“Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!—” The rapid tolling of bells shattered the tranquil morning in the village of Santa Lucia.
Over and over again.
Each strike louder than the last.
Everyone was jolted awake.
Farmers working in the fields stopped their hoes mid-swing.
Women cooking in their kitchens knocked over their soup pots.
Sluggards sleeping in bed leapt up in shock.
Their faces were filled with terror and confusion.
“What’s happening?” “It’s the alarm bell!” “What’s wrong?
Are bandits attacking?” “Quick!
To the abbey square!” People rushed out of their houses in droves.
They grabbed whatever was at hand—sickles, axes, pitchforks—thinking they were heading out to battle some invading enemy.
As they ran, they shouted for their families and neighbors.
The entire village dissolved into utter chaos.
Bartolo was disturbed as well.
At the time, he was in his courtyard feeding his prized horses.
Hearing the bells, he frowned.
He knew this was no ordinary ringing.
“Go see what’s happening,” he ordered a servant.
The servant quickly ran back.
“Master, the abbey is ringing the bells!
They’re telling everyone to gather at the square!” Bartolo narrowed his eyes.
What kind of trick was that pretty-boy abbot playing now?
After a moment’s thought, he decided to check it out himself.
He wanted to see what kind of scheme this useless showpony could pull off.
He didn’t run.
He took his time, strolling leisurely toward the square.
He wanted everyone to see that he, Bartolo, was nothing like those panicked clodhoppers.
He remained calm in the face of crisis.
… The square in front of the abbey was quickly packed with people.
Almost all the villagers of Santa Lucia had arrived.
Filled with dread and confusion, they whispered and buzzed with speculation, having no idea what was going on.
In a corner of the square, Bartolo leaned against a tree with his arms crossed.
He watched cold-eyedly, finding it somewhat amusing.
Just then, the heavy wooden doors of the abbey slowly swung open.
The crowd fell silent.
Every eye turned toward those doors.
Giovanni stepped out.
He wore his grandest chasuble, intricately embroidered with gold thread.
In his hand, he held a heavy, pure silver crucifix.
His face bore a sorrowful, compassionate expression, as if he alone bore the weight of the entire world’s suffering.
Behind him followed two rows of monks.
All wore formal monastic robes, their expressions grim and solemn.
Two young monks, Antonio and Paolo, were carrying something between them.
A wicker basket.
They placed the basket at Giovanni’s feet and then stepped aside.
The villagers craned their necks, watching with intense curiosity, wondering what could be inside.
“My children,” Giovanni spoke.
His voice echoed across the square through the amplification device, reaching every ear, clear and powerful.
“Today, I have sounded the alarm and gathered you all here.
Not because bandits are coming, nor because an invading army approaches.
Rather, it is because a catastrophe far more terrifying than bandits or invaders is about to descend upon our heads.” His words sent everyone’s heart straight into their throat.
A catastrophe worse than bandits?
What was it?
A plague?
Giovanni did not answer directly.
He pointed to the wicker basket at his feet.
“Antonio, uncover it.” Antonio stepped forward and yanked off the cloth covering it.
A stench so rank it could choke a man instantly swept across the square.
The villagers in the front row covered their noses and stumbled backward.
When they caught sight of what lay inside, gasps rang out.
Rotten fish!
A basket full of rotting fish!
What was the meaning of this?
“Look!” Giovanni’s voice resounded with righteous sorrow and rage.
“This is the offering that someone among us presented to the Lord in the dead of night!” He signaled Luca to hold up the insulting slip of paper for everyone to see.
“Look at these words!
Look at these symbols!
This is sacrilege!
The most venomous desecration of the Lord!” The villagers stood stunned.
They finally understood what had happened.
Someone had used a basket of rotten fish to humiliate the new abbot and the abbey.
How brazen!
Who could have done such a thing?
Restlessness swept through the crowd as people exchanged glances, whispering suspicions.
Under the tree, Bartolo sneered.
He figured it was probably the work of some drunk vagrant in the village, or perhaps a farmer disgruntled over the Firstfruits Thanksgiving.
In his mind, though it was a low-class prank, it wasn’t a major deal.
Hardly worth ringing the alarm bell and making such a grand spectacle.
This new abbot was making a mountain out of a molehill.
However, Giovanni’s next words ensured that no one—not even Bartolo—could laugh anymore.
“Do you truly believe this is merely a basket of rotten fish?
Do you truly believe this is nothing more than a childish prank?
No!” Giovanni thrust his silver crucifix toward the sky.
“This is a sign from Satan!
A declaration from the Devil himself!
It tells us that he has infiltrated our village!
That he has corrupted our souls!
