The Mentor was something of a child psychologist, after years of looking after lost orphans in the dunes of Cairo. This was long before he'd met his wife, my grandmother. He'd spoken with travelers from afar, who'd shared with him their many customs: like the Muslims, who escorted their women for safety, and hid their faces so as not to communicate their beauty for the wrong recipient. There were the Hindi, who knew of Chakras and the sensuality of The Gods; and though they waited for marriage, they were more likely to forgive indiscretion. Expectedly, any stricter parents could still exile their so-called 'traitors', especially for sleeping with one of a lower caste. But a more understanding one would simply ask, "So when's he getting a job? He needs to help pay for your wedding."
The Christians, on the other hand abstained from sex until marriage (or so they said), and demanded white-collared obedience. They believed in divine purity, even in those who hadn't lived long enough to earn it. As I understood it, divinity was impossible to embody all by ones' self – it was merely the successive impact of a habit for doing good. The same was true for evil, in fact – that it was the accolade of a thousand selfish acts. Small deeds, wide ripples. Good must be encouraged, bad diswayed. A step in either direction wasn't much, but it only took a few to get somewhere you weren't before. And, there was no such thing as a single shining soul who outweighed the rest – but that was exactly what every Christian (and especially Catholic) was expected to be. Their modesty was a blessing, the people of the cross, but the righteous tightness around those hallowed throats often self-defeated their own morals; and caused them to seek righteous tightness elsewhere, as well as hallowed throats, if you catch my drift. It only created a swarth of refugees, too happy to be escaped to show any more concern – at exactly the times when concern was most needed. Air returning to their swollen minds, the church-choirs were singing in their ears; and no high enough pitch could ward them from the dangers they were about to find. Nor could it drown out Satan's call, any longer – it had been played too long, and now the choir was running out of breath.
Then were those more in-touch, the primitive tribes of the Polynesian isles, who taught their children how to love as a matter of pride – but took too much of that pride for themselves, across a chasm of age. It was admirable of them to exercise so much acceptance, but it was intolerable of them to accept so much to their own. There was good to all, and bad ever after. Across the globe, so much progress – all cobbled in little pockets, huddled under trees of doctrine. Fragments of advancement unable to connect, because comedy, drink, and commerce demanded their unraveling. And, of course, not one of these influences has a damn single word to say on the matters of child husbandry... which The Mentor found detestable and inhumane, and decided was his own contribution to the eclectics he'd assembled. The Mentor needed to string together all of these conflicting ideals, and create for himself a unifying theory of humane treatment – and by the time he'd arrived at The King's palace, that was exactly what he'd accomplished.
He called it: 'The Fig-Leaf Mantra'.
"Let not my love be shown, but held in place by the leaf of a fig. And if I find a jacket, let it better my cause." He'd recited this to me, and told me it would one day save my life.
Well, it definitely made me consider wearing a jacket, which I often did back then.
The theory itself was more complex than that, as most things often are. It was found that children experience the exact same range of emotions as adults, and sensitivities... but to lower degrees, rising as they mature. For this exact reason, they need to be protected so lecherous adults can't abuse them. Clothing is the very first step, because it hides those sensitivities from others, and makes the children want focus for other things – else themselves they might endanger, for entertainment. You could never be too sure what a child of animal senses could do to themselves, when left alone for too long – and during times of the month, that was exactly what many children became: animalistic. The rest were practically a bit of one all the time – those of the maler persuasion. They didn't call it 'the birds and the bees' for nothing, but I did wonder where the hell the flowers were supposed to fit into all that. Regardless, it was uncaring to let a domestic animal you loved wander loose, to breed so wretchedly into a pile of diseased strays. A litter might break its belly open if it's still a pup itself. Sure, a group of adults could lounge about on the beach in bare to none, and defend their waddling tods (and vain pubescents) in just as much – but that was because they were being watched. Guarded, by someone responsible. Someone who could fight. It was reasonable to restrict those who dared not protect themselves from harm, like those vanital teens who'd not yet grown enough to make their own way, and believed themselves entitled to all the world's attentions – but not so much as to force them into diving suits for a splash in the sun. Nor to stop them from seeing someone of their ilk, who'd be good for them to help relieve such weights as that of love and heat on the senses. That, and water would drown anyone who tried to carry their fabrics upon them. The salt was none too forgiving to their dyes, neither. I was barely reaching flowers myself when I'd heard this, but it made all too much sense to me – I didn't wanna be assaulted or taken advantage of, and this knowledge was my first defense.
Despite that, the material was dry. When I fell asleep in class, he'd WHACK his ruler on my desk, and shout, "PAY ATTENTION! You're going to need this when I'm dead, and I can't scare those louts from having at you." He spoke in an oddly Celtic accent for one who'd been born Egyptian – I suspected he'd learned English in the Emerald Isles, not from the Brits.
He continued: around the ville, a fig leaf or a pair of shorts was scantly enough; a full tunic with undergarments, pants, and a belt was highly recommended, at the very least. It was one more step between them, and their would-be attackers. Even travelers of age can attest to that – they'd often be caught while wandering darkened paths, where bandits lie in wait between trees for their unsuspecting selves to wander. A difficult belt or a mangled knot on your cape can be the difference between life or death, and gives you time to wind up a solid power-knock to the jaws of your enemies. Or to fish for your pocket knife, at sides. Children were twice as imperiled, for they were far easier to detain... and what tragically follows. You could only get so far by crying about it, as a parent, and pretending that a better world was coming up tomorrow with the sun.
