Baja Florida by Bob Morris Page A

my people, they carve the likenesses of zemis in sacred wood.”
    I weighed the object in the palm of my hand, rubbed it between my fingers. The shape was irregular, but there seemed to be five distinct, rounded corners.
    â€œHard wood,” I said. “Hard as rock.”
    â€œFrom the ceiba. Some they call it the silk cotton tree. It is the tree where spirits live.”
    â€œSo what particular god am I holding here?”
    â€œThe years they have worn it smooth, but look and you can see the shape—the head, the four legs, the round shell. This, it is Opiyelguobirán, the turtle zemi, guardian of the gates of death.”
    â€œMmm, cheery,” I said. “But how do you know it’s not just an old piece of wood that if you squint real hard it might look vaguely like Opi-…some damn turtle.”
    â€œBecause when I found the zemi, it spoke to me, Zachary. I could feel its power.”
    â€œThat maja acu stuff, you been nipping at it again, haven’t you?”
    Boggy ignored me. He took the zemi from me and put it back in the pouch.
    â€œYou got more zemis in there?”
    â€œYes, several.”
    â€œLet’s see.”
    â€œNot now,” Boggy said. “It is not the time or place.”
    â€œBut you found them in that ditch? Just lucked across them, out in the middle of nowhere, easy as that. Like going to the zemi Super Store?”
    â€œYou have to understand, Zachary, there were once thousands and thousands of Taino in these islands. Every Taino—man, woman, child—always carried a pouch like mine with different zemis in it. For power and for protection. When Tainos died, their zemis were buried with them, to look after them in the afterlife.”
    â€œSo the runway at Walker’s Cay, that was once a Taino burial ground?”
    â€œI think so, yes. At the center of the island, near a high point of land. That is where Taino live, and that is where they bury their dead,” Boggy said. “I am very happy that I found these zemis.”
    Boggy lives in a small place he built at the nursery. It’s a glorified chickee hut really—a palmetto-thatched roof with a broad overhang above a platform of hard pine, not even screens to keep out the bugs. It sits near the center of the property, on the highest ground.
    â€œI’ve seen some of those zemis at your place, haven’t I? You’ve got them stuck everywhere.”
    â€œYes, but those zemis are ones that I made.” He tapped the leather pouch. “These zemis, they are much more powerful.”
    â€œWhy’s that? Thought you were supposed to be some high-charged shaman, a guy who has a direct line to the gods. The zemis you make, they oughta be jam-up with power.”
    â€œI am only one, Zachary.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œIn the long-ago, when there were many Taino on these islands, the belief it was strong, the belief it was everywhere. The old zemis they were filled with that belief, they were filled with power.”
    â€œWhat were they, like faith magnets or something?”
    Boggy’s eyes lit up. He smiled. Such a rare occurrence that I had to blink to make sure.
    â€œThat is a very good way to describe it, Zachary. Yes, that is exactly what they are. Faith magnets. I like that.”
    â€œWell, glad I could make your day.”
    Boggy looked at me. I always try to hold his gaze, but every time it’s me who is the first one to look away.
    â€œI know you don’t believe, Zachary.”
    â€œI’ve got my beliefs.”
    â€œIn what do you believe?”
    â€œIt’s not like I can put a name on it or anything.”
    â€œIf you cannot put a name on it, then why believe in it?”
    â€œI believe in myself.”
    â€œA small belief.”
    â€œI believe in Barbara and I believe in Shula, OK? I believe in the thing that joins all people together and not the thing that pulls them apart. I