"Goldilocks" by Camilla ´Motone´ Whitney

Jessica Locks lay on her birthbed, her vibrant curls glistening with sweat. Her husband lifted the newborn and asked, "What shall we call her, dear?"

Poor Jessica Locks never got the chance to answer. Fatigued from the birthing process, she had collapsed onto the bed, sleeping. But this wasn't what killed her. The next morning Matthew Locks found his wife in a pool of her own blood, deep gashes starting on her face and extending down her swollen body.

The police called it an unprovoked Bear attack, but they couldn't pinpoint a perpetrator. They said that ever since the anti-animal act most intelligent animals had ceased to show their faces, pretending to be normal animals or setting up their own secret establishments. The thought that it was a normal bear was ludicrous. A normal bear wouldn't be able to pick a lock or operate a doorknob. A normal bear wouldn't steal into a human's house and destroy only one victim, especially with a defenseless baby nearby. This had to be a bear that could think, one that knew what he was doing.
Matthew knew what he was going to do. While hunting one day, Matthew had seen a large hut in the forest. It was clumsily built, not with human hands. He has also heard rumors of intelligent animals inhabiting that forest shortly after the introduction of the anti-animals act.

So Matthew wrapped his baby into one of his shirts, kissed her goodbye, took his rifle and headed out into the forest. He only took enough food for one day, he thought that's all he would need.

Foolishly, he left the baby alone. The police found her a day and a half later, still alone, weak from hunger and sleeping in her own mess.

"Poor child." said the policeman, scooping her up. "Do we know her name?"

"No," replied the other. "The council never received her birthing records."

"We'll have to send her to the orphanage." Poor, poor child, he thought. She doesn't deserve that.

"We don't know her name." he later explained to Mame Arioch, the head of Athar orphanage. "Just her last name, Locks."

"Certainly a name of no importance." grumbled Mame Arioch. "But I suppose we can take her. One of the children has fallen ill, and will probably die. Locks can take her bed."

So the child became known as Locks. She was a waif, unhealthily thin, her hair like her mother's, only so untaken care of that it floated in tangles around her head. If ever there was an Angel of Tragedy, it was she. Rather than a sweet, innocent face, hers was haggard and thin through unlove. The girls in the orphanage didn't take to her-they considered it her fault that the girl she had replaced was gone.

"Honestly." said Mame Arioch as she watched the cook sift the flour into the bowl. "That Locks girl is my goad. She comes in here every five minutes asking What's for breakfast? What's for lunch? What's for dinner? What's for afternoon snack? Can I have some? And now she's got other girls doing it as well." One of these other girls, a six year old by the name of Ann, paused just outside the door. What was a goad? She didn't know, but it didn't sound good.

By the end of the day the entire congregation of orphans were calling her, "Goady Locks!"

When poor little Locks turned seven, Mame Arioch officially retired. She was replaced by a Miss Tenné. Miss Tenné was so unlike Mame Arioch that it was almost scary. In fact, they hadn't seen someone so actually caring in such a long time that for a while she had her ulterior motives questioned. But, no, her intentions were pure. She did what she could to brighten all the girls' lives.

When she first came, the girls were in assemblage in the mess hall, directly after breakfast. As she walked down the rows, she didn't see hate-filled, sniveling faces glaring defensively up at a new threat to their equilibrium (which was what was actually happening), rather she saw loneliness, the loss of hope, fright.

Miss Tenné saw one particularly frightened face and asked kindly, "What is your name, my dear?" A nearby girl, perhaps slightly jealous of the immediate attention not given to her, answered for her.

"We don't know her real name her last name's Locks but we don't know her first name, so she goes by Goady Locks. Init right?" she said to a friend.

"Yeah." her friend added. "Mame Arioch called her Goady and so do we."

The chant started somewhere deep in the assembly, and it spread to the outside mixed with cruel laughter… "Goady Locks! Goady Locks! Goady toady goady Locks! She looks like a toad! She acts like a goad! Goady toady goady Locks!"

The child, so confronted with this ugly display of jealous cruelty, started to cry, her large brown eyes welling up dramatically, her thin cheeks red with shame. She fled, with all the strength her emaciated frame could manage, her oversized shoes clattering on the stone floor, her sobs painfully amplified.

Heretofore, Miss Tenné had been incredibly courteous to everyone she had dealt with. But now she showed that she could exercise wrath.

"Children," she snapped, "that will not be tolerated. Any girl who is found mocking another will have all her food privileges revoked for the following 24 hours." A hush fell over the room. No food! Mame Arioch had been mean. She had yelled, she had cursed, she had berated, beaten, spit and even openly hated, but never had they missed a meal, not one. Imagine an entire day with nothing to eat.

