Chapter I – The Bell That Rang for Adventure
In the heart of the Amazon, in a vast land called Brazil, there was a small and extraordinary town—Vila do Sol. Cradled by the banks of the Rio Negro, it marked the very edge of the known world. Beyond it stretched the great rainforest—endless, ancient, and filled with secrets.
At the outskirts of the town lived Luma, a wise, indigenous shaman who still remembered the time of the free tribes. She often said that the jungle holds its mysteries close—some paths reveal themselves only to those who truly know how to look; others vanish into the thicket before anyone even notices them.
Luma wandered the forest in silence, moving almost weightlessly—like an owl gliding through the trees. She knew every trail, every hidden turn. Surrounded by dried herbs and vibrant flowers, she blended scents and colors into healing potions that soothed pain and calmed the spirit. Her hut carried the scent of smoke, leaves, and something else… something timeless and mysterious.
The children of Vila do Sol knew Luma well.
Sometimes they would peek into her fragrant hut, where tiny glass bottles lined the shelves—filled with jungle extracts. Some healed, others soothed the heart, and some simply smelled like rain on the forest floor. Each bottle shimmered like a dewdrop kissed by sunlight.
Leaves, petals, and whispered spells filled every corner. Colors, sounds, and aromas told ancient stories. Parrots fluttered freely through the hut, and Luma spoke to them in a voice that seemed older than time.
Her name—Luma Yara—was spoken softly across the Amazon. Not in gossip, but in stories passed from home to home, from tree to tree, from dream to dream.
Her face bore the marks of time; her hands felt like they belonged to the earth. But her eyes—her eyes still held a spark that never faded.
She didn’t just see what stood before her. She saw deeper—into what lay hidden beneath the green canopy.
She spoke of invisible tribes, beings who lived in harmony with the forest and understood the language of animals. They could dissolve into shadows the moment someone approached. Only a pure heart and a quiet breath could ever glimpse them.
“The jungle is life itself,” she would whisper.
“It must never be harmed.”
Luma was always wrapped in colors. Woven ribbons danced in her braids, rustling softly like leaves. Necklaces made of seeds, dried petals, and forest beads coiled gently around her neck. On her arms, she wore bracelets of vines and fragments of shimmering shells.
Her garments spoke the language of the forest—a tale woven from wind, earth, and scent.
That morning, the old church bell rang across the town, its sound echoing differently than usual.
Bing! Bang! Bong!
Its metallic chime rolled across rooftops and treetops. Some said it was Luma’s doing—setting the rhythm for a new story.
Outside the school, five children were finishing their preparations for a special journey. Their teacher, Antônio Bananeira, was carefully inspecting bicycles and backpacks, making sure everything was in order.