The men outside all carry blades. Their skin is dark, a combination of tan skin and hard work in the sun, decorated with geometric tattoos and writing in an unknown script. They wear red fabric wound around their heads and sashes at their waists to support a longer blade like a cutlass and a shorter kris dagger with a wavy blade. They are barefooted, with broad, callused feet, and wear short pants that end just below the knee. Their eyes are Asian, and their long black hair is gathered and tied behind their heads.

Blades drawn, they quickly sweep into the cottage, surrounding me and the old couple, but from the moment the first man sees me his eyes grow wide.

“Sus Ginuo!” he exclaims as he draws back.

As soon as the others see me they have the same reaction. They begin speaking rapidly in the old language, and then as a group they break out into the psalm, which I have translated from Sugbuano.

Uy, tuko sa Ginuo

O gecko of God

pirme nakabantay ka sa kalihokan sa mga tawo

always vigilant over the actions of men

Nagtan-aw ka sa ibabaw, sa ngitngit

You watch from above, in the darkness

ang mga mata sa makagagahom sa tanan ang imong mga mata

Your eyes are those of the Most Powerful above all

ang siyagit sa Ginuo sa atong mga kasingkasing ang imong tingog

Your voice is the cry of God to our hearts

An older man enters, and there is gray in his long hair, but he is still strong. The other men part to let him through. “I never thought I would see this day, but I am blessed.”

He kneels and brings the flat of his unsheathed blade across his forehead, while placing his dagger behind him at the small of his back. The other men follow his lead.

“Ayaw, palihug. Usa ka ulipon sa Ginuo lang ko.” I am protesting, telling them not to kneel before me because I am just the servant of God. I remain on my belly, and dare not stand while others are kneeling.

“You speak the language of humans,” the elder man tells me with admiration in his voice. He is referring to Sugbuano, and I note that in his thinking Siskalian does not count as “the language of humans.”

“I have been separated from my friends Taur, the giant man with horns, and Liana, the albino girl,” I explain to the group. “I stopped here when I heard a child crying in pain.”

The old woman brushes aside the stray lock of white hair from her deeply lined face and speaks. “The baby wouldn't stop crying until he mixed a drop of his venom with a cup of water, and now she sleeps soundly.”

“His venom is poison to the faithless and medicine to the believer,” the elder leader observes while the armed men crowded into the cottage nod in agreement. “Your friends are safe in the village. They were worried about you, but I told them that you are the vicar of God, and it is the enemies of God who should be worried.”

“This couple is sheltering a child to keep her from being sacrificed.” I point with my head to the crib.

“Say no more. It is done. There will be a constant watch on this home so that no harm comes to the child.” The elder leader shakes his head and practically spits as he curses, “Pisting mga buang.”

He has called the city dwellers “damn psychos,” and I think he's spot on.

“Thank you so much,” the old man says from his seat on the bed, and his wife echoes his thanks. The elderly man rises and bows as he takes the hand of the leader, and his wife follows. They are profuse in their thanks as the tattooed men exit the cottage and file off into the jungle.

“Don't worry,” I tell the couple as I am the last to leave. “I have been charged by God the Protector to see that no harm comes to the child.”

The woman embraces me, and the man shakes my hand as best as he can, but finds it's like shaking hands with a baseball catcher who is wearing his broad mitt.

I turn and take a few tottering steps like a drunk without my tail for balance, so I am forced to crawl on my belly, scampering over the trail until I catch up with the leader of the war party.

“I am Ondo,” he tells me in Sugbuano, the “language of humans” to use his phrase.

“I am Vic,” I reply as we march through the dark jungle, which seems to begin abruptly at the edge of the field where the cottage sits, and we are now in a thick mass of foliage and undergrowth.

Unlike the movies, there is no hacking of blades at vines. Even in the dark, the men march barefooted over the dirt path without fail and we are soon going uphill. Bats fly across the moon, distinguishable by their erratic flight, and an owl soars overhead before disappearing behind the canopy of the tall trees. Monkeys sleep silently in the high branches, which Ondo points out to me as we pass. I see a thick black centipede crawl over the trail, so my tongue shoots out and sucks it in.

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“I'm fond of centipedes,” I tell Ondo, who looks at me in surprise. What did he think, that I'm eating pizza with pineapple? It's weird: centipedes are delicious, a rhinoceros beetle is a rare treat, and a moth, the big ones you get on this planet, are pure ambrosia. But pizza with pineapple makes me want to vomit.

We march for several hours until we reach a village, where huts have woven palm fronds for walls, grass roofs, and are elevated above the ground, with pigs, ducks, or goats living in the open “basement” beneath the house. I see Taur sitting at the campfire in the center of the village. He rises with a shout, startling the tattooed men seated beside him. Standing to my feet, I run awkwardly toward him, and we embrace.

The giant slaps my back repeatedly in his enthusiasm, and I feel it in my spine. “It's so good to see you again! Where is your tail?”

“The gecko is wise, willing to sacrifice its own tail to escape the clutches of evil, willing to shed its skin to become renewed.” I am quoting the scripture to the horned man when I see Liana emerge from one of the women's huts.