Needless to say, they were quickly subdued. A few outbreaks, of course, were to be expected, and some of the girls found ways of hurting others behind Miss Tenné's back. The hateful will does not succumb easily to change.

Miss Tenné, after her announcement, found little Locks and comforted her. Miss Tenné became her ray of hope, and she started following her around like a ghostly shadow, a Eurydice. Miss Tenné made note of Locks' starved condition and made sure she got an extra ladle of whatever they were serving. The food quality went up, but since they didn't have any plates or forks, everything was still served in a soup form.

So, the little Locks girl, still basically nameless, managed to grow, somewhat happily if not impassively, from the haggard, taunted little girl of seven to a quiet, but healthier girl of twelve. Twelve, which meant soon she would have to leave the orphanage.

“I'll be able to hold you for a few more months." Miss Tenné told Locks over their private Sunday tea. "But not for much longer. You think they haven't noticed my favoritism? You need to start thinking of your career field. What could you do?"

"I don't know." replied Locks, nibbling a flavorless crumpet. "Anything."

"Well, think, girl! You've got to get a job and be completely established outside the orphanage in three months!"

Locks sat there, pretending to think but really savoring the flavor of the tea and cookies.

"You've always tended to be quiet." Miss Tenné continued. "I could set you up at the library."

"Okay." Locks said.

The date was set for her librarian appointment. She was accompanied by Miss Tenné, something that never happened with the other girls.

"And what is your name?" inquired the old librarian, Mr. Boam, his half-moon glasses threatening to slide off his nose.

"Locks." said Miss Tenné, who had done most of the speaking during the interview.

"And her first?"

Locks and Miss Tenné glanced at each other. This was something previously unconsidered. Ever since Miss Tenné's first day at the orphanage, she had been known simply as "Locks." But now, what other choice was there?

"I'm known by Goady." she mumbled.

"Goldy? That's a lovely name. Don't be ashamed of it." said the old man as he wrote it down.

Locks sighed in relief. Saved by the old man's deafness, or her incoherence. Goldy wasn't so bad.

Her accommodations were made in a spare library room. There was really no other place for her. She didn't mind, she considered herself lucky that she had made it this far in life. An orphan, who had never even had a full name, never been liked by her peers, had at last found a place for herself, where little was expected, content with little given.

She was merely twelve. The guidance of Miss Tenné was out of her life. She was alone in the world, alone in the vast library as she spent many lonely days shelf-reading. She didn't look for friends, she didn't expect friends to come to her. She avoided people to a fault. People caught only glimpses of her, the library ghost, beautiful with abundant golden curls, but haunted, one of Francesca's angels. Upon enquiring, the old head librarian informed the visitor that it was only little Goldy Locks, doing her fine job at shelf-reading. Every book in its place, he said, and most of the visitors left and forgot about her.

I say most, by which I mean all but one. There was one lad, a little older than her, who had chanced to see her, in all her ethereal quality, buying her few groceries in the market. He followed her back to the library, where she disappeared amongst the vast shelves.

The library soon became his haunt, searching beyond the old musty volumes and past the fresh crisp ones. Although he had already chosen and was actively involved in a field, he took a side job at the library, until one day he managed to corner Goldy, who was now fifteen.

"I was wondering if you could help me." he said. "My name is Kent."

Goldy turned. "The adult fiction section is two aisles down the left." she said, and made to walk past him.

Kent stopped her. "One day a year ago I came across the most beautiful vision in the market place. She was alone in the crowd, but as one used to being alone. I was wondering, perhaps you know the way to give her companionship?"

"Maybe you never thought that she prefers it that way." Goldy said, pushing past him. Kent reached back, caught her wrist, and turned her toward him. "Maybe alone is all she ever can be." Goldy continued, but fear was welling up inside her.

"How could anyone so beautiful ever stay that way?" Kent asked.

"I'm sure you would find, if you were going to make acquaintance of me," Goldy said, struggling to release herself from his grasp, "that beauty of only skin deep!" With a final pull she was able to dislodge his hold and throw him off balance. By the time he had regained himself, she had spirited off and relost herself in the labyrinth of books.

Goldy was scared. She dyed her hair brown. But Kent could not be fooled. He had other plans. He took up a second job at the library.

Employee evaluation had come. Mr. Boam hadn't cared so far about Goldy's lack of ambition, but now he was just disturbed. It wasn't normal to continue in the lowest position for three years.

