When their term is over, these representatives return to the places they came from, enveloped in dignity and prestige. Now they are “former authorities.” They have deliberated in the presence of their president and their deliberations were entered into the record by the secretary, inscribed on the paper that talks. They have established boundaries, mediated rivalries, dispensed justice, formalized and dissolved marriages. Most importantly, they were custodians of the divine. They saw to it that no one was remiss in care and reverence. This is why the chosen ones, the elite of the race, are not permitted to enter the day in the spirit of labor: they must enter it in the spirit of prayer. Before commencing any task, before pronouncing any word, the .man who serves as an example to others must prostrate himself before his father, the sun.

Morning comes late to Chamula. The cock crows to chase away the darkness. As the men grope toward wakefulness, the women find their way to the ashes where they bend and blow to reveal the embers. The wind circles the hut, and below the roof of palm fronds, between the four walls of mud and twigs, cold is the guest of honor.

Pedro González Winiktón spread apart the hands that had been joined in meditation and let them fall along his body. He was an Indian of good height and solid muscles. Despite his youth (marked by the early severity typical of his people), others looked up to him as an elder brother. The wisdom of his decisions, the energy of his commands and the purity of his habits ranked him among men of respect, and only there did his heart expand. So he was content when, obliged to accept investiture as a judge, he took his oath before the cross in the portal of the church of San Juan Chamula. His wife, Catalina Díaz Puiljá, wove a serape of thick, black wool that amply covered him down to his ankles, to make those assembled hold him in greater esteem.

Consequently, after December 31st of that year, Pedro Gonzalez Winiktón and Catalina Díaz Puiljá came to Chamula. They were given a hut to live in, a plot of land to farm. The cornfield was there, already green and promising a good harvest. What more could Pedro wish for? He had material abundance, prestige among his equals, the devotion of his wife. A smile lasted only an instant on his face, little practiced at expressing happiness. His features hardened. Winiktón saw himself as the hollow stem, the stubble that is burned away after the harvest. He compared himself to ashes. He had no children.