The Forbidden Garden, Volume 1 (Bekhor): Bekhor, #1

By Alain Ruiz

Debbie Cohen, a sixteen-year-old Californian, could not imagine the adventure she was about to live through. Based on an old man’s legend, she went to Africa with her anthropologist mother. But what was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission took an unexpected turn when a creature dragged Debbie to a mysterious garden. Debbie would there discover something that would transform her life and link her destiny to an extraordinary being.

She found love where none had ever thought to look…

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jan 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781071585863

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Expedition into the Amazon

The Amazon. April 1912

On the Orinoco, one of the main rivers of the Amazon, the canoe slowly made its way through the unending undulations of yellow tinted water leaving an ephemeral path in its wake that was quickly swallowed by the watery depths. For the past five days, the thick untouched forest spanning hundreds of miles in every direction gave the three passengers, accompanied by a guide and four Venezuelan messengers, the unsettling impression of rowing in place.

John McAllister, a fifty-six-year-old British anthropologist and explorer, was sitting in the middle of the long boat carved from the trunk of a giant cachicamo. A deep concern marred his face hidden behind an ample white beard that had not been maintained due to the difficult travel conditions.  However, the last thing on the distinguished Oxford professor’s mind was his appearance. He thought only of his wife, Lucy, lying next to him. She was burning up with fever and suffering from delusions. The small forty-eight-year-old woman, with long brown hair and fair skin covered in freckles, let out a weak groan from time to time. Her health had considerably worsened since the previous evening and John feared the worst.

— Hold on, Lucy, we’re almost there, reassured the British explorer while tenderly placing his hand on his wife’s sweat covered face.

His gesture was answered by a new whimper, which was far from reassuring.

As for the young Lawrence McAllister, he did not know what to think anymore. Sitting in front of his father, the fourteen-year-old teenager, who had a slight build and soft face, nervously ran his hand through his brown hair sticking to his forehead. He had his doubts about this venture. Had they been right to undertake such a difficult voyage? He had believed what his father had told him. That his mother would be better soon and that they would finally get back to life as normal! But what was actually going to happen? The humidex that always hovered around eighty five percent saturation was not helping the boy clear his mind. His hazel eyes rested on the makeshift shelter made of sticks covered by a roof made of palm fronds that had been set up just over his mother to keep her in the shade. Then his eyes met his father’s, and he clenched his teeth. At that same moment, yet another mosquito bit his forearm. He swatted it away angrily with his hand. The sun beat down harshly on his fair skin, covered in freckles like his mother’s. He never thought he would miss England’s weather so much. His shirt was sticking to his skin. On top of the ever-present humidity, the temperature was approaching ninety-five degrees.  And the landscape did not change as far as the eye could see.

The British explorer brushed a few strands of brown hair from his wife’s forehead as he whispered comforting words. Thoughts filled his mind, overflowing like a river in springtime. He knew his son doubted him. He did not need to talk to him to know what was going on inside his head. The distinguished professor did, however, need to acknowledge it; the more time passed, the more he regretted having imposed such hardship on his family. The words of his most trusted colleague, after he had told him what his intentions were before leaving on this adventure, kept replaying in his head. His colleague had strongly tried to reason with him just before they had left for Liverpool, where they were set to board a boat to Caracas: Trust me, John, this journey is true lunacy! For the love of God, give it up! Lucy won’t survive in her current state, you know that.

John McAllister had hoped his friend’s words would have been different, but he understood why his confidant had wanted to dissuade him from bringing his gravely ill wife to the Amazon.

Maybe it would have been better to head his advice? he pondered as he lowered his eyes as if to escape his son’s silent reproaches, who was watching him intently without saying a word. Oh Lucy! Forgive me! he implored silently. By staying in England, Lawrence and I, we could’ve accompanied you to your final resting place with dignity... Please understand, Lucy... I could not let you go like that. I had to try everything!

Reminding himself of the words he had spoken to his wife shortly before they had left, John McAllister refused to give up now that he was so close to his goal. Lucy, I promised you to fight this ailment eating away at you a little more every day, by any means necessary... And that’s what I’m doing by leading you through this forest, trust me!

He had consulted the best experts in Europe who, regretfully, had all reached the diagnosis of a brain tumor. Mrs. McAllister’s days were numbered, but her husband refused to accept that. The distinguished Oxford professor was aware that his wife’s health had always been fragile, resulting in all sorts of illnesses at the mere changing of the seasons. A fact that was made even more surprising when you considered that for his part, he had spent most of his life travelling to the most remote and wild areas of the world without even contraction a mere infection. John McAllister was nevertheless determined to not let himself fall into this trap by letting his wife drift silently towards death.

