The Sons of Adam: The sequel of The Immortal Collection Read online

  Then he stopped, dizzy and disorientated. Where should he go? Up? Down? Was he trying to climb up a mountain or was he already climbing down it? He couldn't remember. Everything started spinning and he lost his balance and fell down.

  The contact with the hard snow was enough to clear his head. He stayed on the ground for a while longer. He knew that he had to get up. If he stayed like there, lying on the snow, even for just a bit longer, his body temperature would drop and it would be impossible to warm himself up again.

  So what? He thought. Will this kill me? Will I finally die?

  And he began to laugh, loudly and forcefully. A happy laugh escaped from his tired chest and he heard it echo further down the mountain.

  Keep going.

  He placed his gloves on the snow and awkwardly pushed himself up. He began to sing again, despite the dizziness, despite the fact that he was mixing up the words, melodies, memories, families and people that he would someday know.

  It was almost dark when he reached the crest, where a sunset of frayed red clouds lit up the serrated outline of the mountain range. He stared at it in ecstasy. The daily miracle, as beautiful as a woman's waist. A sky in flames for his eyes only.

  At the foot, a white valley gave way to an endless plain.

  He was expecting to see monotony, eternal snow, no other signs of life.

  But that's not what his eyes were telling him.

  He blinked in disbelief, because in the depths of the valley he thought he saw something bright and moving.

  It was fire, but not just one, there were more, dozens of small fires. He knew very well what that meant. They were bonfires. There was a village, a clan, maybe several.

  He was not alone on the Earth. More humans had survived.

  3

  Hello, father

  ADRIANA

  I glanced at the small biface that Iago had carved for me. The noise it made, tinkling against the car windshield, unnecessarily reminded me that I was running late to get to the MAC. I had a meeting in fifteen minutes and I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to make it on time.

  Once there I parked badly, because my space had been taken up by a muddy Harley Davidson, and I clumsily ran up the stairs as soon as I was sure that nobody could see me.

  The secretary signaled that the candidate had already arrived, so I brushed down my suit jacket and went in. I wanted to cause a good impression, even though at that time I was the one in charge of hiring more staff for the museum. A whole cycle had passed and we had had a year to get to know each other, ever since the Ancient Family had disintegrated and Iago had taken charge. He was also going to be present at the meeting, although he had been tied up at another meeting since first thing that morning. The candidate was brilliant, he specialized in the Middle Ages and over the last year his work had traveled around the small world of European archeology. But he was rather elusive and it had been difficult to get in touch with him to arrange the interview.

  When I first entered my office, I thought that there had been some kind of mistake. Slouching on my sofa, with one leg dangling over the armrest and the other resting on a cushion that had been tossed on the floor, was a young, very tall, blond man, with shoulder-length hair and eyes that were the spitting image of Iago's. He was looking at me with a cheeky smile and wearing a leather jacket and well-worn biker boots.

  At that moment, Iago walked in. I heard him behind me, although I couldn't see his face, when the possible candidate, with a strong Nordic accent, said:

  "Hello, father."

  4

  Four horsemen

  IAGO

  I had to lean against the corner of the desk because I lost my balance for a moment. Gunnarr seemed to be amused by my reaction but remained seated, like a carefree Nordic king on his throne. Seeing my son alive after four hundred and eleven years was too much for my senses to handle.

  "I thought you were in the Valhalla," I managed to say.

  "Let's just say that I changed my mind in the middle of the road.”

  Was that a challenge or was it just the memories of my memories that made it sound that way?

  "And the spear that pierced your brain?" I asked him. My temples were throbbing and I couldn't stop swallowing saliva.

  "Is that what Uncle Nagorno told you?" he said, laughing. "He's always so dramatic."

  "Enough!" I shouted. "Enough of your laughing, Gunnarr. You can't let us think that you're dead, let us mourn for you for half a millennium and then come back to laugh at my reaction."