"Goldy," he said, looking severely through his glasses, the light glaring from his now almost bald head, "I'm worried about your position in this library."

Goldy looked down at her nervously twisting hands.

"It's not normal to remain a shelf-reader for so long."

Goldy managed half a shrug.

"I'm changing your position." he said. "You need to learn people skills. I'm giving you a job… at the desk."

Goldy was mortified. She couldn't handle a desk job. Having to talk to people, normal, ignorant people, smiling at them, pretending she was happy to help them, pretending she was happy.

"I would like you to meet your desk partner." Mr. Boam had crossed to the door and tapped on it lightly. The door opened and in stepped Kent.

Goldy was beyond mortified. As Mr. Boam chauffeured the numb Goldy and broadly smiling Kent to their position at the front desk, he couldn't help but think that maybe, by some freak chance, now that she was in contact with the world, maybe she would get married soon and be out of his hands. He hadn't thought it so bad when he hired her. After all, stillness was a good quality when it came to librarians. And she was quiet, really, actually more like completely and utterly silent. In an eerie way. It was tiring to try to talk to her during the annual employee evaluation. But, she was contracted, and it was only five more years to his retirement.

"Worse things have happened." Kent said to Goldy's bitter silence. She flounced past him and slammed books onto the checkout counter. The sound echoed through the aisles. "After all, it's not as though we have to get married. We're just working together."

"Next." Goldy said pointedly as the next patrons shuffled forward. "There's a pileup," she said to Kent. "Why don't you go work at another checkout station. It doesn't take two people for a one-person job."

Kent retreated to the next post. He waved at Goldy from it. Goldy ignored him. Kent made faces at her. Goldy turned away. Kent played with the kid of the woman next in his line. Goldy continued to ignore him. Kent started humming. Goldy plugged her ears. Kent started to sing. Goldy turned on a broadcaster. Kent sang along with the broadcaster. Goldy turned off the broadcaster, slammed books onto the table and said, "NEXT!" Kent shut up, but he didn't leave her alone forever.

Goldy's cheeks were flushed bright pink with frustration. The leftover brown streaks intermingled with the yellow as she ran her hands angrily through her curls. Kent had discovered her room in the upper floors of the library.

"So this is where you live. I was wondering where you went with all those groceries." he said as he wandered freely around the apartment. Goldy sat at her table, trying to compose her anger.

"I'm giving you ten seconds to leave." she said as calmly as she could.

"And what if I don't?" Kent asked, grinning as he sat across the table from her. Why didn't she figure, that had never worked with the disciplinarians at the orphanage. "It's nice, for a spare library room." he said, continuing his evaluation. "Sort of dusty, booky, small. Why do you live here anyway?"

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Goldy cried out. "Why must you continue to haunt me?"

"Like, what, your parents couldn't afford better than this?" he went on, apparently oblivious to the mental anguish Goldy was going through. "You know what your problem is," he said, "You're too uptight. Why don't you sit down, have a nice cup of chamomile, and think things over."

Goldy stood slowly to face him, her muscles coiled. "And you know what your problem is." she said. "You're bloody annoying! You're rude, you have no consideration, and you are leaving right now!" She tried to push him out the door, but he nimbly dodged her grasp.

"I think I hit a nerve!" he said.

Goldy immediately ran out the door, slamming it behind her, and continued down the hall and up the stairs. Kent wouldn't let her win, and quickly followed. Up they went, Goldy slipping through the shadows, moving as quickly and ghost-like as she could, but Kent was now familiar with her tactics and was familiarizing himself with the architecture of the building. Goldy was by no means predictable, but she would rather use flight than confrontation, and Kent knew that there was only so much time before she would run out of building and places to go. So they continued skywards, Kent following, but not too hotly. His plan was already in action.

Kent was right. Goldy continued to run, as fast as ever, up into the innards of the building. She never once tried to double back and slip past him. This was a path tread almost never by most, but she knew it, this was a path she had traveled often. She twined her way upward, until she came to the very top floor, the attic. Still continuing, she had little hope now that Kent would forsake the chase. She knew what she had to do.

She gave up any pretense serpentine now, but went straight to the familiar doorway in the attic, on the side of the roof where it slanted down. She lifted the latch she had lifted so many times before and climbed out the window.

What was she doing? Did she even remember that she was being pursued by a madman who was intent on disclosing every last dark secret of her undiscovered past? Still, Kent followed, and by the time he had made it out of the small opening, Goldy had climbed down onto the flat part of the roof.

