He choked on his own throat, his voice choked. He wheezed, his breath ragged—but with his last strength, he recited the incantations of power.
"...he did not bow before you on the cross, and rising from the dead, he transferred your victims to the kingdom of light..." I adjure you, Satan, deceiver of man, acknowledge the Spirit of Truth and Divine Grace, who destroys your snares and exposes your lies..."
He called upon the devil to humble himself before the power of God, to fear and cease his evil deeds. He rebuked him in a thunderous voice that was stronger than any word Henry had ever uttered. But it wasn't a man speaking these words—it was the Holy Spirit speaking through the mouth of the former priest.
"Depart, therefore, Satan, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, depart by the power of the faith and prayer of the Church; depart by the power of the sign of the Holy Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns forever and ever..." Amen..."
The prayer ended, and the devil still stood before Henryk, stretched out over him. He spread his twisted arms over the man. He showered him with disgusting, scarlet leaves.
With the last word, Henry's strength drained, and suddenly he seemed to lose contact with God. For a moment, he stood before the tree, terrified, looking around nervously, as if searching for the Lord around him. He crossed himself again and again, defending himself against Satan with the sign of the cross like a shield. In constant prayer, he sought support, guidance—and found none. He felt a terrifying cold and helplessness. He stared at the tree, and the realization gripped him that he would not defeat it; that his own end was near.
He curled up and began to say the only prayer that still made sense.
"Eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them... May they rest in peace... Amen..."
As thunder rolled across the sky, Henry closed his eyes. He shuddered as the tree's leaves fell upon him.
They lay curled on the ground. And black.
"Eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them... May they rest in peace... Amen..."
A wild roar shook heaven and earth. The man opened his eyes and, with wide, terrified eyes, stared at the tree. It writhed and twisted. The thick, black trunk danced like a snake, torn by convulsions. Branches lashed the air like whips, writhed like tentacles.
"Eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them..." Henry recited with renewed force. "May they rest in peace... Amen..."
The branches twitched as if the tree were trying to uproot itself and attack the priest, crushing him. Black tendrils struck a nearby tree. It fell to the ground, shooting splinters.
The splinters wounded Henryk. One lodged in his shoulder. The other tore through his eyebrow. The priest, however, continued to pray.
"Eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them... May they rest in peace... Amen..."
The tree, with increasing ferocity, knocked down the other trees growing around it. The air was thick with flying sawdust, filings, and splinters.
"Eternal rest grant... them... Lord... and let perpetual light... shine upon them..." Henryk continued tirelessly. "May they rest... in peace... Amen..."
The black, bald tree burst into flames. The furiously twisting branches caught fire, and fire flowed down the trunk to the roots. Fiery lashes lashed the air. They missed the priest as he prayed by centimeters. His clothes caught fire, then went out again. The flames seared his face. But he felt no pain; he didn't wince, though his skin blistered.
"Eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them... May they rest in peace... Amen..."
The tree howled. It wept with the voices of women, men, and children—pitiful, full of bitterness and pain. It wailed, now breaking into broken sobs, now into howls of immeasurable pain. It groaned in a nightmarish chorus until it burned to the ground.
When the last splinter burned, the cry subsided—then dissolved into a short sigh of relief.
Henryk, on all fours, gasped for air. His mind was completely blank; a swirling chaos. His face, charred and blistered, was a mask of shock. His open, bloodshot eyes stared blankly at the splintery ground. Henryk inhaled the acrid air through his gaping mouth
He came to after about three-quarters of an hour. Slowly, the realization of what had happened began to sink in. He began to remember what he had done. And to feel the pain: a burning sensation on his face and a piece of wood lodged in his arm.
He stood up. He pulled a long, thick splinter from his body and threw it behind him.
Before him, where the evil tree had stood, there was nothing—only blackened earth.
Evil was defeated, he thought. No one needs to die senselessly anymore.
"And what was the best thing you did, priest?"
Henryk heard footsteps behind him. First he saw a bearded man with bushy eyebrows, then a group of people behind him.
For a moment, he stared at the former, stunned, blinking as if unable to adjust to the sight.
"And what did you do?" the latter growled.
"God saved you from evil..." Henryk muttered. "There will be no more senseless deaths..."
The man rushed to the priest and grabbed him by the lapels.
"What right do you have," he roared in his face, "to decide about our lives, about our deaths?"
He threw the priest to the ground.
"God doesn't want you to die like that," the priest protested.
"God?" the man snarled. "And what does God have to do with our deaths? If he doesn't want us to die, why isn't human life eternal?"
"He doesn't want our deaths, and he doesn't let us decide about them?" a woman interjected. "Is that so?
" "The point is... to make the most of this one life," Henryk explained.
"How are we supposed to use this life," the woman continued, her voice agitated, "if the only eternal thing is the fear that we might lose it at any moment?"
"But that makes life special!
" "Screw such specialness!" the bearded man roared. "We wanted the right to decide about our own lives! And we got it." But you, priest, had to take it away from us in the name of your faith, because according to you, our unique life doesn't belong to us.
"It's a gift from God!" Henryk exclaimed. "Respect it, for truly, it doesn't belong to you. Just as mine doesn't belong to me.
" "You're right..." the bearded man said grimly. He was silent for a long moment. "Your life belongs to us now!"
The priest jumped up and ran as the bearded man leaped toward him, fingers spread.
"Catch him!
" "Don't let him escape!"
Father Henryk raced between the trees, leaping over fallen logs. He burst into the street and ran. He couldn't catch his breath, and his legs buckled under him—yet he ran and ran. A frenzied horde pursued him. They ran after the priest, stretching splayed, twisted fingers toward him. From foaming mouths and sharp tongues, the most vile insults were hurled at him. Their bloodshot eyes radiated boundless hatred. Their red faces, contorted with pain and anger, were beaded with acidic sweat.
The priest felt a blow to the back of his head. The force of the impact knocked him off balance. He fell onto his stomach; he only managed to stretch out his arms to keep his face from hitting the asphalt. His head buzzed. Blood gushed from his shattered skull.
A moment later, he felt a tugging sensation. Dozens of hands were grabbing at him, tearing at his clothes.
Henryk lay limp in the street. All strength drained from him. He couldn't feel his legs, his arms. Only pain. Scratching, tearing, ripping. Biting.
"I'm in hell..." he muttered to himself, rolling his eyes upward. "I'm in hell..."
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