“Vic! You're alive!” the albino girl exclaims while running toward me, and her white hair seems to glow in the moonlight.

“By the grace of God, yes.” We embrace, and I feel the absence of my tail, which I learned to use to compensate for my stubby arms.

Ondo approaches us. “Come, let's go to the shrine to give thanks.”

He leads us to an open hut with no walls, but rows of split tree trunks carved to make pews. Ondo kneels before he enters, and we follow his lead. Approaching the altar he takes a piece of curled bark and ignites it in a fire burning in the dirt floor. Rising, he blows out the flame, leaving an ember that burns at the end of the bark scroll and gives off an earthy scent like sandalwood. He places the smoldering bark before a case containing what looks like a doll dressed in a regal cloak with a scepter in his pudgy hand and a crown on his head. We sit on the split logs as Ondo prays fervently, while Liana and Taur watch curiously.

Ondo gets up, kneels in the aisle, and leaves the shrine. I know Taur and Liana don't understand, so I explain to them as we leave. “The image is the saint of the Sugbuano, the Balaan nga Bata, or Holy Child.”

“Why a child? That's a strange saint,” Liana observes, and I notice she is wearing a white blossom in her hair, which isn't a contrast, but I can smell it, and the scent is very pleasing.

“The birth of any child is a sign of hope, that humanity won't die but will survive, and the child's parents know that they have a legacy.” I tell them as we stroll toward the campfire in the center of the village where men have broken out the tobacco and lumboy leaves, which they use as a wrapper. “In this case, it's not just any child, but the infant Lord Riyel, born to Saint Janith. It recalls the birth of the first child to the first woman.”

Liana, Taur, and I sit with the men of the village. A clay jug is brought out, and I can already smell the fermented coconut sap before it is opened. I notice that Liana draws a few protests from the men, spoken in Sugbuano, because this is a man's activity, and women do not drink alcohol.

“It's okay,” Ondo explains in the old language. “They are strangers, not used to our ways. It's important for us to learn what news they bring, and they accompany the gecko of God.”

Ondo now turns to us and speaks in Siskalian for the benefit of Taur and Liana as coconut wine is poured into a clay cup and passed around. Every man drinks from the same glass, downing it in a gulp, snaps the cup to discard the dregs and then the cup is passed back to the pourer, called a tagay. “We were driven out of our city. The real Holy Child relic is still in the city—we don't know where.”

“We'll get it back,” I assure him. “Their army is weak. You're so right when you call them ang mga buang, the crazy ones. They've forgotten that war is about killing, not about self-expression or trying to include everyone. Some people aren't fit to be warriors. Long ago the first people were plant eaters, until one day the first hunting party and war party was formed, consisting of men. In time, men became strong and ruthless, while women became caregivers. It was a natural division that suited the sexes, but the crazy ones want to upend that.”

“They say there is no man, no woman, or that a person can be neither or both,” one of the seated men adds.

“Pisting mga buang,” another chimes in.

One of the men gets up and draws his blade. Stepping into the dirt clearing, he begins to dance, cutting and slicing with his blade, then dropping down low to thrust. Another man rises and draws his cutlass, and begins the impromptu blade dance, drawing cheers from the group. The two men square off, but still maintain distance to battle safely swinging at slicing at each other in a mock battle.

When one of the men draws his dagger, a shout of approval goes out from the group, followed by his ceremonial rival drawing his dagger. The two close, and appear to cut each other, but their strikes are controlled, and only hit lightly with the flat of the blade. The crowd roars with approval when one of the fighters shifts his dagger grip to icepick, and hooks his opponent's long blade, locking it in place while delivering a light slap with the flat of the blade to his opponent's gut.

“Ang tuko!” several men shout enthusiastically. “Ang tuko sa Ginuo!”

They are clamoring for me to join the mock battle. I may be the Vicar of God, but these men have no proof of that yet, and men must prove themselves in order to be accepted—I am no exception.

When I stand the crowd breaks into a roar, and I am afraid we can be heard in the city. When I approach the two combatants, one of the men starts to swing but I drop to my stomach. I spin to sweep with my tail, but remember in mid move that I don't have a tail. I complete the spin and vault, stepping on a sword arm to spring over the man's head, lightly nipping at the red fabric head wrap and stripping it off of his head as I do a cartwheel over his head and land behind him.

Following a moment of stunned silence, the group breaks out into whoops of acclaim. The other opponent is on me as I land, but I shake off the head wrap, and my tongue darts out to catch his ankle, which I haul in as he steps. He goes down hard on the dirt arena. With a leap, I fly through the air open jawed, revealing a row of small ivory teeth. I land beside him and gesture with my open mouth at his head before he can even bring up his sword, then abruptly back off.

I stand to greet my two opponents, and we return to our seats to the sound of cheers.

“Very impressive,” Ondo says as I resume my seat beside him, or more accurately, lie on the ground next to him. Geckos just aren't cut out for sitting.

“All that I am, I am by the grace of God,” I tell him, and repeat it in the old language for the benefit of the others. “My companions are also fearsome fighters.”

Ondo's face becomes grim. “I must tell you about Molech. You may not believe what you're about to hear, but I swear it's true.”