Ondo, the leader of the war party and the most respected man of the village drinks the cup of tuba, or coconut wine, whips the cup downward to throw out the remnants of his drink, and passes the cup back to the tagay, or pourer.

Ondo takes in a deep breath and speaks. “The crazy ones do it every year just before they plant the crops. A fire is built in the pit in front of the Molech statue, large enough that the flames nearly reach its hands, which are sloped down toward the fiery pit. The entire city gathers around the black statue of their god. The castrated priests in the lilac robes go out into the crowd to receive infants, who are then placed into the glowing hands of Molech, from where they roll and tumble into the raging fire. Musicians play loudly to drown out the screams of the infants as they are burned alive.”

I've done my share of killing on this planet, so I'm no stranger to cruelty and violence. I've even buried a paralyzed guy under coals (Let me point out in my defense that he was a torturer.), but this child sacrifice is on a level that I can't comprehend. Both Taur and Liana were demon possessed, so they've experienced depravity, including the wickedness that Taur witnessed when he guarded a temple full of drug users and prostitutes. My companions are stunned, too.

I think back to the baby in the cottage being sheltered by the old couple, think about Max, and how he is the greatest treasure of my life.

“How do parents sacrifice their own children?” Liana asks incredulously.

“And such a horrible way to die.” Taur throws a protective arm around the albino girl's scarred shoulder.

“They believe that Molech will bless them, that their crops will increase and their businesses will thrive.” Ondo lets out a sigh. “It all boils down to money. Children cost money, and by sacrificing them you not only spend less, but draw the god's favor.”

All of us sit quietly, and the mirth that the men experienced drinking and smoking has turned somber.

“Molech also lures his followers with sex,” Ondo explains, “whether with sacred prostitutes or in the harvest orgies, and unwanted children are sacrificed. It allows random sex without consequences.”

“In the city a harlot propositioned me, said she had no child to sacrifice.” Taur shakes his head, causing his wide horns to wave from side to side.

Ondo rubs his knees and stretches his arms. “It blends with those who worship the earth goddess, who believe that humans are harmful to the earth and have no rightful place here. Every child they sacrifice pleases the goddess because it protects the earth.”

“I'm from a far away place,” I tell the group, “where a prison may hold several thousand men. They are killers, rapists, drug dealers, liars and thieves, sadistic men without conscience, but all of them share just one value—you don't harm a child. As sick as they may be, no matter how depraved, no matter how conscienceless they become, they still grasp one basic moral precept, that you don't harm a child. If you put a child abuser in a prison, they will kill him, because they have enough sense to know that.”

Taur laughs dryly. “All my life I was teased because I was an animal. The demon god Baal was tattooed here between my horns. When I was on the dram, possessed by the demon, in many ways I became an animal, but I never hurt a child, and never saw that, either.”

One of the men speaks in the old language, so Ondo translates for him. “Pabling says that they see it all the time in the forest, that the mother will protect her children, and even the most timid birds are fierce against the hawk to protect their chicks.”

“May I speak?” Liana asks aware that she is in the company of men, and the women are indoors.

“Please, you are our guest,” Ondo replies.

The albino girl leans into Taur's muscled arm over her shoulder. “There was child abuse in my neighborhood, but it was never condoned. Everyone knew it was wrong, and it was punished. Unwanted children were raised by relatives, sometimes even an elderly woman whose children had grown up and left.”

“Honestly,” Taur confesses, “I thought a holy child was a weak god. But if you can't see God in the face of a child, then you are lost forever.”

I rise and pat Taur briefly on the back, but have to scoot in close to compensate for my stubby arms. “Well said, Taur. I'm tired, and I need my sleep. Eventually we will have to burn the city down.”

My comment causes silence, as everyone weighs the implications of what I've just said.

Ondo nods. “Let me show you to your room.” He looks at me and gestures toward a hut.

“Thanks, but I'm at home in the trees.” I drop down to my stomach and scamper off, startling them with my speed. Just as quickly I scramble up a tree and rest on a branch high above the village. I can see the city in the distance, which is lit by lamp light. I say prayers for Max, Juvy, Taur, Liana, and the baby Rose being raised by the elderly couple in the cottage, and I am asleep.

* * *

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The water splashes, turning foamy behind us as Juvy and I paddle. We are on a paddle boat that we've rented, with pedals like a bicycle's driving paddles into the water behind us, churning the water like an old riverboat and driving us over the shallow pond. It's a beautiful May day in Boise, when the weather has just started to turn warm. Max sits between us, tearing off bits of bread and flinging them at several ducks who are jammed together, paddling furiously to get at the scraps of bread that Max is throwing onto the water, or trying to.

A bit of bread hits the pontoon, which prompts a duck to scramble up, grasp the bread in its beak, then slide back down into the water. Max is laughing, thrilled to watch two ducks fence with their orange beaks, fighting over the floating chunk of bread he's tossed into the pond.

