Dong, dong ,dong, dong…
The urgent ringing of the bell tore through the quiet morning of St. Lucia village, again and again, each strike louder than the last. Everyone was jolted awake.
Farmers working in the fields froze mid-swing and dropped their hoes. Women cooking at home knocked over soup pots in their haste. Lazy men leapt out of bed, hearts pounding, fear and confusion written plainly across their faces.
"What happened?"
"That's the alarm bell!"
"What's going on? Bandits?"
"Hurry! To the monastery square!"
People rushed out of their homes, grabbing whatever lay closest at hand: sickles, axes, pitchforks. They thought they were heading into a fight. Shouting for family members and neighbors, they ran through the streets as the entire village fell into chaos.
Bartolo was disturbed as well. At the time, he was in his courtyard feeding his prized horses. Hearing the bell, he frowned. This was no ordinary ringing.
"Go see what's going on," he ordered a servant.
The servant returned quickly. "Master, it's the monastery bell. They're calling everyone to the square."
Bartolo narrowed his eyes. What was that pretty-faced abbot up to now? After a moment's thought, he decided to go himself. He wanted to see what kind of tricks that showpiece could pull.
Unlike the others, he did not run. He walked toward the square at an easy pace, deliberately calm, wanting everyone to see that Bartolo was different from those panicked peasants. He stayed composed under pressure.
* * *
The square before the monastery soon filled with people. Almost every villager from St. Lucia had arrived, whispering among themselves, uneasy and confused. No one knew what had happened.
In one corner of the square, Bartolo stood with his arms crossed, leaning against a tree. He watched coldly and even found the scene a little amusing.
Just then, the monastery's wooden doors slowly opened. The crowd fell silent, and all eyes turned toward the doorway.
Giovanni stepped out. He wore the most magnificent vestment, embroidered with gold thread, and held a heavy silver cross in his hand. His face carried deep sorrow and compassion, as if he alone bore the suffering of the world.
Behind him stood two lines of monks in formal robes, their expressions solemn. Two young monks, Antonio and Paul, carried a wicker basket. They placed it at Giovanni's feet and stepped aside.
The villagers stretched their necks, curiosity mixing with unease. Nobody knew what was inside.
"My children," Giovanni spoke. His voice carried clearly across the square, strong and steady. "Today, I rang the alarm bell and called you here, not because bandits have come, nor because enemies have invaded."
He paused.
"But because a disaster more terrible than bandits or enemies is about to fall upon us."
Every heart jumped. More terrible than bandits? What could that be? The plague?
Giovanni did not answer immediately. Instead, he pointed to the basket at his feet. "Antonio. Open it."
Antonio stepped forward and pulled away the cloth. A choking stench spread across the square. Those closest recoiled, covering their noses and stumbling back. When they saw what lay inside, gasps broke out.
Rotten fish.
A basket full of rotten fish.
"What is this?" murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Look!" Giovanni's voice was filled with grief and fury. "This is the offering someone among us presented to the Lord late last night!"
He had Luca display the insulting note. "Look at the words! Look at the symbol! This is blasphemy, the most vicious blasphemy against the Lord!"
The villagers were stunned. Now they understood. Someone had used a basket of rotten fish to insult the new abbot and the monastery. The nerve.
Who would dare do this?
The crowd stirred, people whispering guesses and glancing at one another. Beneath the tree, Bartolo curled his lip. He thought it was likely some drunken fool, or perhaps a farmer angry about the Firstfruits Thanksgiving. Nasty, yes, but hardly worth sounding the alarm. The abbot was making a fuss over nothing.
Then Giovanni spoke again.
No one laughed after that. Not even Bartolo.
"Do you think this is just rotten fish? Do you think this is only a prank?" He raised the silver cross and pointed it toward the sky. "No! This is a signal from Satan! A declaration from the devil!"
"It tells us that evil has entered our village! That our souls have been polluted!"
He swept his gaze across every face. "Let me ask you! Why did this happen here? Why in St. Lucia?"
"I will tell you why!"
"Because among us are the unfaithful! Because among us are traitors to the Lord!"
"The Lord gave us the Firstfruits Thanksgiving to cleanse our sins and bless us, yet some mocked it! Called it a scam! And resisted it openly!"
"They opened the door for the devil! They are Satan's accomplices!"
Giovanni named no one, but everyone knew who he meant. Eyes drifted toward Bartolo beneath the tree.
Bartolo's expression darkened. He had not expected the matter to be linked to resistance against the festival, nor charged with something so heavy.
Satan's accomplices.
That was no small accusation. Still, he told himself it was empty bluster. Words alone could not kill.
Giovanni continued his speech, "St. Lucia village is the Lord's sheepfold. We are all His sheep. Now, one sheep ran off, rolled in filth, and brought that filth back."
"It turned the Lord's sanctuary into a mud pit!"
"What should we do? Should we pretend not to see it and let the filth spread, letting every sheep stink forever?"
"Or should we, right now, find that filthy sheep and cleanse it! Or drive it out?!"
His voice sharpened with each sentence. "If we do not, the Lord will abandon this fold. He will withdraw His protection."
"Poor harvests will strike our fields. Plague will take our children. Disaster will hang over every roof!"
"The Lord will remember this village's sin until that filthy sheep is found!"
His words crashed into the villagers. They were ignorant and superstitious, believing deeply in God and fearing His punishment even more. Plague, famine, disaster, these were the greatest terrors of their lives.
Now they were coming, because of rotten fish and an unseen blasphemer.
The square exploded.
"Oh no! The Lord will punish us!"
"Who did this? Who doomed us all?!"
"Find him! Burn him!"
"I don't want the plague! My children are so young!"
Suspicion turned neighbors into enemies. Every face began to look like that of "Satan's servant."
Bartolo's face twisted. Things were slipping beyond his control. He had underestimated this abbot. This was not overreacting. This was setting fire—a fire of fear that could kill.
Then it happened.
From the back of the crowd came a shrill scream. "Ah! Water! The well!"
A woman's voice.
Everyone turned. A woman who had just drawn water from the public well dropped her bucket, pointing back with a trembling hand, her face drained of color.
"The water… It smells awful! It's cloudy!"
People froze. Then those nearby ran toward the well, which stood not far from the square. They leaned over and looked down.
Shock seized them.
The well they had used for decades was no longer clear. The water was murky, with rotting red matter floating on the surface. A stench rose up, ten times worse than the fish.
A single word formed in every mind.
A curse.
The abbot's warning had come true. The Lord's punishment had arrived, and it was fast.
"Oh God! Save us!"
"The Lord is angry!"
"We are all going to die!"
Panic reached its peak. Reason collapsed. The villagers were like sheep surrounded by wolves, driven into madness.
They no longer accused one another. Instead, they turned toward the man at the center of the square, the one holding the cross like a god.
They fell to their knees, row after row. In the end, everyone knelt except Bartolo and a few servants still standing by the tree.
They cried and begged, bowing before Giovanni.
"Abbot! Save us!"
"You are the Lord's servant! You must have a way!'
"Find the sinner! Cleanse him!"
"We don't want to die!"
Cries and pleas filled the air.
Giovanni stood at the center of it all, looking down at the terrified, desperate, ignorant souls kneeling before him. The silver cross in his hand gleamed coldly in the morning light.
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