After a long moment of silence, Lawrence, unable to watch his mother suffer anymore, wanted to open his mouth to object to the travel conditions that had been imposed on him, but his father’s furrowed brow deterred him. He knew there was nothing he could say to change his mind.  It was too late. He had tears in his eyes, and he hurried to cover them in order to not let his worries show too much.

Emotional, but unable to verbalize it, John McAllister preferred to pretend he did not see his son’s unease. He instead forced himself to think back on these last few weeks, which he had spent praying for a miracle after being faced with the failure of western medicine. He thought back to the night he had locked himself in his private library overlooking the garden. He had stayed in there all night, on his knees, praying for divine intervention on behalf of his wife. Unfortunately, in the early morning hours, only desperation had taken hold in his heavy heart. Exhausted, his legs numb and sore, he had finally stood back up by pulling himself up by the corner of his mahogany desk, before accidently knocking over a binder containing all the details of his latest expedition to the Amazon. As it had hit the ground, the leather-bound booklet had opened to a page on which the explorer had carefully drawn, four years prior, a tropical tree without a single leaf on its branches... His lids heavy, the anthropologist’s eyes were drawn to it... After so many hours spent praying for his wife’s health, was this a sign? What was he supposed to construe from the image of this old tree devoid of all signs of life? Was it a message pointing towards an upcoming and inevitable death? Unless... Suddenly, John McAllister had straightened up quickly clutching his notebook, then he had run out of the library and up the house’s rustic wooden staircase, taking them two at a time.

— It’s fantastic, Lucy! he had shouted, entering the room. Our prayers have been answered! Do you hear me? Our prayers have been answered!

— That morning, after a few brief explanations, John McAllister had convinced his wife to follow him into the heart of the world’s largest forest by exclaiming:

— If the miracle won’t come to us, we’ll go to it! 

But their son Lawrence had remained skeptical of this possibility. He found it hard to believe that his parents could find any sort of remedy somewhere so far and cut off from civilization. Despite all the respect he held for his father, this Amazonian legend about a so-called Tree of Life guarded by a healing spirit seemed totally ridiculous to him.

— How can you be sure that mother will get better by going to the Amazon? he had immediately asked.

— Because my Yanomamis friends described the healing properties of this tree to me in detail...

— And that’s enough to convince you that what they tell you is true! Who’s to say they didn’t just make up this story to impress you?

— That’s not possible, son. Lying is not a concept engrained in the Yanomami culture.

— Truly, father! One would have to be really naive to believe such a thing! That’s very surprising, coming from you....

— In that case, son, feel free not to believe it, but we’re boarding the next boat to Caracas, your mother and I, whether you want to or not. I’ve made up my mind.

Lawrence had not pressed further to try to dissuade his father, even if he was firmly convinced that this so-called miraculous tree only existed in fairytales. At nearly fifteen years old, the effects of which had begun showing on his body not long ago, it had indeed been a long time since he had stopped believing all those stories. Has my father, the distinguished professor McAllister, renowned in many countries, suddenly lost all reason? For the first time, Lawrence had doubted the words of the man he had always admired to near adoration. He had happily listened to many of the explorer’s stories, he had even aspired to one day himself become a greatly renowned anthropologist. But the news of his mother’s incurable illness had abruptly covered all his dreams and brilliant future plans with a black veil. In the face of his father’s firm decision and fearing he might not ever see the woman he loved the most in the world again, Lawrence had finally agreed to let his parents undertake this long voyage, under the condition that he would accompany them.

Sitting on the bow of the vessel, the guide turned towards the British explorer, putting a stop to his thoughts:

— We’ll soon be traversing rapids, Señor McAllister... I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble crossing them, but we still have to be wary of the rock clusters. There are many in this area. I suggest you hold on.

The canoe, thirty feet long and five feet wide, was already beginning to sway under the pressure of the tumultuous waters. Keeping their nerve, the guide and the four Venezuelan carriers, equipped with their oars, promptly engaged in a delicate and demanding maneuver.

The following happened very quickly. The first obstacles were crossed fairly easily, but the current was getting stronger and stronger.

— Keep your fingers away from the edge! warned the guide seeing the young McAllister’s hand dangerously exposed.

Shortly after, the side of the canoe roughly hit a big black rock and nearly capsized. John McAllister held his wife even tighter, while also gripping his son with the tips of his fingers, when they were shaken again followed by a sinister scrapping along the hull.

— Careful, you’re going to kill us all! he yelled lifting his head to be heard better over the roaring of the tumultuous waters.