It was now winter, and although it hadn't snowed for a few days, the roof was considerably covered. Kent let out long steamy breaths, which dissipated into the twinkling sky as he scanned the rooftop for a sight of Goldy. There was illumination from the reflection of the moon onto the snow, the rest of the world seemed dark.

There she was, down where the roof was flat. She was emitting small puffs of steam and her face was flushed from the run, but she gave Kent a quick, calm glance before proceeding toward the edge of the roof.

Was she insane? Even in his horror Kent noticed that there had already been a path kicked through the snow toward the ledge. The part of the ledge where the snow had already been cleared off. Just enough cleaned space for a human.

"No!" Kent shouted.

Goldy looked back at him again, lifted her skirt slightly, and stepped up onto the icy ledge.

"Goldy, please! I didn't think it would lead to this!" Kent pleaded with her.

"Once again," her voice rang through the clear night, "I give you ten seconds to leave."

"Then what?" Kent asked, stalling for time.

"What do you think?" she said.

"Goldy, I was only joking!" he said desperately.

"Look what your 'jokes' have led to." she said. She was facing out, toward the city below. "Now I repeat myself a third time. Ten…"

"Goldy, please!" Kent repeated.

"Nine..."

Kent began clambering down from the attic.

"Eight..."

"Goldy, you don't know what you're doing. I'm sure we could talk this out."

She refrained from retort and continued counting. "Seven."

"Goldy, I'm sorry, this is all my fault. If anyone deserves to die, it's me."

If anyone agreed, it was her, but she continued her countdown. "Six." She didn't hear the soft crunching of snow behind her.

"Five." She lifted one foot and held it out over the town to show how serious she was.

"Goldy..." In a low, warning tone, under his breath.

"Four." She remained aloft with impeccable balance.

Silence.

Again, that soft crunching sound. Goldy heard it this time. She breathed out in a sigh, Kent was finally retreating. The moonlight filtered through her hair, the flaxen curls seemed to glow. Still she continued to count down.

But she was caught in the middle of her next number. Caught from behind, two arms around her waist, she was lifted off the icy shelf and carried back into the library.

Kent carried her into a small room on one of the top floors. The upper floors of the library were unused, filled with abandoned research labs and books no one wanted. It was into one of these labs that Kent took Goldy.

"If you do one more thing to me," Goldy said, "I will do everything in my power to have you permanently removed from this establishment and ensure that you never work again."

"That's very touching," Kent said, "But I don't care if you kick me out of here. This isn't my real job. It's more like a hobby, in my spare time."

The stupidity of this struck Goldy so suddenly that she forgot all anger and said dubiously, "Libraries are your hobby?"

"Not quite. I am supposed to be here. No, dear Goldy, it is you that is my hobby. However, you seem to have led me right where I needed to be, for my real job."

Real job? Goldy looked around. Her eyes fell on a glass cabinet. The moonlight streaming through the window glared off the glass, making it difficult to see inside. She walked up to it and pulled the doors open, as though in a trance.

Brains. Jars of Brains. Each of them labeled. Whole brains, not yet undergone dissections. Brains labeled Human, Bear, bear, Horse, horse, and so on.

"What've you got there?" Kent asked, coming up behind her. When he saw what it was, he could barely suppress his excitement. "Goldy, you've done it! This is exactly what I need!"

Goldy failed to see why he could get so excited over jars of brains. "What exactly is it?"

"We've stumbled onto the last investigations of why some animals can talk, walk and think for themselves!"

"Whereas some can't." Goldy said.

"And if you think brains are impressive, you should have a look over here!" He went to the other side of the room and drew back the curtain, revealing rows upon rows of mounted skeletons. "Someone was studying the skeletal and cranial differences of different animals, ones that can talk and behave as humans, and the ones that don't. We've hit the jackpot!"

Just then, the joy was brutally interrupted by the door being unceremoniously thrown open. Mr. Boam stood there, flanked by two law enforcers.

“We’ve found them, boys!” one of the law enforcers said.  They swarmed in, only four of them, but with all the marching and shouting and weapons, it seemed like a lot more.

“Well, Kent I suspected, but Goldy!  I had no idea!” said the flabbergasted Mr. Boam.

Goldy yelled and struggled and Kent tried to fight, but they were easily subdued and cuffed under the burliness of the officers.  The ride to the jail was silent; Goldy was too mad and too frightened to talk, and Kent knew better.  The only talking came when they had to tell sizes in order to be issued comfortable prison clothing.  Everything was taken away from them, even jewelry.  But the tailor was so disgusted at Kent’s monstrous shoe size that he said he could keep them, they didn’t carry anything over size fifteen.

