The next morning, just before dawn, the monastery gate slowly opened.
Giovanni stepped out, wearing his most splendid vestment, embroidered with gold thread. In his hands, he carried a wooden tray. On it lay a piece of white bread and a cup of milk.
Step by step, he descended the stairs and stopped in front of Margaret and her children.
She had cried through the night. Her voice was hoarse, and her eyes were swollen like walnuts. The children, exhausted from sobbing, were curled up in her arms, asleep.
When she saw him, she struggled to bow her head in thanks, but he stopped her. Crouching down, he held the tray out to her.
"Eat, my child," he said gently. "The Lord will not let His lambs starve in sorrow."
Margaret looked at the white bread and the cup of steaming milk, and then she broke down again.
White bread. Milk. Things she and her children might eat only once a year. And now, this saint-like abbot was offering them with his own hands.
She accepted the tray and broke the bread into small pieces, feeding them one by one to her sleeping children. Smelling the food, they opened their mouths in a daze and began to eat.
Only then did she take what remained and stuff it into her own mouth, devouring it. She ate too quickly and began to choke, coughing hard.
Giovanni lifted the cup of milk to her lips. With his support, she drank a mouthful. The warm milk slid down her throat and slowly warmed her frozen heart.
Everyone watching from around the square saw everything clearly.
Every movement he made, every look in his eyes, resembled a sacred painting. The painting was called Mercy.
They looked at the widow and the orphans kneeling on the ground, eating desperately. Then they looked at the abbot standing before them, like an angel sent down from heaven.
The scale in their hearts finally tipped. They no longer doubted. They believed completely.
Giovanni was the embodiment of justice, and Bartolo was the source of all evil.
Giovanni instructed the monks to lead Margaret and her children into the monastery. Then he straightened his back.
He did not speak to the villagers peeking from the square. Instead, he turned toward the monastery gate and knelt down.
He spread his arms wide, like Jesus upon the cross, and began to pray.
At first, his voice was low, as though he were speaking only to himself.
"Oh Lord, my God. Have mercy on us, for we live in sin."
"This land has been stained by the blood of the innocent. This sky is covered by the cries of the victims."
"The devil walks through our village. He wears human skin, tempts hearts with gold, and spreads 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 power. We are all accomplices."
His voice grew louder, more anguished.
"Now, Lord, You are angry."
"You warned us with foul water. You warned us with hardened bread. You warned us with dying livestock."
"But we still did not wake up, until innocent blood flowed through our streets."
"Only then did we finally see that the evil wolf had bared his fangs!"
The prayer felt like a trial. Not only Bartolo was on trial, but everyone listening in the square as well.
Heads lowered. Each word struck like a whip across their backs. They all knew what kind of man Bartolo was, and yet they had chosen silence.
They were accomplices.
The prayer continued, and then Giovanni's tone suddenly changed.
"Lord, I know Your punishment is just. Your wrath cannot be defied."
"But I, Giovanni, Your humblest servant, beg You."
"I beg You to grant us one more chance. Give this village one chance to atone."
He paused.
Slowly, he rose from the ground and turned to face the villagers who had come out of hiding and gathered together. Raising his right hand, he pointed toward Bartolo's estate.
"For you have defiled the altar, mocked the Lord's grace, and stained His land with innocent blood, I, Giovanni, in the name of the Lord, proclaim this curse!"
His voice exploded across the square like thunder. Every word carried undeniable force.
The villagers were stunned. They stared at him as though he were a god whose words shaped reality.
"Your granaries shall wither, and the grain within shall turn to dust!"
"Your wealth shall rot, and your gold shall become burning iron!"
"Your family shall decline, and your bloodline shall end because of your sin!"
"Flames shall consume your greed until everything you own is reduced to nothing!"
"Amen!"
As the final word left his mouth, the heavens seemed to respond.