I ask you!” His gaze swept over every single person in the square.
“Why?
Why has such a thing come to pass in Santa Lucia?
I shall tell you why!
Because among us stand the unfaithful!
Because among us walk traitors to the Lord!” “The Lord bestowed the Firstfruits Thanksgiving upon us to cleanse our sins and grant us His blessings.
Yet some have treated it as a joke!
A scam!
They openly boycotted it!
They openly mocked it!
They opened the gates to the Devil!
They are Satan’s accomplices!” Giovanni named no names.
Yet everyone knew whom he meant.
Consciously or not, every eye flicked toward Bartolo standing beneath the tree.
Bartolo’s expression shifted slightly.
He hadn’t expected Giovanni to connect the prank to the boycott of the Firstfruits Thanksgiving, nor had he expected him to slap such a massive accusation onto them.
“Satan’s accomplices”?
That was no minor crime.
Even so, he still believed Giovanni was just posturing.
Could a man scare people to death with mere words?
Giovanni ignored the shifting glances of the crowd and pressed on with his sermon.
“The village of Santa Lucia is the Lord’s sheepfold.
We are all the Lord’s flock.
Now, within this fold, a single sheep wandered out to wallow in the mire.
It covered itself in filth and brought that very stench back into our midst!
It turned the house of the Lord into its foul mud pit!” “Tell me, what ought we to do?
Should we turn a blind eye, allowing this filth to poison the entire fold until every sheep bears an indelible stench?
Or should we, at once—without delay—root out this filthy sheep, purify it, or cast it out of the flock forever?!” His tone grew harsher with every word.
“If we do not act, then the Lord shall abandon our sheepfold.
He will withdraw His protection.
Crop failure will strike our fields.
Plague will claim our children.
Disaster will hang over the roof of every home!
The Lord will remember the sins of this village—until that filthy sheep is found!” These words crashed down like thunder upon every villager.
They were ignorant, superstitious folk.
They believed in God, but they believed even more in divine punishment.
Plague, crop failure, disaster—these were the words they feared most in their lives.
And now, because of a basket of rotten fish, because of some unknown blasphemer, those terrible horrors were set to fall upon all their heads.
The square erupted into pandemonium.
“Dear Lord!
God will punish us!” “Who did this?
Who brought this doom upon us?” “Find him!
Burn him!” “I don’t want to catch the plague!
My child is so young!” People turned on each other with suspicion and blame.
Neighbors one moment became potential enemies the next.
Everyone looked at those around them as though gazing upon a servant of Satan.
Bartolo’s face had grown thoroughly grim.
He realized things were spiraling in a direction he could no longer control.
He had underestimated the methods of this pretty-boy abbot.
The man wasn’t blowing things out of proportion.
He was starting a fire—setting a blazing fire of fear capable of burning people to ash.
Right at that moment— A piercing shriek tore through the air from the back of the crowd.
“Ahhh!
The water!
The well!” It was a woman’s voice.
Everyone whipped around to look.
A woman who had just returned from drawing water at the village’s public well had dropped her bucket.
She pointed toward the well, her face drained of all color.
“The water…
the water’s gone foul!
It’s so murky!” Everyone froze.
Then, those closest immediately sprinted toward the well, which sat just a short distance from the square.
When they reached the edge and peered inside, they were struck dumb with horror.
The very well from which they had drunk for decades, which had always been crystal clear, was now a murky, dark mess.
On the surface floated strange, rotting red substances.
A sickening, metallic stench rose from the shaft—ten times worse than the basket of rotten fish.
A curse!
The word flared in everyone’s mind.
The abbot’s warning had come true!
The Lord’s punishment was truly upon them!
And it had come so fast!
“Lord have mercy!
Save us!” “The Lord is truly enraged!” “We’re all going to die!” At that moment, panic reached its absolute climax.
Reason completely shattered.
Like sheep surrounded by wolves, the villagers plunged into mad, hysterical despair.
They stopped blaming one another.
They turned toward the center of the square and fell to their knees before the figure holding the silver crucifix, standing like a divine being.
They dropped in waves.
In the end, except for Bartolo still leaning against the tree and his handful of servants, every single person in the square was on their knees.
They wept, wailed, and prostrated themselves before Giovanni.
“Abbot!
Save us!” “You are the servant of the Lord!
You must have a way!” “We beg you, find that sinner!
Purify him!” “We don’t want to die!” Cries, shouts, and desperate pleas blended into a deafening din.
Giovanni stood at the center of the throng.
He looked down upon these panicked, desperate, ignorant souls kneeling at his feet.
The silver crucifix in his hand gleamed brilliantly under the morning sun.