— They’re doing their best, Señor! assured the guide wiping away a heavy splash. They’re the best rowers I’ve ever seen, believe me.

John McAllister was reassured by these simple words. In any case, what could he do other than simply trust in the crew’s experience? He leaned towards his wife again silently praying for all of them to make it out of this hell alive.

The canoe and its passengers continued to be battered for several minutes, ramming into multiple rocks scattered throughout the furious river. Luckily, the rowers were skilled. They avoided the obstacles on their path one by one and finally reach a smoother current.

— We’re past the most difficult part of our journey, announced the guide. 

The agitated waters were replaced by calm water just as suddenly as they had appeared. Cheers echoed from the canoe. Relief was evident on all their faces. John McAllister even thought he saw a slight smile forming on his wife’s face, which helped to reassure him and give him hope. As he thanked the divine hand that had guided them through the rapids, the British anthropologist then shot a brief look towards his son, who seemed to be doing alright as he squeezed his wife’s other burning hand.

— Hang in there, Lucy! We’re almost there... 

Hearing her husband, Mrs. McAllister made a small gesture to reassure her husband of her condition, even if she did not have the strength to utter a single word. The recent jolts did not seem to have inconvenienced her too much and the makeshift shelter had held up.

The canoe soon turned down the Rio Ocamo, that was to lead them into the heart of the Yanomami Indian’s territory.

Chapter 2 - The Yanomamis

The banks of the Rio Ocamo had become noticeably narrower near the Brazilian border. The long vessel now moved along idly. The narrow river twisted and untwisted unendingly. The rowers took a short break, letting themselves be guided by the current. The impressive and thick canopy of trees that scrolled past on each side of the river majestically cast their benevolent shadow onto the river. From the canoe, one could easily appreciate the enormous scale of the Amazonian vegetation. Some trees easily reached two hundred and thirty feet and only let the occasional ray of sunshine through, offering a softened light on this part of the river. Here and there, violent winds and torrential rains had brought down some trees along the edges that nothing could have knocked down normally. Taking entire swathes of the clay banks down with them, several of these trunks carried by the relentless current had ended up connecting the two riverbanks. The entanglements of their branches and vines, as big as fist, made navigation more difficult and slower than ever.

While systematically holding on to the side of canoe, Lawrence could not help but admire the immense tropical forest surrounding them. As monotone as the scenery had seemed to him before the dangerous rapids, the breathtaking view he was currently taking in was undeniable proof that he was still alive! He then lifted his eyes towards the sky to see an immaculate flock of seagulls or a couple of brightly colored macaws, then he observed the surface of the stagnant water on which floated leaves and flowers, sometimes animated by jolts caused by biting fish. However, this underwater agitation was far from reassuring, since he was convinced that flesh eating piranhas must be multiplying under the boat.

Lawrence suddenly felt his stomach turn. He had just turned his head and forced himself not to think of what would happen if the boat capsized in these waters teaming with life, when he thought he saw a silhouette through the thick foliage bordering the river. Filled with indescribable panic, he suddenly had the strange feeling they were being spied on.

It might just be animals attracted by our scent. he thought to reassure himself. Unless the hidden eyes are those of Indians fiercely hostile to the presence of strangers in their territory...

Seeing that his son seemed suddenly gripped by fear, John McAllister quickly asked:

— Is something wrong, son?

— I thought I saw a silhouette on the shore. For a moment, I even thought someone might be watching us, but with this crushing heat and the fatigue from travelling, I must’ve just imagined it...

— I don’t think so, Lawrence. After all, we’re in Yanomamis’ territory. The indigenous people who live near this river have probably been observing us for several hours already.

— Several hours? Do you think they’ll attack us? worried the teenager, his eyes darting wildly.

— I don’t think so, as long as we don’t do anything they could interpret as a threat. And if they had wanted to attack us, they would have already done so...

John McAllister did not have time to finish his thought, because a silhouette suddenly appeared in his peripheral vision. He then continued, without the slightest movement, therefore avoiding any form of provocation: 

— Lawrence, slowly look to your left. You’ll see Yanomamis. They finally decided to show themselves.

The teenager did exactly what his father had asked him to, but the thick forest camouflaged its inhabitants like an invisibility cloak.

— I don’t see anything...

— Look closer, but whatever you do, don’t point at them. They could think you’re threatening them...

Suddenly, Lawrence exclaimed:

— There, father, I saw one! Oh! There’s another one!

