As night fell, weeping echoed from the distant village path, drawing closer until it reached the square in front of the monastery gates.
The villagers opened their doors, poking their heads out to watch.
They saw Nio’s wife, Margaret, dressed in tattered black clothes, leading her three frail children step by step toward the center of the square.
Her hair was disheveled, her face drenched in tears.
She wept uncontrollably as she walked, her heart torn to pieces.
Behind her, the three children sobbed along with her.
They didn’t fully understand what had happened; they only knew that their father was dead, and they would never again see the man who used to lift them high above his head.
The villagers watched the scene unfold.
There was sympathy.
There was fear.
And there was a sliver of relief—relief that the bloody body lying in the alley wasn’t theirs.
Margaret led her children to the middle of the square and dropped straight to her knees.
Her three children followed suit, kneeling behind her.
They knelt there on the cold flagstones, weeping bitterly before the tightly closed gates of the monastery.
The sight filled everyone watching with a suffocating heaviness.
*** At the first break of dawn the next day, the monastery gates slowly swung open.
Giovanni walked out, clad in his most magnificent chasuble embroidered with gold thread.
He carried a wooden tray holding a piece of white bread and a cup of warm milk.
He walked down the steps step by step, stopping before Margaret and her children.
Margaret had wept all night; her voice was hoarse, and her eyes were swollen like walnuts.
Her children, exhausted from crying, had curled into her arms and fallen asleep.
Seeing Giovanni approach, Margaret struggled to bow her head in reverence, but Giovanni gently held her back.
He knelt down and held the tray out to her.
“Eat, my child.
The Lord will not let His lambs starve in sorrow.” Margaret stared at the white bread and the steaming cup of milk, tears streaming down her face once more.
White bread and milk—things she and her children couldn’t afford to eat even once a year.
And now, this saintly Abbot was personally presenting them to her.
She took the tray and immediately broke the bread, feeding small pieces to the three sleeping children.
Smelling the food, the children opened their mouths groggily and began to eat.
Only then did Margaret take the remaining bread and stuff it ravenously into her own mouth.
She ate so fast that she began to choke, coughing repeatedly.
Giovanni held the cup of milk to her lips.
Margaret took a sip straight from his hand.
The warm milk slid down her throat, bringing warmth to her frozen heart.
This scene was witnessed by every villager peering from around the square.
Every movement Giovanni made, every look in his eyes, resembled a divine painting.
A painting titled *Mercy*.
They looked at the widow and orphans devouring food on the ground, then at the Abbot standing before them like an angel descended from heaven.
The swaying scales in their hearts tipped completely.
Doubts vanished.
They believed with every fiber of their being.
Giovanni was the embodiment of justice.
And Bartolo was the source of all evil.
Giovanni instructed a monk to take Margaret and her children inside the monastery.
Then, he drew himself up.
He did not address the villagers peering out around the square.
Instead, he faced the monastery gates and knelt down.
He opened his arms wide, posing like Jesus crucified on the cross, and began to pray.
His voice started low, as if he were speaking to himself.
“O Lord, my God, have mercy on us, for we dwell in sin.” “This land is defiled by the blood of the innocent.
These skies are clouded by the cries of the afflicted.” “The devil walks among our village.
He wears the skin of a man, tempting hearts with wealth and spreading fear through violence.” “And we—weak as we are, ignorant as we are—pretended not to see.” “We tolerated his greed.
We bowed to his tyranny.” “We are all accomplices.” His voice grew louder, filled with grief and indignation.
“And now, Lord, Your anger is kindled.” “You warned us with the foul stench of the well water.
You cautioned us with the hardness of the bread.
You awakened us with the sudden death of our livestock.” “Yet we did not awaken.” “Not until this innocent blood was spilled in our streets.” “Only now do we finally see that the vicious wolf has bared his fangs!” Giovanni’s prayer sounded like a trial—a judgment passed not just upon Bartolo, but upon every villager listening to his words.
They all bowed their heads.
Every word the Abbot spoke felt like a whip striking their own backs.
It was true.
They all knew what kind of man Bartolo was, yet they had all chosen silence.
They were all accomplices.
Giovanni’s prayer continued, his tone suddenly shifting.
“Lord, I know Your punishment is just.
Your wrath cannot be defied.” “Yet I, Giovanni, Your humblest servant, implore You.” “I implore You to grant us one more chance.” “Grant this village one more chance at redemption.” He paused, then slowly rose from the ground.
Turning around, he faced the villagers who had crept out from hiding to gather in the square.
He raised his right hand and pointed directly toward Bartolo’s estate.
“Because you have desecrated the holy altar, mocked the Lord’s grace, and stained His land with the blood of the innocent!” “I, Giovanni, in the name of the Lord, proclaim here and now!” His voice crashed over the square like thunder, carrying an undeniable, absolute authority.
The villagers were shaken to their core by the sheer power of his words.
Their eyes widened as they stared at Giovanni, as if looking upon a true living god whose every word became law.
“Your granaries shall wither, and the grain within shall turn to dust!” “Your wealth shall rot, and your gold coins shall become scorching irons!” “Your family shall fall, and your lineage shall be severed for your sins!” “Flames shall consume your greed until everything you own is reduced to nothing!” “Amen!” As the final word left Giovanni’s lips, the heavens answered.
A sudden gust of wind swept across the square, swirling dust and fallen leaves into the air.
High above, a dark cloud drifted over, blocking out the morning sun.
The entire square darkened in an instant.
A collective gasp of terror erupted from the villagers.
They knew this was no coincidence.
It was divine will—the Lord answering Abbot Giovanni’s curse.
They looked at Giovanni, the young priest standing in the wind wrapped in his magnificent chasuble, and felt they were looking at a living saint—one who could summon the wind, command the clouds, and speak directly to God.