The three of us are laughing. Juvy has to kick a piece of bread with her foot, because Max has thrown it short, and it's landed on the deck of our paddle boat. I have an arm over Max to make certain he doesn't pitch over the seat.

My curly-haired son tries to throw a whole piece of bread, but it hits the air sideways, and flops like a piece of plywood.

“Like this, Max.” I reach into the bag of bread in his lap and remove a slice. I throw the piece of bread like a frisbee, so that it spins like a shuriken (Think “ninja star.”) as it whirls out onto the pond. “That's for the bulimic duck.”

After we've docked our boat and finished our cotton candy, I grab my cone and hold it as a sword, while Juvy lights up the coals in the barbecue grill. The grass is a luxuriant green, softer than a shag carpet, so I sit cross legged on the lawn holding my paper cone like a sword.

“Hold your cone like a sword, Max,” I say, showing him my grip on the cone. I've been doing the Filipino martial arts for years, and now I'm going to teach my boy. “This is the tagang San Miguel.”

I deliver the first strike, which is an overhand blow directed at the opponent's head. The strike gets its name the “San Miguel blow” from the famous bottle of Filipino gin, which is one of the oldest products still manufactured in the Philippines. Every Filipino recognizes the label which is called “markang demonyo,” or the “demon brand,” because Saint Michael the archangel is depicted raising his sword to strike at a demon lying at his feet.

Max gets the hang of it, and soon we are trading blows with our paper cones, striking and defending.

Please, no Keisha. Max and I are playing at sword fighting, while Juvy puts the bamboo skewers of pork barbecue onto the grill. This day is perfect, as long as Keisha doesn't show up.

“Dad! Look!” Max points at a spot above me.

I look up at a pine tree towering over the lush grass and see something high up, lying on one of the branches. It's a gecko, as large as I am.

* * *

Geckos eat rice. I didn't know that until I was in the Philippines, sitting in a shed with a veranda which offered a beautiful view across the Tañon Strait, a narrow body of water lying between the two islands of Cebu and Negros. I watched a gecko flit down, moving across the coconut lumber board in bursts, until it reached a plate with a leftover clump of rice, which it ate.

I awake on my tree limb just before dawn. Everyone in the village is up, and I smell the rice cooking. I ate the fat kid's bread yesterday, so I don't know that I should be eating more junk like polished rice. Still, I climb down from my spot on the tree and join the men who come back in from the fields, where they were using pickaxes to break up the hard, rocky soil so that it is suitable for plowing. Swing a pick ax for an hour or two in the morning and you'll be as wiry and strong as these guys are.

The women are very respectful, and dare I say it, worshipful as they bring me food, so I am forced to correct them, using the phrase, “Ulipon sa Ginuo lang ko,” or, “I'm just a servant of God.” Breakfast consists of slices of papaya sprinkled with lime juice, dried fish which has been deep fried, and rice, which everyone eats with their hands, something that is a lot easier when you have human hands, not shovel hands like a gecko.

After breakfast the men rest and smoke while the women clear the dishes. The ladies work in the huts, weaving clothing and mats, or husking corn that will go into storage.

My tail has already begin to grow back with surprising speed, so I figure we have just a couple of days before we return to the city.

“May I borrow a blade?” I ask, and the men eagerly agree. I wonder how my hand will grip, but I find that even if my arm is stubby and my fingers are fat, the pads on my hand grip tenaciously, so I am able to hold a sword even if I can't close my hand around it. I dance with the sword, and swing it, but I'm not as graceful as I should be because my tail is just starting to grow back. “Can someone get me a cane?”

After some very puzzled looks, someone chops a suitable branch from a nearby tree, long enough to be a cane. Taking the stick from him, I grip the cane two-handed, like a baseball bat while striking, then widen my grip to hold it like a staff, then go out long distance and swing one-handed before catching the cane to resume my two-handed grip. The men watch fascinated, because they haven't seen this style of fighting before.

“This is what you need,” I tell the men, while Ondo watches appreciatively, “the panabas, which combines a blade with greater reach. Because you can swing two-handed, you have greater power. You can fight at long range, or very close in. I say we make up a set of these before we retake the city.”

“I'll have Iting make one up, and we'll see what it does,” Ondo tells me.

“Can we make up some practice daggers?” I ask and the men eagerly comply. I wave to Liana, who is watching from the women's hut. “Come on over and we'll practice.”

She joins me at my side, and I see that she's barefooted again. I try to get her to be more lady-like and wear shoes, but I realize she's not used to it, and it's going to be a gradual process. “You're going to teach me the dagger?” the albino girl asks, and I am struck by how soft and pure her skin is, except for those wretched bumpy tattoos.

“Yes,” I tell her. “I used to train in the knife style with a policeman. Master Planas was a deadly guy, I tell you.”

“I had a dream last night,” she confides, and she looks at me with crystal blue eyes. “You'll need to show the faith of Jonah.”

That's just great. Jonah got swallowed by a whale.