Soon, a dozen indigenous, all men, appeared on the riverside. One in particular caught Lawrence’s attention, undoubtedly because he appeared to be the same age as him. Albeit rather small, the young Yanomami with mat skin seemed particularly slim and agile. The only clothes he wore was a small loincloth. His short hair was black like a crow’s feathers. His face was covered in tattoos in the shape of small waves starting at the bridge of his nose and ending at his cheekbones. A straight rod pierced through his nose and came out of each nostril to the great fascination of the British teenager. Lawrence had never seen something so strange. His father had certainly described time and again the people he had encountered, but this was the first time he had seen those stories come to life.

The young Yanomami held a long spear in his hand. Yet Lawrence did not feel threatened by seeing him armed. It was strange. The juxtaposition of this world and his own almost made him uneasy. He was nevertheless aware of being the stranger on this land, and all the risks that that could entail. Several Yanomamis sported feathers behind their ears. Others displayed paint or tattoos on parts of their bodies or only on their faces. 

Without hesitation, the rowers stopped the canoe, while the British explorer gave instructions in a leveled tone.  Lawrence noticed, with a certain admiration, that his father was strangely calm given the circumstances.

Arrows notched on their bows; the Yanomamis seemed visibly ready to shoot at the slightest wrong move from the group. Thus, sensing the threat, the Venezuelan guide discreetly placed his right hand on his gun lying next him, but John McAllister quickly whispered to him:

— Don’t do anything, Manuel. We wouldn’t stand a chance against all these men. I would strongly advise you to bring your hand slowly back to your leg.

At that moment, an arrow whistled passed the guide’s face. Given the short distance separating the canoe and the left bank, it was clearly meant as a warning.

Immediately, the British explorer raised his arms while exclaiming:

— Shori, shori! Friend, friend!

The heavy silence that followed was far from reassuring to the occupants of the canoe. The guide nervously rubbed his hand along his thigh, ready to grab his gun while keeping an eye on the riverbank. John McAllister feared he would do something reckless. As for Lawrence, he was now under the impression that he was experiencing his final moments. However, one thing was clear. His father's intervention seemed to have caused some surprise among the indigenous. They were looking at one another stunned. Finally, an authoritative voice rose from the foliage, and all the aboriginals lowered their bows and spears. Then an average sized Yanomami appeared shouting, arms raised:

— Shori, shori!

John McAllister smiled widely, visibly relieved. He had just recognized their leader. He spoke to his whole group:

— Everything is good now. They will not harm us...

Lawrence looked at his father, surprised. Clearly these Yanomamis knew him.

The British explorer smiled from ear to ear upon seeing his friend Shaweiwë. The latter had not changed since their last meeting, four years earlier. The man was far from being massive, but his muscles protruded with each of his movements. It was difficult to tell how old he was. His facial featured had remained the same as the anthropologist remembered them. He had clearly not lost any of his agility and still exuded nobility, despite his lack of clothes. Shell necklaces bounced against his torso. John McAllister was very touched to see the medallion that he had given him as a token of friendship hanging from it.

He had been close to dying on the day of their first encounter, being that the Yanomami Indians are generally hostile to strangers. Despite the primitive nature of their weapons, their movements were particularly precise, and those who entered onto their territory paid with their lives. John McAllister stroked his beard as he thought back to this adventure. He owed the fact that he was still alive to his fair skin and his thick white beard. The indigenous had been fascinated to see such a strange looking man for the first time in their lives. With the tips of their fingers, they had tried to touch his clothes, thinking it was a sort of removable skin. Then, amazed, they had decided, in the end, to invite the stranger into their village, rejoicing preemptively in the curiosity that he would generate amongst the other members of the clan.

Imitating their leader, all the Yanomamis present on the riverbank raised their arms in a friendly manner and all at once the expressed their happiness:

— Ai, ai, ai, shori!

The canoe turned port side this time, the indigenous having already jumped into water to reach the long boat. Several did not hesitate to grab onto it and climb onboard, nearly capsizing it. But the cachicamo wood boat held up in the face of the Yanomamis’ enthusiasm, who were clearly very happy to see the one they had nicknamed Man with the withe beard again.

As soon as the canoe was tied up, the Venezuelan guide hurried to help the British explorer carry his wife who had sat up. Despite this small resurgence of energy, it seemed evident that Lucy McAllister would not be able to continue on foot through this dense forest. One of the carriers then suggested to take her on his back, while the others were busy unloading the boat already taken over by the indigenous. Very quickly, there it was absolute chaos on the boat. They were all laughing, crying, stamping their feet and gesturing, each person wanting to be the first to discover the content of the bags. 

The Yanomami chief approached the anthropologist without hesitation and stopped less than an inch from his face. Lawrence was stunned that his father’s smile