Axes clanged hollowly in the still evening air. In their brutal ringing they spoke doom to the Shirelings who huddled like rabbits in their burrows. Peering from windows and half-cracked doors, they trembled as leather shod feet tramped the lanes.
Laughter, the scorn of dark deed-doers, raped the bucolic peacefulness while rough voices yelled: “Here now my lads! Pull it down!”
As a crackling sound like distant thunder cleaved the air, somewhere nearby a frantic voice cried: “The Party Tree! They’ve cut it down!”
Silence followed, and in the hush before darkness fell, the sky opened its eyes and wept.