  "Can't I, father? Can't I really?" he shouted, raising his voice and standing up.

  His hair was exactly the same as the first time I had lost him. Long, dirty and scruffy. His overall appearance was confirming my fear: that four centuries had not managed to civilize him.

  "And speaking of those who mourned, where is my grandfather, and what about Aunt Lyra and Uncle Nagorno? You lot always move in packs."

  "No, Gunnarr. First you tell me why you are here and how you found me."

  "Excuse me, both of you," I had forgotten that Dana was there, looking from one to the other. "Not that I should be telling you what to do when a father and son haven't seen each other for four hundred years, but shouldn't you give each other a hug or something?"

  "And who's the pacifist?" Gunnarr asked.

  "She's my wife, Adriana Alameda.”

  "Your wife, Adriana Alameda..." he repeated, chewing on the words before spitting them on the floor. "Well that is interesting, father."

  I was afraid of that. He hadn't forgiven me. Our relationship was exactly the same as where we left it on January 3, 1602.

  Focus, I forced myself. I had to be decisive.

  "Let's go for a ride, Gunnarr. I have to get you up to speed."

  Meanwhile, Gunnarr had moved closer to Dana and was bowing.

  "Kære stedmor..."

  Dana turned to me with a tired look on her face.

  "What the hell did he just say?" she sighed.

  "My dear stepmother," I translated from Danish.

  I opened the door and motioned for them to follow me. Paula, the secretary, pretended to be typing on her laptop whilst watching us out of the corner of her eye.

  We went down to the parking lot and Gunnarr breathed air out from his lungs as if he were trying to blow up a blimp.

  "Ah..., I'm going to like it here. I love that sea breeze on my face."

  "Are you planning on staying long?" I asked him suspiciously.

  He ignored my question and jumped onto a 20th century motorbike.

  "A good bike, by the looks of it," I said, changing the subject. Gunnarr liked beating about the bush and rarely answered a direct question.

  "It's an XA model from 1942. During the Second World War the American government built just a hundred thousand of these Harleys for north Africa. In theory they were for the desert, but I use it in Europe and it serves me well," he said, starting up the engine with a thunderous roar.

  "I'll follow you, Iago del Castillo," he said with a mocking smile.

  "Let's go Dana. You drive," I said, throwing her the keys of the 4x4 I had bought to replace the one that killed my daughter.

  Dana got in the car without asking any questions and I sat in the passenger seat.

  "Where to, Iago?"

  "We're going to the Ciriego cemetery."

  "I was afraid of that," she sighed.

  She started the ignition and for a moment both engines added further noise to the storm that was going on inside my head.

  I rolled down the window, I needed some fresh air.

  "Iago, this wasn't just a coincidence," she said, worried. "Not after Nagorno fled last year. Besides, there's something here that's not right. I don't know what it is, I can't put my finger on it, but..."

  "Quiet, please," I begged. "We have less than fifteen minutes before we get there. I need silence. I need to think quickly."

  Dana stopped talking, frowned and concentrated on the road. Gunnarr followed just t
hirty centimeters behind. He rode a bike in the same way he rode a horse, accelerating and braking, as if it was a game.

  I shut my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to shut out the outside world.

  One: we left the Barrio del Portio neighborhood. My son faked his own death.

  Two: we left Liencres behind. Nagorno knew and he lied to us, because he told us that Gunnarr had died in his arms with a shattered skull and the English had destroyed my son's body.

  Three: we passed by Soto de la Marina. Gunnarr finds me a year after the supposed death of Nagorno, pretending to be a historian specialized in the Middle Ages. A very fitting game for him.

  Four: we went round the roundabout. If the last ten thousand years trailing the earth has taught me anything, it's that coincidences rarely occur. Could this be one of those remote possibilities?

  Five and we had arrived. Gunnarr still holds a grudge, he hasn't come back to make peace.

