At the entrance to Santa Lucia Village stood an old oak tree.
Nailed to its trunk was a thick wooden plank.
This was the village notice board.
Whenever something important happened in the village—such as the lord drafting men for war or Florence levying new taxes—someone would come and nail a sheet of parchment to this board.
Today, Luca stood beneath this very oak.
He held a brand-new sheet of parchment in his hands.
It had been produced overnight by Brother Philip.
The lettering on it was written in the neatest Gothic script, the kind reserved exclusively for transcribing the Holy Bible.
Luca carefully secured the announcement to the most conspicuous spot on the board, fixing it firmly with four nails.
Having accomplished this, he felt as though he had completed a sacred mission.
He stepped back a few paces, admired his handiwork several times, and then hurried back to the monastery to study his scriptures.
Before long, a crowd began to gather.
First came a few children wandering near the village entrance.
Then passing farmers, craftsmen pushing wheelbarrows, and women carrying baskets on their way to wash clothes by the river.
More and more people pressed around.
“What does it say up there?” asked an illiterate old man.
“Looks like an announcement from the monastery,” replied a man who knew a few letters, squinting his eyes to decipher it.
“Out of the way, out of the way!” Giotto, the village baker, pushed his way through the crowd.
He was a stout man who had received a few days of schooling, making him one of the few “cultured” men in the village.
Everyone turned to look at him.
Giotto cleared his throat and began reading the text on the announcement aloud.
“Be it known that in gratitude for the Lord’s grace and to restore true piety, the Santa Lucia Monastery has resolved to abolish the old custom of tithing, effective this quarter.
Henceforth, the first Sunday of every quarter shall be designated as ‘Firstfruits Thanksgiving’…” He read very slowly and with great effort.
There were several words he did not quite understand.
Still, he stumbled his way to the end.
When he finished, a silence fell over the crowd.
No one understood what it meant.
What did “abolish the old custom of tithing” mean?
Did it mean they wouldn’t collect taxes anymore?
Could such a good thing truly exist in this world?
“Giotto, read it again.
What does it actually mean?” a farmer asked.
Giotto read it through a second time.
This time, he added his own interpretation.
“It seems to mean they won’t come door-to-door to collect from us anymore.
Instead, we’re supposed to bring our best things to the monastery plaza ourselves and give them up.” “And they’re holding some kind of festival.” “Whoever gives the best things will get their name written on something called…
a ‘Register of Honor.'” Now, everyone understood.
They weren’t abolishing the tax; they were changing it so people brought it themselves.
And they were setting up a contest to see who brought the best offerings.
Wasn’t this just the same trick under a different name?
In fact, it sounded even harsher than before.
In the past, when taxes were collected, you could still hide a little, hold back a bit, or fool them with inferior goods.
Now you had to bring it to the plaza and compete in front of the entire village.
Who would have the nerve to pull out moldy wheat in front of everyone?
The crowd instantly erupted.
“Has this new Abbot gone mad for money?” “Exactly!
He’s even greedier than the old one.” “A Register of Honor?
Can you eat that?” “If my name gets carved onto it, will my fields magically grow more grain?” Curses and complaints filled the air.
Yet there were also a few whose minds began to work differently.
Take Mario, the village blacksmith, for instance.
His household had fared well last year, and he had saved two barrels of decent wine.
He had always wanted a chance to show off in front of the village.
Now, his chance had arrived.
If he rolled those two barrels of wine to the plaza and offered them to the monastery in front of the whole village…
The Abbot would personally bless him.
His name would be written in that register and displayed right inside the church.
How prestigious would that be?
Afterward, he could walk through the village with his chest held high.
Others thought along more practical lines.
They reasoned that maintaining a good relationship with the monastery could never hurt.
If trouble struck at home in the future—if a child fell ill or a dispute arose with a neighbor—going to ask the Abbot for help might actually work.
This “Firstfruits Thanksgiving” was an opportunity.
An opportunity to spend a little money to buy peace of mind and prestige.
Whispers and discussions surged through the crowd.
Some cursed, some calculated, and some were tempted.
That small announcement was like a stone thrown into the stagnant pond of Santa Lucia Village.
It sent out ripple after ripple.
…
Naturally, these rumors soon reached the ears of Bartolo.
Bartolo was the wealthiest man in Santa Lucia Village.
He owned vast tracks of land and herds of cattle and sheep.
Half the farmers in the village were his tenant farmers.
He was also a moneylender.
His interest rates were terrifyingly high.
A great many villagers owed him money.
Because of this, everyone feared him.
Bartolo was not only wealthy, but exceptionally stingy as well.
He would pinch every copper until it bled.
Every time the monastery came to collect tithes, he acted as if his own flesh were being carved away.
He would argue with the monks for half a day over the ownership of a few chickens.
Now, he had heard about this “Firstfruits Thanksgiving” scheme.
At the time, he was overseeing work on his estate.
Several tenant farmers were plowing the soil for him.
When he heard one of the tenant farmers mention it, he burst into laughter on the spot.
He doubled over, laughing uncontrollably.
“A competition of honor?
A trick to fool children!” Bartolo spat on the ground.
“Does that fair-faced new Abbot take us all for fools?” “Give him our best goods in exchange for a name on a piece of scrap parchment?” “My money is meant for buying land, cattle, and sheep.
It’s not meant for buying useless nonsense like that!” He turned to the tenant farmers and declared: “Listen to me, all of you.
This ridiculous Thanksgiving of his is nothing but a scam.” “If any of you dare take the harvest grown on the land I rent to you and enter that stupid contest…” “I’ll take the land back and leave your whole family to starve on air.” The tenant farmers nodded frantically in terror.
How could they ever dare cross Bartolo?
“And another thing,” Bartolo added.
“Go tell the rest of the village too.
Anyone who attends that stupid Thanksgiving is a complete idiot, throwing their hard-earned money away to that pretty-boy Abbot for nothing.” Bartolo possessed immense influence.
His words quickly spread through the village.
Those who had initially been tempted began to hesitate after hearing Bartolo’s warning.
They figured Bartolo was a man of the world, so his words had to carry weight.
Besides, if they offended Bartolo, life in the village would become unbearable.
In no time, the wind in the village shifted once more.
The majority decided to boycott the “Firstfruits Thanksgiving.” They wanted to see who would be foolish enough to stick their head out first.