At home, the whims of the blossoming needed to be acknowledged and understood, not denied and played ignorant to, and then given proper space with their unrelated peers once they matured. While it contended with traditional religious beliefs, that abstinence and sex after marriage were the only pure path, it made certain that those wholly human affairs of lust and longing were tended to by the young one themselves or their appropriate mating partners; long before a groom or wife could be found. Even a hug and a kiss from a friend can go a long way towards an emotional support group that keeps the child insulated from harm, at any age. That way, a budding child was less likely to give in when an unwashed adult gave them their first smackerel of affective attention. Instead, they were more likely to deny their stalkers, try for a scream, and then run. At least then, there was a likelihood they could escape. Quieting the victim is the first and foremost defense of a child-predator, and it occurred not just as a hand over their mouth during the travesty – it was also a hushed whisper not to tell their parents, and to "be a good egg" while they hand them a piece of candy for being so obedient. It looked apparent to me that in royal families especially, that virginity was only a myth – their mothers and fathers had handed them their obedience candy long before any noble princes or princesses could arrive. It was only a passing-down of an asset, as far as they were concerned. In fact, my grandfather's advice went directly against the established quo: that a child's hand in marriage was nothing more than a bargaining tool, for acquiring and acquiescing more wealth. That, to him, was like two nasty slugs rubbing their folds together – trying to make more slime to call 'providence'. Of course a dependant was forced to call it same, for they'd nowhere else to turn. Their excuse was the same as one for a dog's collar: to keep them known from the strays. But compared to one's own parent, a stray might actually be preferable – as was the charm of 'street rats' like Aladdin, in the Arabians' thousand tales. At the very least, that dashing rogue might be seen as new. Or would you have the sultan's daughter marry her uncle, the vizier? Fuck the word 'taboo', that implied it was wrong for no reason. We all knew what that reason was: you can't consent when you can't run away.
That led to another thing I'd learned: much of that type of abuse happened at home, by ones who the children had already placed their trust in. Obviously, they were defenseless and without choice – or they'd be hibernating with the bears, chancing them not to rend limb from limb. And yet there, still, was a beast indoors, all too close.
To test your patience with one last comparison: if a crop of food was as rotten as society often is, you wouldn't lie about it, and then make it into dinner. Not unless you were cutting corners, to turn a cheater's profit. Better it all be burned than fed to a healthy heart. The problem with society was: unlike a rotten crop, we still needed it – at least well enough to stand.

Anyway. If The Collector was serious about her ideals, and protecting her young, she'd have smacked them; for allowing themselves be seen in full by the neighbors, fearful for their cautionless ways. And for those of the neighbors, as well. Here, I was seeing the opposite: apparently, these cherubs had been born pure as bishops, and so had everyone else (unless perhaps they'd left their sins at home). It was like her mother expected the entire world to live in a thoughtless infantile utopia, just because she apparently did – where everyone is soaped and clean of sex, violence, or shame. I didn't need to be a psychologist to know she was lighting a ticking time-bomb by raising her children this way. Even her youngest was two years done with being an infant, though he had at least the lesser curiosity – which was a small breath back to my lungs, compared to the others. Their mother was beginning to lose my hard-earned respect.
Despite all my griping, The Sheller only tried her streaking once around me. It was when The Knight came visiting to play cards (before his final departure). He grinned my way and made accusatory glances, and I shook my head and stuck out my tongue in disgust.
Then I asked her, "Sheller, please return to your clothing at once. It's not appropriate."
The Knight said nothing more of the matter, but I could tell something in him was jealous yet again... or that he thought less of me, and that I'd sunken into this bog. That made me think, unfortunately, a little bit less of him. For all the eyes on us from other residents, we never got a chance to properly say goodbye... not the way we had, last time we'd met. Unstoked by my surroundings but natural all the same, I was sorely needing it, too: the touch of another at my age and pace. But I supposed it was better not to open myself up at the time, in that way. I'd grown accustomed to denying my own sensuality, until it hardened into a layer of sheetrock – so I could remain as safe to be present with as possible. To make up for the whole family's degeneracy. Steel boxes stayed better-closed when you weren't swinging their hinges. I watched him go, and took a deep breath, readying myself to return to servitude and emotional squalor. The children weren't the only ones being babied and diminished, despite their obvious interests otherwise. Unleashed on the floors, they demonstrated plenty, and were seen as comedians for it. I was starting to feel like a five-foot six-year-old myself, stuck on permanent caretaking duties. And The Rater kept buying me clothes I didn't want, begging me to try them on in my room and then show her in the hall. They were frillish and fancy, tight in all the wrong places, and made me feel like a cloth-porcelain doll. It was humiliating like I'd never known before. I decided, instead, to sell the clothes and buy my own again – to which she'd said I'd betrayed her, and wasted her money. It was only once I shared my natural talent for striking deals to refresh her cluttered storage that she saw me in lighter tones again; for when she tried to make yard sales, all her prices were too high and the sodded junk stayed on her lawn until dark. I was an expert in recovering and cleaning old things, as I'd become from managing my own – hand-me-downs included. A little seam and polish, and everything was suddenly worth its weight – but only if sold as an experience, more than as a simple ware. This was a specialty of mine, I found, that made it easy to justify my stay – or so I thought, until she'd glower down on me for not working again. As if I had any time after I'd finished with the grounds. This made me feel trapped all over again, with her, with The Chief's yearly visits, and with those frightening cherubs... who ran afreed like gnats in the wind. As they grew up a bit, the shrieking and streaking became less frequent, and they finally began to show some modesty. It was a welcome change, indeed.