We went down the knoll, to the path and into the trees. Right away the frenzy became more distant; the tall growth smothered sound. It cut off moonlight, too, but it was a comforting cloak, to be out of sight of the fighting. Every step carried us away from it.

     Nonoy was agile on the path. He had grown up here, I reminded myself. He stopped twice to let us catch up. The second time he halted at the edge of the forest, where the gully met the cane field: I remembered the tunnel through the stalks. But in the last week the cane had been cut. The field was stubble, all the way to the back corner of Lanao.

     Nonoy was looking that way when we caught up to him. Several huts were burning; the fire turned his face vermilion.

     “Too far,” he said. He turned at once and led us back up the path, a short distance to a spot where the gully was deep and narrow. A natural trench. We slid down inside and found ourselves standing neck high in it. We were hidden from the tumult, safe from anything but a fateful wild bullet. A few minutes later a squad of vigilantes came up the path from Lanao, ran past and up to the bungalow without realizing we were there.

     Dalzell and Penney sat glum at the bottom of the gully. Nonoy hiked himself up the side and rested his arms at the lip; I joined him up there. Brush grew between the gully and the trail, a screen that didn't block our view entirely. I could still see up and down the path, but the path was empty. The forest was empty, except for the noise from outside. The firing had stopped in Lanao and over in Curba. Up toward the knoll it had an acrimonious rhythm, rising and cascading, a tempest that couldn't sustain itself. Inevitably it would dwindle to a gun or two, or to nothing. There would be silence; once the noise lapsed so long, I thought it might be finished. But each time it picked up again, bitter as before.