The chilly sunlight fell on Lake Patzcuaro, reflecting the shallow surface of the lake during the dry season and the reflections of the reeds in the water. Along the lake's shores, the Tarasco villages lay desolate and forlorn, the fields overgrown with weeds. Even though the new year had just begun, there were no celebrating crowds to be seen, nor the scent of incense in prayers. Only at dawn and dusk did faint wisps of cooking smoke rise, accompanied occasionally by the bark of a dog, revealing a rare hint of life.
The old Militia member, Chiwaco, stood stiffly in front of a mud-brick hut, motionless, his eyes hollow and without light.