And the crowds came down to break Old Malvern’s legs. But they didn’t stop there. They couldn’t help themselves. They encircled him and snarled.
“This terrorist doesn’t deserve to live among us. The civilized.” Arms were raised in celebration, and came down in a fury. The hurting stopped only because he died.
Now the Malverns keep a stone by the fireplace, inscribed by the only Malvern son. “Us.”
His peers lit a torch. His followers cut lumber like he was still there among them. Watching. But no one watched their work that day. No one saw through the haze of Malvern’s memory.
Now a quiet settles like dust on the ruins of his achievements. At 4 a.m. the Malvern wife and mother does watch. A calm washes over her as she surveys the wasteland. To know sweet Mr. Malvern never saw it with his own eyes, how she saw it, this colorless morning.