We had gone a couple of hundred yards off the trail when Alex stopped beside a matted tangle of vines draped over a fallen coco log. He pushed the vines aside. He brushed dirt and lifted the top of a crate that had been buried flush with the ground. Expertly he dropped the magazines out of each gun and emptied each chamber. He laid the guns and the ammunition in the crate, replaced the top, covered it with dirt, and put the mat of vines back where it had been.

     He took me out of the forest and into a cane field. We cut across the grain of the rows, then followed one row until it ended.

     We emerged near the end of the long driveway. The bungalow was to our right, chalky under the moon. Dolorous moans wafted across the clearing. Between the cane field and the knoll I counted nine fallen figures, a couple of them writhing, the others still. Vigilantes and communists, I couldn't tell the difference. We walked down the driveway, away from the bodies and the moaning. We walked out into the road, into one of the most amazing sights I have ever beheld.

     The road was full of people. Lanao was in flames, and the people were pouring out of it, hundreds of them, bringing what they could in rice sacks and boxes and in their arms. What struck me wasn't so much their numbers as their compliance with disaster. They walked slowly, wearily, mostly with eyes downcast, as if shamed by what had befallen them. As if they had done this before and expected to do it again. They were silent; there were many children, but not a cry or whimper. I could hear the scuff of rubber sandals, the snort of a pig being led on a rope. I could hear a young woman's voice softly inquiring: “Rosita? Rosita Flores? Rosita?”

     It was Vangie. She was standing by the side of the road, looking like the daughter of the barrio that she was. Hector and Vilma were with her. She gave Alex a hug that he endured with a look of distaste. Your parents are up the