  "Iago, I wasn't expecting this but it's obvious that you and Gunnarr have more than one issue you need to sort out. Is there something I should know about your son?"

  "How much do you know about the Nordic culture?"

  "You know that I'm not very fond of the sagas. I had enough with Snorri's Prose Edda."

  I smiled and ruffled her hair.

  "I'll bring you up to date then. We had a custom of giving nicknames that described us. Mine was Kolbrun."

  "Kolbrun?"

  "He of the eyebrows as black as coal. You will have heard many more: Sven Split-Beard, Hakon Broad-Shoulders, Magnus The Great. In fact the entire world says the nickname of a given Danish king every day, Harald Blue Tooth."

  "Blue Tooth? I don't think so, I've never heard it before."

  "Look at your cell phone, Dana. It's got Bluetooth, hasn't it?"

  "And what's that got to do with anything?"

  "The Bluetooth technology logo is actually runes. They're the initials of Harald Bluetooth. The symbol you can see is the letter H hagall, hail and the B is the letter berkana, which symbolizes birch. Harald Bluetooth was a Danish and Norwegian king in the 10th century who united the Norwegian, Swedish and Danish tribes to convert them to Christianity. Likewise, the Bluetooth protocol brings together digital communication systems."

  "So, what was Gunnarr's nickname?"

  "Gunnarr The Trickster."

  Dana stared at the rear mirror and accelerated so that Gunnarr didn't hit the fender with his wheel.

  "I get it," she said. "Conflictive son comes back from the dead to take care of pending business with his father."

  Or worse, Dana. Or worse, I thought.

  "Do you think he's changed?"

  "It seems that you don't really know the Ancient Family as well as you thought."

  "And what's that supposed to mean?"

  "That us longevos never change."

  Just then we stopped in front of the cemetery gates. The time had come to say goodbye, even though my wife wasn't aware of the danger I was in, and I didn't want her to know.

  "Ok, Dana. Leave me here. Go back to the museum and pretend that everything is fine. At half past eleven we've got a meeting with all the departments. I'll try and make it."

  "How are you going to get there if I take the car?"

  "I've got two options: go back on the motorcycle or catch a cab."

  Or not go back.

  "Iago, I understand that you have to talk about things, but... I don't know, something's just not right here. Call my cell every hour, so I know you're alright, ok?"

  "I will," I said, forcing a smile I'd practiced a thousand times before.

  And now go, please, this is already dangerous enough.

  The clouds began to engulf us, black, threatening, thick and full of foreboding, the morning lost its sunlight and it almost looked like night, with the air charged with static electricity. I knew that a small spark would trigger the storm, which threatened to be of epic proportions. Perhaps a divine punishment, perhaps a warning from Hell, who could know.

  Finally, Dana turned the ignition key and she and her worried face disappeared towards the MAC. I turned to Gunnarr, who pretended to look at me expectantly.

  "Are we going to visit the dead?" Gunnarr took off his helmet and shook out his dirty hair.

  I gave him a pat on the back, maybe for physical proof that he was real and not a product of my nightmares. But he was there. My son had returned and every last hair on my body was standing on end. He had a cut on his ear that I didn't remember, or rather he was missing part of the lobe, probably from the slash of a sword in a battle, or a bite in a fight.

  "Come on, follow me," I managed to say.

  We walked through the perfect grid of streets in the cemetery, which had been chalk-lined out amongst the dead who had been piled up at right angles, without worrying about whether they were facing East or West. What did it matter? Who, in the 21st century, believed in rising and walking towards Father Sun?

  Luckily it was empty, which made it the most dangerous place on Earth for me, and the safest for the rest of Humanity. Gunnarr walked next to me with genuine nonchalance, whistling a melody I thought I recognized but couldn't manage to place.

  When we reached the end of the main road, I turned right and crouched down in front of an empty niche. I tended to leave cleaning products hidden there. I took out a couple of horsehair brushes and a plastic bottle with water and detergent. I threw one of the brushes at my son and turned to face Lyra's grave.

