At the entrance of St. Lucia village stood an old oak tree. A wooden board was nailed to its trunk, serving as the village notice board. Whenever something important happened, such as the lord calling for soldiers or Florence raising taxes, someone would come here and nail up a sheet of parchment.
Today, Luca stood beneath this oak tree with a brand new piece of parchment in his hands. It had been finished overnight by Philip, written in the neatest, most ornate script, the kind he only used when copying the Bible.
Luca carefully nailed the notice to the most eye-catching spot on the board with four nails.
When he finished, he stepped back a few paces, as if he had completed a sacred mission. He admired his work several times, then hurried back to the monastery to study scripture.
Soon, people began to gather.
First came a few children wandering near the village entrance. Then passing farmers, craftsmen pushing handcarts, and women carrying baskets on their way to wash clothes by the river. The crowd grew larger and larger.
"What does it say?" an illiterate old man asked.
"Looks like a monastery notice," said someone who knew a few letters, squinting at it.
"Move aside!"
Giotto the baker squeezed his way in. He was a fat man who had studied for a few years and was one of the few "educated" people in the village. Everyone looked at him.
Giotto cleared his throat and began reading the notice aloud.
"It is hereby announced, in gratitude for the Lord's grace and to renew devotion, that St. Lucia Monastery has resolved, starting this quarter, to abolish the former tithe system and designate the first Sunday of each quarter as the Firstfruits Thanksgiving…"
He read slowly and with great effort. Some words he did not fully understand, but he still stumbled through to the end.
After he was done, the crowd fell silent.
No one really understood.
What did "abolish the former tithe system" mean? Did it mean no more taxes? Could such a good thing really exist?
"Giotto, read it again. What does it actually mean?" a farmer asked.
Giotto read it again. This time, he added his own explanation.
"It seems they won't come to collect anymore. We have to bring our best things ourselves to the monastery square. And there will be some kind of celebration."
"Whoever brings the best offering will have their name written into some kind of… Roll of Honor."
Now everyone understood.
No taxes, but they had to deliver it themselves. And compete over who gave the best.
Wasn't this just the same thing in another form, even harsher than before? Before, when paying taxes, they could hide a little, cheat a little, and use poor goods to get by. Now everything had to be displayed in the square, in front of the entire village.
Who would dare bring moldy grain?
The crowd exploded at once.
"This new abbot must be mad for money."
"Exactly. Even greedier than the old abbot."
"A Roll of Honor. Can that fill your stomach?"
"If my name is carved on it, will my fields grow more grain?"
Curses filled the air.
But some people began to waver.
Like Mario the village blacksmith.
His family had done well last year and stored two barrels of decent wine. He had always wanted a chance to show off, and now the chance had come. If he carried those two barrels to the square and offered them in front of the whole village, if the abbot personally blessed him, and if his name was written into that roll and placed in the church, how impressive would that be?
From then on, he could walk through the village with his back a little straighter.
Others thought even more practically. Staying on good terms with the monastery never hurt. If something happened later, like a child falling sick, or a dispute with a neighbor, going to ask the abbot might actually help.
This Firstfruits Thanksgiving was an opportunity. An opportunity to spend money in exchange for peace and reputation.
The crowd buzzed with discussion. Some cursed, some calculated, and some were tempted.
A small notice was like a stone thrown into the still water of St. Lucia village. Ripples spread outward, layer after layer.
* * *
Naturally, these discussions reached Bartolo's ears.
Bartolo was the richest man in St. Lucia village. He owned vast lands and large herds of cattle and sheep, and half of the farmers in the village were his tenants. He also lent money at terrifying interest rates. Many villagers owed him money, so everyone feared him.
Bartolo was not only wealthy, but extremely stingy. He wanted to split every coin into two before spending it. Whenever the monastery came to collect the tithe, it felt like someone was cutting flesh from him. He would argue with the monks for half a day over the ownership of a few chickens.
Now, he heard about the Firstfruits Thanksgiving plan.
At the time, he was supervising work on his estate while several tenants turned the soil for him. When one tenant mentioned it, he burst out laughing on the spot, laughing so hard he nearly bent over.
"A contest of honor. A trick to fool children."
Bartolo spat on the ground.
"That pretty boy abbot thinks we're all idiots. Give him our best goods in exchange for a name written on some scrap of parchment. My money is for buying land and cattle, not for buying empty nonsense like that."
He turned to the tenants and said, "You all listen carefully. This so-called thanksgiving festival is a scam."
"If any of you dare take what grows on the land I rent to you and bring it to that ridiculous contest, I'll take the land back and let your whole family starve."
The tenants nodded frantically. They dared not offend Bartolo.
"And one more thing," Bartolo added. "Go tell the others in the village. Anyone who joins that thanksgiving thing is a fool, someone handing over their hard-earned money to that pretty boy abbot for nothing."
* * *
Bartolo's influence was enormous, and his words spread through the village very quickly. Some people who had started to waver hesitated again after hearing him. They felt Bartolo had seen much of the world, and what he said must make sense.
More importantly, offending him would make life in the village very hard.
For a time, the direction of public opinion shifted once more. Most villagers decided to resist the Firstfruits Thanksgiving.
They wanted to see who would step forward and become that fool who stood out.
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