He squeezed the trigger, but Satsai behind him was ready. He leapt at the Japanese and wrestled him to the ground. Daeng was on them both. One of the guards had time to fire his handgun at himself and nobody attempted to stop him. He missed somehow. Lack of conviction. The last man aimed his machine gun at a group of children, but he had tears in his eyes, and he couldn’t bring himself to fire. The show was over. Nobody applauded. It was extraordinary how such a large cast could be so silent. Even the cicadas held their breaths. The villagers tied up the docile Japanese and led them away. Satsai rushed to Siri.

“Don’t move,” he said. “Let me help you out of that.”

“Don’t fret, young man,” said Siri, ripping off the vest. “It’s only sticky rice conveniently shaped like sticks of dynamite. We raided the fat lady’s house. She had a stash of it. We added the TNT in charcoal for effect. Best we could do on the spur of the moment. My wife’s idea. The detonator was my contribution. I ripped the starter switch off your Weedwacker. Sorry about that. The best you can do right now is get on the shortwave and call the police.”

“They won’t come here tonight,” said Daeng. “Too late. No overtime pay.”

“You’re right,” said Siri. “Best call the army.”

“But the police are already here,” said Satsai.

“Well, that announcement might have been a little premature,” said Daeng.

“But . . . the explosions?”

“We got our boat pilot to blow up your village diesel supply,” said Siri. “One can at a time, using a cloth fuse. Added a little fertilizer to spice things up a bit. We did offer him a huge tip so I hope you can spare us a few grams of gold.”

They sat around the bonfire in the village square. The Japanese prisoners were tied and corralled. A timber post had been erected temporarily to replace its concrete and gold predecessor. This was in tribute to baku, the poster child of vivisection, the guardian of the village and enemy of the yokai. The too-old and the too-young and the too-confused-by-events had taken to their beds, grateful to be alive. Only the young-at-heart sat before the flames passing around the rural Lao version of twenty-year-old scotch. What a delight that rice whisky was. It made the Woophi brew taste like methylated spirits by comparison. Its genesis was a natural pool in the depths of the caves mixed with wild rice from the lower skirts of a distant mountain. But, as Civilai always said, nothing spoils a good drink more than going into detail about how it’s made. They just drank it and floated back and forth between the full moon and the ebony clouds that held it up. Daeng sat with Siri, holding hands.