  "Help me clean it. Lyra wouldn't stand it if the lichen ate her gravestone."

  I began to scrub the gravestone, sneaking a peak to see his reaction. He looked at me as if he was going to throw a harpoon at me from a whaling ship. He dropped the brush and got close enough to read the inscription with her name.

  "Is this your way of telling me that Aunt Lyra is dead?"

  I poured some of the soapy water over the letters.

  "Is there an easier way?" I asked without stopping.

  "Father, what happened here? Grandfather Lür isn't here, Uncle Nagorno isn't here, Aunt Lyra is dead... You've got a lot to tell me."

  The day was getting darker, the clouds had brought an early night, which was falling upon us. I turned to him, vigorously brushing a corner.

  "No less than you. Are you going to tell me why you came back? Or better yet, are you going to tell me why you faked your own death in Kinsale?"

  He clenched his jaw, arrogantly hinting at the fact that he was still not sure how much information to give away.

  "I wanted to kill you. That's it. I had to get away from you, because if not, I would have killed you."

  I closed my eyes, despite the danger of letting my guard down so close to him, but he was right. That was the last memory I had of my son: blind with rage, furious, beside himself. Dying to slice me from head to toe.

  "And now? Do you still want to kill me?"

  "Now I want to settle this debt."

  "But sorry won't be enough, will it?"

  He sighed and a distant flash of lightening torched some cypress trees. The air was filled with charged ions and we could count the minutes left until the storm began.

  "I wish I knew," he said at last. He finally went over to the grave, with certain disbelief, and ran his rough hand over the letters. "How did Aunt Lyra die? Tell me that, at least."

  "She died in a fall. She rammed Nagorno off a cliff with my car," and here comes the real bomb. And she wasn't your aunt, she was your sister.

  When Gunnarr's eyes went blank and he stared at you, you knew that somewhere in Hell, an army of exterminators was getting ready for combat and they were coming for you.

  You knew that not even the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse could take him on. Famine, Pestilence, War and Death were squashed under his boot. Gunnarr had won their respect and they simply went around him, nodding their heads like kinfolk when they saw him.

  "My sister, father? My sister?" He roared, frightening several unsuspecting seagulls that circled in
the sky. "Are you incapable of respecting any link, human or divine? You even betrayed your own father?"

  "I did," I had to admit.

  "So that's why my grandfather left, that's why he's not with you..."

  "No, Gunnarr. Lür didn't leave because of that. He left because the same thing always happens with us. If the members of the Ancient Family live together for too long, we end up destroying each other. You've seen that as well."

  "No, what I saw was the worst betrayal that a father can commit against his son. 1,200 men died because of you."

  "That's right, but this isn't about those men. It was down to the woman who died."

  He clenched his fists, his eyes and his jaw and the first drops of rain fell on the marble, large and cold; you could almost hear them. Half a minute until the storm.

  He moved his gaze from me to the sky.

  "You can't even remember her name, she was just another woman to you."

  I can remember, but not because of her, but rather because of the hurt I caused you.

  And he left. Gunnarr turned on his heel and walked off, leaving me with the fierce rain that hit my head, shoulders and back with the force of a bad conscience.

  I slowly followed his steps, knowing that he would jump on his bike without waiting for me and loose himself in God knows what bar looking for a fight.

  5

  You don't want to know

  ADRIANA

  I found him a few hours later in Arnia cove. He hadn't called me or picked up his phone. I canceled the damn meeting with all the museum staff and searched the highways, beaches and coast until I found him.

  Iago's black hair was still wet from the storm that had lowered the temperature a few degrees and had left a wet and foggy atmosphere.

  I don't think he realized. He was sitting on the rocks and barely noticed me when I arrived and sat next to him.

  "Why is he here?" I asked him straight out. Why beat about the bush?