Firstfruits Thanksgiving.
It was a new term.
In the past, the village had only known tax days, days everyone avoided like the plague. Now, for Thanksgiving, people rushed to attend as if drawn by something irresistible.
The square in front of St. Lucia Monastery had never been this clean. Even the moss between the stone slabs had been scraped away overnight with small knives. A platform stood in the center, draped in red cloth. The fabric was new, taken from Bartolo's house.
Atop the platform lay the Roll of Honor.
Philip stood beside it, wearing a new robe, his posture straight. The quill in his hand was always ready. Who came, what they offered, everything would be written down. This was not mere bookkeeping. It was about status.
The village blacksmith, Mario, arrived first. He pushed a wheelbarrow bearing two barrels of wine. The metal hoops gleamed, and the wood gave off a strong scent of oak. On tax days, he used to hand in watered-down vinegar. Today, these two barrels were the finest wine in his cellar.
He pushed them up to the platform and shouted, "Blacksmith Mario offers two barrels of fine red wine to the Lord!"
His voice was loud. He wanted everyone to hear.
Philip nodded and wrote his name down with a firm stroke. Mario lifted his chest and walked to the front of the crowd like a rooster that had won a fight. He could feel the looks around him had changed.
Next came the baker, Giotto. He carried a sack of flour embroidered with patterns. "This is ground from the best wheat of the season! No sand mixed in!"
His name went into the book as well.
Then came the carpenter, the tailor, and the small landowners who held only a little land of their own. Even the poorest tenant families came. They brought wild chickens caught in the hills or baskets of eggs.
Before, they had feared Bartolo. Now Bartolo was dead, his entire family gone. What they feared now was their name missing from that list.
If everyone else was written down and you were not, then you were different. In this village, being different could get you killed. Bartolo was the example.
The sun leaned westward. At last, the final offering was made.
It came from the poorest widow in the village. She had nothing decent to give, only a basket of wild fruit. She stepped forward timidly, not daring to lift her head. People stared. Some laughed quietly.
Giovanni walked over. He picked up a wild fruit and took a bite. It was sour, but he chewed with care.
"Very good." He looked at the widow and spoke gently. "In the eyes of the Lord, this basket of fruit is the same as Mario's two barrels of wine. Because each of you has offered your best."
"Philip. Write her name down as well."
The widow froze. Tears streamed down her face. The quiet laughter vanished. A strange warmth rose in the villagers' hearts once more.
Look at this. The abbot was truly fair. He did not favor the rich or despise the poor. As long as you obeyed, as long as you handed over your heart (and your goods), he would protect you.
Then the ceremony began.
Giovanni stepped before the offerings. He placed his hand on Mario's wine barrels. "The Lord accepts this sweetness."
He touched Giotto's sack of flour. "The Lord accepts this purity."
Each time he touched an item, the person who offered it trembled with excitement, as if it were not their gift being touched, but their soul.
In the end, Giovanni turned to face the crowd filling the square.
"My brothers and sisters," he said. "Today, what lies before us is not only grain and wine. It is your hearts. Hearts that fear the Lord and honor the Lord."
"With such hearts, St. Lucia Monastery will no longer be poor. St. Lucia Village will no longer know hunger."
"The Lord is with you!"
"Amen!"
Hundreds of voices answered in unison. The sound shook the leaves in the trees.
* * *
The celebration lasted until evening. The monks carried the piles of goods into the monastery storehouses. They were almost too full to hold everything.
Luca stood at the door, staring at the grain and oil stacked inside. His face was red with excitement. In the past, the old abbot had to argue half a day just to obtain half a sack of flour. Now, these goods felt as if they had fallen from the sky.
"The abbot truly is extraordinary," Luca muttered to himself.
Giovanni stood behind him, holding a cup of the red wine Mario had offered. He gently swirled it. "Luca. What are you thinking about?"
Luca turned around and said excitedly, "I was thinking how great it would be if Matteo could see this."
At the mention of Matteo, Giovanni's hand froze. Luca did not notice and continued, "He went to Florence for the good of the monastery. If he knew how well you've managed things, how much the villagers respect you, how full the storehouses are… he would be so happy."
"He would apologize and admit he was wrong. But it's been so long, and he still hasn't come back."
Luca meant it sincerely. He was a good man, and good men always hoped for happy endings. He hoped Matteo would return, see everything, and that old grudges would fade.
Giovanni looked at Luca's simple face and took a sip of wine. It was rough and a little sour. Country wine was always like that.
"Yes." Giovanni sighed. "Matteo has been gone a long time. By now, it has been nearly a month."
"Even riding that old mule, it would take five days to reach Florence, and another five to return. He should have been back. Unless…"
He did not finish the sentence.
Luca's face changed. "Unless what, Abbot? Are you saying something happened on the road?"
These days, the roads were dangerous. Bandits, stragglers, wild animals. Traveling alone was risky.
"May the Lord protect him," Giovanni said, crossing himself. "But Luca, we cannot rely on hope alone. He is our brother. We cannot ignore him."
"Tomorrow morning, take some strong villagers. Search the nearby hills if you must. You must find news of him."
"Alive, bring him back."
Giovanni paused again, pain flickering across his face. "Dead, bring back his remains."
Luca was deeply moved. Matteo had gone to expose him, to ruin him, yet the abbot held no grudge. He still cared. He still worried. He even sent people to search.
What kind of heart was this?
A saint's heart.
"Yes! Abbot!" Luca replied loudly. "I will set out at first light!"
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