Of youthen foolishness

At eleven years, I had reached an age where it was shameful to accept everything I was told on faith. Young children, in their deep urge to understand everything around them, will believe what they learn, and will find a way to reconcile the new information with the old. There comes a time--perhaps when they learn they first learn that they have been told a lie, or even when they no longer desire any more information--that this gullibility disintegrates, and with this sudden stroke they learned to question everything, and to take no man at his word. But upon my arrival in Ilepya, I had yet to reach this stage. Mother had told me everything she felt I needed to know, and she forbade me to have any contact with anyone who might contradict her. Ansidrion's visits were usually supervised, and when they were not, Mother made it very clear to him that she would demand from me to know everything that he had said, and that he would meet harsh consequences if anything were out of line.

Of course, there had been a few breaches. Yhako had hinted to me a few times in my early childhood that Mother was not to be trusted, nor was she the wonderful woman she used to be. But such times were few and far between. Mother had not permitted me to spend much time with children my age, as she viewed the people in Kapabaj as beneath us. We were of such a status that Mother allowed only a few boys to keep my company, and even then, she would conduct vigorous screening interviews beforehand, and would not permit me to pay them a visit at their homes. Mother had created a sheltered existence for me, and in my youthen foolishness, I had never thought to question any of it. I had such a strong desire to understand everything and such a remarkable talent for absorbing information that rejecting any of what came to me seemed out of the question. I loved facts so much that I made them out of whatever Mother told me.