The Atavists helped him up on the back of the padder, and he sat there, washed in the animal smell, feeling slightly ridiculous as one of the younger two proceeded to lead the animal forward along a side street. They walked at a leisurely pace, as if simply out for a stroll. When crossing the next intersection, a pair of passers-by glanced over at the unusual procession and stopped dead in their tracks, staring open-mouthed. He knew their natural reaction would have been to simply look right through such a group, ignore them completely, but the sight of one of their own in the Atavist's midst must have caught them by surprise. Sandon smiled and nodded at them, suppressing with difficulty his urge to call to them for assistance. The germ of an idea was starting to take shape in the back of his head, and he wanted it to be fully formed before he did anything else. He faced front again, attempting to appear as if it were the most natural thing in the world, but inside he squirmed with embarrassment. After another two intersections, the feeling had faded, but the Atavists' silence was starting to get to him.
"Um, where are you taking me?"
The older Atavist didn't even look up, speaking as he walked beside the padder. "There is a group of our people, our family, on the outskirts of Yarik. We are taking you there. The healer is also there and can tend to you then."
"A group? How many of you are there?"
"We have a traveling party there. I do not know the number. We are joining them after being away for some time. It is our intention to travel to Gorana."
Gorana? That was weeks away by foot. It could be reached in a day or two by groundcar, but walking? But the Atavists did that, didn't they?
The Atavist population slipped in and out of society, nearly unseen. They were just there, in ones and twos, never many more. Up until now, for Sandon, they had been little more than an ever-present nuisance, something to be scorned, not considered seriously. Nobody really paid them any attention. The thought caught him. The Atavists were almost invisible. And with that thought, Sandon's growing idea started to solidify.
They turned up another street, and another citizen passed them, barely glancing in their direction. Her gaze simply slid right over the group as if they didn't exist. She must not have noticed Sandon in their midst. He nodded quickly to himself. He would have done exactly the same thing, the same way he had in the groundcar, the same way he did every time he saw an Atavist.
"I really appreciate what you're doing," he said. "What do I call you?"
The older Atavist glanced up at him this time, a vague look of assessment on his face. "My name is Badrae."
"Badrae. Badrae what?"
"Simply Badrae. We do not seek titles and other ways to set us apart. We do not have family names as you do. We are one family. I am Badrae. This," he said, gesturing at the younger Atavist leading the padder, "is Melchor. And over there is Arnod."
"One family? You mean you are related?"
"We are all tied together by the Words of the Prophet."
Sandon thought about this for a moment. "But then how do you tell each other apart? How do you know who is related to whom?"
"We are all related. We all of us came from the First Families. We are a small group bound together on this world, tied together by the sins of our predecessors. Is that not knowledge enough?"
Again, Badrae glanced up at him, but he didn't hold the look. His statements were full of matter-of-factness, expressions of a truth he clearly thought everyone should understand, but despite that, there seemed to be no expectation that Sandon should accept them. It must be strange for them living on the periphery of an entire world, removed from society's normal day to day interactions. Sandon doubted he could ever truly live like that.
