The Sons of Adam: The sequel of The Immortal Collection (A Saga of the Ancient Family Book 2) (2 page)

We had turned an 18th century house overlooking the Costa Quebrada into our home. We had covered the thick masonry stone walls with memories and had decorated all the rooms with our belongings, making it recognizable to both of us. On the mantle was a framed copy of the 'Mea culpa d'un sceptique', which presided over our bedroom. A reminder from the night that Dana finally gave in and decided to believe me.

A year and a half of a precarious balance between someone who wanted to know everything about the past and someone who wanted to forget it all.

I rested my head on her shoulder and changed the course of the conversation.

"I'm meeting with the management of the Altamira Neocave today. I want to see if we can reach a collaboration agreement following all the hype of the carbon dating. What have you got planned for today?" I asked her.

"Another job interview for the Middle Ages Department."

"Ok, when my meeting is over I'll go with you."

I smiled at her. Dana would get there, but late as she always did.

With a bit of luck we would both meet the candidate at the same time.

2

The last man on Earth

LÜR

Sungir, current Russia 23,000 B.C.

Lür meticulously scrutinized the root. He had been digging for hours and his hands were numb and his nails were broken.. The ground was frozen, it was always frozen. For decades now, frozen.

The emaciated plant had a hard skin, but when he opened it he found red sap.
Not a good sign, Lür, not a good sign.

As a child in his clan he had been taught to stay away from plants with sap, and even more so if it had a bright color. And he, as a Shaman, had also taught this hundreds of times. Any apprentice knew that nobody would survive unless they respected the rules on how to distinguish an edible plant from a lethal one.

Lür raised his head and looked at the top of the white mountain range. He needed to eat something if he was going to have the strength to climb it.

Another mountain, Lür. Another faded hope, and then what?
he repeated to himself.

Then you carry on, you keep going.

Just like you always do. Just like you always do.

His thoughts had become repetitive and he knew that it was due to the lack of food. Since the earth tremors, since that cloud of dust covered up the sunlight many years before, his brain had been working slower. His body, worn out from not eating anything other than roots and bark covered in ash, had lost its previous vigor.

Many trees had disappeared following the disaster and he no longer had any time references on the horizon. Nor were there any seasons. Winter and the thaw were no longer reliable. The Ice Age had covered the Earth, Father Sun barely shone behind the clouds of red dust that had covered everything during the first decades following the Cataclysm. The bodies of the men and animals he had found along the way had all dried up. He found the remains of camps here and there, fur tents that still served as a refuge if he had the strength to drag out  the stiff corpses of the owners, who had been taken by surprise during their daily chores, like the rest of Humanity.

One last mountain, Lür. Maybe the Sons of Adam did survive. They say that their matriarch is eternal, like you. She will have resisted, at least.

I am not the last man on Earth. Wandering alone on a deserted planet is not my destiny,
he thought, as he had so many times before.

If I can't die, if I'll never grow old, when mankind dies out, when it drops of the face of the earth like the mammoths, like so many other animals that I haven't seen again, will I be left on my own? For eternity? The whole world to myself?

He picked up the root and performed the first test. He opened his fur coat and rubbed the plant on his forearm. He would soon know if it was poisonous.

But what did it matter, he was going to die either of starvation or of poisoning. What did it matter. He picked up the root again and raised it to his lips, checking that it didn't make them numb, and ate it as if it was the most delicious honey in the world.

He then took a final look at his surroundings, the sky almost red with that eternal haze of dust, the permanently snow-capped mountains, huge and magnificent. In other times, the red and white that surrounded him would have left him ecstatic with their strange beauty. Now he hated what his beloved planet had become. The Land he knew was now barren and silent.

He squeezed his stick, started the climb and began to sing loudly. Old songs, ancient hymns. Happy sounds to celebrate births and brotherhoods between clans, solemn melodies to honor a venerable patriarch, sad whispers to bid farewell to an elderly mother.

Lür sang, he always sang. Every day. He didn't want to forget how to speak, he didn't want to forget the sound of the words and their meanings. And although he didn't want to admit it, he still held onto the hope of finding another human being, another survivor. Which is why he had spent decades covering what was left of the known routes.

I am not the last man. That time has still not arrived.

He started feeling dizzy halfway through the climb. His arm was burning, but he changed the stick to his other hand and carried on climbing.

There were just a few hours left to reach the summit. It would be night by the time he got to the top. But he felt weak. Weak because he hadn't eaten in so many days. Under his fur gloves, bony hands held his stick with less force than they ought.

No... he shouldn't have eaten that root. He would probably die before Mother Moon rose on the horizon.

He took out a piece of coal that he had carefully saved from his last fire. Just for times like these. He began to grind up the small black stone of charred wood, making a paste with his saliva, and swallowing it. Only this could save his life if the plant was actually poisonous.

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.