A gust of wind swept through the square, lifting dust and fallen leaves. A dark cloud drifted across the sky, covering the rising sun, and the square fell into shadow.
The villagers cried out in fear.
They did not think it coincidence. They believed it was a sign. The Lord was answering the abbot's curse.
They looked at him standing in the wind, clad in his splendid vestment, and felt they were not looking at a man, but at a living saint, one who could summon wind, command clouds, and speak directly with God.
* * *
The curse spread through St. Lucia village.
Every word was rolled around in people's mouths, chewed over, tasted, and then passed on with growing fear.
"The abbot said Bartolo's granaries will wither!"
"His wealth will rot!"
"Fire will consume his greed!"
The words reached Bartolo's estate.
The servants heard them and were terrified. Quietly, they packed their belongings, ready to flee at any moment. In their eyes, the estate was no longer a home, but a cursed ship about to sink.
Bartolo's wife heard the rumors as well. She knelt before the statue of the Virgin and prayed again and again, but no matter how long she prayed, her heart found no peace.
Only Bartolo reacted differently. He was not afraid. He laughed, loudly and wildly.
"Wither? Rot? Fire?" he scoffed at the steward, whose face had gone pale. "Who does he think he is? God? One word from his mouth and my granaries go empty? My gold grows mold? A bunch of fools. All of them fools."
He drove the steward out and locked himself inside his most precious room: the treasury.
The door was iron. The walls were stone, three feet thick.
This was Bartolo's kingdom, and his refuge.
He lit more than a dozen tallow candles. Their light revealed everything inside: chests stacked high with gold and silver coins, scroll after scroll neatly arranged, recording villagers' debts and land contracts, and expensive but useless trinkets from Florence and Venice. Ivory carvings, gem-set daggers, silver goblets.
Bartolo stroked the cold coins. He picked up the contracts and held them close, studying the names and numbers. These were real. These were power, not the empty words spoken outside by that pretty-faced abbot.
"He has his God," Bartolo muttered to a chest of gold. "I have mine. My God is right here. I can see it. I can touch it. As long as you are here, no one can do anything to me."
"That pretty-faced priest, what does he have? A torn robe and group of monks poorer than himself. What can he use to fight me?"
Bartolo stayed in the treasury all day. He neither ate nor drank, like a devout monk guarding sacred relics.
Again and again, he spoke to his treasure. Again and again, he convinced himself that he was still the king of St. Lucia village, that nothing outside had changed. His mind was already breaking.
That night, his wife knocked on the door.
"Bartolo, come out. Eat something."
"Get out!" he roared from inside.
"Bartolo, I beg you. Let us go confess to the abbot. Bury Nio properly. Compensate his family. The abbot is merciful. He will forgive us—"
"Confess?"
Bartolo yanked open the iron door and charged out like an enraged bull. He grabbed his wife by the hair.
"You stupid woman! You believe that charlatan's lies too? You want to betray me as well?"
"I don't!" she cried. "I just want to save this family! Save you! Save our children!"
"Save me?" His eyes were bloodshot. "I don't need saving! I'm fine!"
He raised his hand and struck her hard across the face. She fell to the ground, blood pooling at the corner of her mouth.
She stared at him in disbelief.
They had been married for twenty years. He had a bad temper, but he had never laid a hand on her. Today, he did.
"Everyone has betrayed me… even you…" he muttered, staring at her on the floor. "You all want me dead… all of you…"
He turned and went back into the treasury. With a loud clang, the iron door slammed shut, sealing despair, and a family on the edge of ruin, outside.
All of this was witnessed by a small figure hiding at the corner of the stairs.
The boy saw his father's twisted, mad face. He heard his mother's painful cry. Terror seized him.
He ran back to his room, pulled the blanket over his head, and trembled.
His father had become a stranger. A terrifying monster.
From the treasury came his father's voice, shouting at times, whispering at others, mad, broken self-talk.
The boy felt that something unseen, something dark, was slowly devouring their home.
**
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