We wound our way through the rubble that lay heaped on the floor of what used to be the ollamaliztli ball court and made our way to a spot where roughly a dozen individuals were grouped around an old-fashioned electric lantern. I immediately recognized Father Gustavo Silvio among the rebels—he was hunkered over what looked like a map. A man in a straw cowboy hat and the clothing favored by campesinos sat cross-legged beside him, his back to us and his arms outstretched and fingers extended in a curious posture.