To the priest he gave the pretext of a visit to a sick relative, and he left unaccompanied. He doubted that those who refused to share their discovery with him would accept him. But as he drew closer to Tzajal-hemel he found increasingly numerous groups of pilgrims all going in the same direction. They were singing ancient, monotonous songs; they were playing an obsessively repeated rhythm on the accordion, the guitar, or their rudimentary violins. Their staggering gait, clouded eyes, and uncertain voices gave away their drunkenness.

They were on their way to a solemn occasion, then. Xaw soon had the opportunity to verify that.

Tzajal-hemel, which used to be a sad hillside on which a few miserable shacks were scattered, had an animated and boisterous air today. People from all parts of the region were congregated here. Those from Tenejapa, with their long, vertically striped shirts, those from Huistec, protected from the wind by their tilted hats, the Pableños with their long red serapes. All the different dialects of Tzotzil could be overheard in the crowd’s conversations.

The merchants unloaded their merchandise: string bags bursting with oranges, little heaps of salt, roughly woven fabrics, utensils made of wood and clay. Chicha and aguardiente sloshed in clay bowls and pitchers.

On all sides the hubbub of a market morning was heard. What a contrast between this little plaza, so much improved, and that of San Juan, silent and deserted for several Sundays past!

But the plaza of Tzajal-hemel was only a stopping place to rest a while. After relaxing and buying provisions, the pilgrims pressed on up the mountain until they reached the cave.

Since it was too small to contain all the visitors, many of them remained outside, waiting to go in. When Xaw’s turn arrived, he was pushed by the crowd into a tiny enclosure, its air suffocatingly permeated with the smells of the flowers and burning candles that filled it.

On a makeshift altar stood the idols, unrecognizable now under the lengths and lengths of silk in which they had been enveloped. Some men burned incense or aromatic herbs; others started up songs the rest straggled to join in with and which then died down for no reason.

The incoherence of these actions made it clear that no one was authorized to direct them. They were spontaneous gestures, a crowd’s spasmodic way of alleviating its impatience.

Finally what everyone was waiting for happened and was announced by a great silence: Catalina Díaz Puiljá came forward, making her way among the kneeling people. Without a glance, her companions brutally shoved aside all who sought to approach the ilol and participate (even if only through the fugitive impression of a touch) in the virtue that emanated from her body.