The children did not relent their pageant. In fact, all three were given complete leeway to appear as they pleased around the house and yard, bits and all. The Rater was no stranger to indecency either, and was constantly leaving the outhouse door open while her entire nude self defecated, for all others to see. She commanded all to look away, as if that made us blind, which we wished we were. The Oaf wouldn't allow himself to be seen, but one time I accidentally intruded on his changing after being instructed to find his wife's purse. He took no joy in being seen off-guard, nor I for seeing him. I gave him the respect he wouldn't give me by covering my eyes, apologizing, and taking the purse and myself out of the room. The disgusting image tried to stain my mind, which made me frown and shake my head, but fell away to other matters soon enough. There were plenty of those around, anyway – The Rater was, when it came to exposure, worse than her husband. Even in the halls, at odd hours of the morning, which made me treasure sleeping in. The Oaf was back to being 'hero to the wee ones', and seemed disgusted by them as well. Like he'd hit a sober patch, and was remembering why it was wrong. When it came to smaller children (and I think, girls), he was suddenly the man he pretended to be, once again. Well, the oldest was a girl, and the other two weren't old enough to flower. Neither him nor I could convince The Collector to make them clothe. Any comments I made, or revelation of those weaknesses, got ire and suspicion – they were too used to the battle of innocence versus perversion, I supposed, and believed that if you weren't with them, you were against them. The Oaf was somehow reliable to them, and completely unreliable to me... which felt incredibly unfair. If only one of them had dared, even once, to show me the same attestament they showed him – I'd have at least more cause to have earned it. The Collector must not have known she was playing dice in the caves with him, or I doubt she'd have allowed this parade to continue. Perhaps The Oaf had left her more space and her children than he'd left me, and she was unconvinced of his danger. I wasn't with them on the 'omniant innocence' ideal, nor the other side; just trying to acknowledge bare reality for what it was – which was, ironically, something they were completely blind to. Still not convinced? Let me explain.

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. 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. But, the men could also be unfair handlers, and practically own them as property under certain laws. 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 to all else. 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 that its negation was his own contribution to the eclectics he'd assembled. It was The Torah which had been his source of inspiration. 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 castle, 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 and sensations as adults... 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 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 armored 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. But he also clarified: if you wanted to be safe, make sure you reveal yourself only at the right time, and in only the right company. Around someone you know, who won't see you for a target, as you could assume. A hot day in the sun was an invitation to undress, for most, but in the presence of a malintented person... it could become a terrible ordeal. It was like the wolves, again. Whatever looked weak, was weak.
My Mentor had what he called a joke, for easier memory. "A father, a daughter, and her uncle are playing at shore, skipping in the watered sands. Each one's undressed, down to their skivvies, so the water doesn't sink them. The uncle, thinking himself hilarious, jokes that if a woman is naked, she deserves to be raped, harder than life itself. He says this in front of the daughter, and her father, expecting them both to laugh. But they don't budge for a single breath. Instead, the father puts his heaviest coat on his little girl, hugs her goodbye, and throws her out to sea. She squeals, 'Help me, father! Won't someone save me, please!' But the tide picks her up, sweeps her out, and before she can untie the coat, she's under. As he watches her drown, the uncle asks in shock, 'Why the hell did you do that?!' Horrified, he shakes his brother's shoulders. The father answers with a joke of his own: 'Because she's safer down there, in that deep dark abyss, than she is here with you.'"
He said it explained why parents sometimes abandoned their children in unfamiliar places, like church schools and orphanages; they may have been protecting them from someone who was nearer than they should have been, to themselves. A predator at the crib, biding time, waiting for their next course. He called those orphans 'The Children of the Abyss', and took them in whenever he could. He said if I hadn't been saved by my father The Surgeon and my mother The Teacher, I would've been walking one of the deepest trenches ever carved... but he wouldn't explain why. Said it had something to do with my leg and mouth, but he refused to go into further details.
I was barely reaching flowers myself when I'd heard this, and I felt like it made the world hopeless. I imagined living at the bottom of the sea, hunting bubbles for fresh air, and fighting salmon for scraps of food. I figured I could sharpen a stick, or something. But it made enough sense – I didn't wanna be assaulted or taken advantage of, and this knowledge was my first defense: people are going to defend in comedy what they want to do for real. It made me want to hear even more, in case I was next.
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, and then given proper space with their unrelated peers once they matured; not denied and played ignorant to, and then allowed to stagnate indiscretely. 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 mates; long before a groom or wife could be found. Even a hug and a kiss from a friend can go a long way towards a network that keeps the child from falling into harm. 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 dependent 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.