Kent and Goldy were situated in adjacent cells.  Despite the hawkeyed guard, Goldy now attempted conversation with Kent.

“So,” she said crisply, “what exactly is your ‘real job’?”

Kent said nothing.  Kent completely ignored her existence.

“Kent,” she tried again, “I want to know exactly why an hour ago I was a free citizen and now I’ve got ‘capital offense’ scrawled all over my permanent records.”

Kent was pacing, and for a split moment as he turned, his back to the guard, he cast her a look that said, “Shut up if you want to keep your life.”

Goldy flounced over to her bed.  It was all very unclear.  One day she’s happily living her life in a library when suddenly this jerk comes along.  Her life started spinning like an out of control carousel, and now here she was, in jail, the only spot of color against the gray bars, the gray stone walls, the gray bedsheets and covers, and the officer in the gray uniform watching them.  Not mention her own drab prison-wear.  One of the law enforcers had said to her, “You won’t be so pretty after a month in this hole.”  She had never had any intention of being pretty.  Beauty attracted attention, and in her experience, attention usually wasn’t a good thing.  But beauty seemed to hang about her like the plague around rats.  She could go months without ever looking in a mirror, and still remain as ravishing as ever.  After all, wasn’t it beauty that got her into this mess?  Wasn’t it beauty that got Kent interested in her in the first place?

She played those last few hours over and over in her head.  The scene on the rooftop—oh how she longed to jump!  Then the lab, the horrible lab, filled with anthropomorphic skeletons and brains.  She could still see them, still see the moonlight glinting off the jars and the pale bones gleaming, the skulls grinning strangely humanoid grins...  Skeletons of wolves, bears, foxes and pigs standing upright, like humans.  They had once thought they deserved to be humans, just because they could walk and talk like anyone.  It doesn’t take brains to be able to walk and talk, that she knew, and they were still animals, no matter what they said.  And look where it landed them.  Mounted in some lab on the top of a library.  They would do better to just pretend to be normal, just like...  She squeezed her eyes shut, abating her breathing.  Kent was so excited about those skeletons.  She was too, but inwardly, and in a more confused manner.  Perhaps if they had been allowed to stay and learn more...  Then the loud confusion; the silent, cold ride to the prison; and now this—a terse, gray, deathly moment of prolonged silence.

“Goldy, tell me a story.”

“You finally want to talk,” she said, “and you want me to tell you a story?  Well, sorry.”

Apparently, night had fallen, for their guard had left them.  Kent had taken off his shoes and was fiddling with them.  Goldy noticed that his feet really weren’t that big.

“Goldy, I would really like you tell me a story.”  He walked over to the bars separating their cells and beckoned her over, where he hissed into her ear, more air than sound, “They have audio surveillance on us.”

“So?”  Goldy said impetuously, not lowering her tone in the least.

“Just a story, any story.” he said aloud, then held up a small, coiled pocket saw and whispered, “So your voice will cover up the sound of what I’m doing.”

Goldy took the hint, rather late, and consented that she would tell a story.  Meanwhile, Kent took to sawing the bar closest to the wall of the bars between their cells.  He occasionally responded to the story Goldy was reciting.  She didn’t know if it was to make it sound more believable or if he was actually interested in what she was saying.

At any rate, the saw was remarkably sharp and it ground smoothly through the metal with little noise.  The most noise was when Kent had to pull the severed part of the bar out, and he explained it to any listening guards with, “Blasted bed springs.”

He placed that bar against the wall and slid through the created gap into Goldy’s cell, which was closer to the door, and began working on the bar next to that wall.  Goldy guessed that a missing bar next to a wall was less conspicuous than a big gaping hole in the middle. 

Goldy had gone through all the stories she could think of on the top of her head by the time he finished.  She felt rather like Scheherazade at the mercy of a madman.

Kent finally gave her the cut-off signal and breathed to her, “Pretend we’re going to sleep now.”

“Well, I guess that’s all for tonight.” she said.  “Good night.”  There was a lengthy pause and Goldy began to wonder if Kent meant that they were actually going to sleep when she felt his breath tickling her ear in the dark.

            “We’re escaping now, tonight, before they can learn anything.”  He shoved one of the bars into her unwilling hands and they squeezed through the gap on their way to freedom.

They confronted two lone officers with their heavy bars and soon were attired in new uniforms.  Kent looked at Goldy and said, “Do something with your hair.”

“What would you suggest?  You’ve never had mounds of untamable curls.”

“There wasn’t an enforcer in this place who didn’t look at those golden locks, not without lust.  Tuck them up under your hat or something.  Otherwise you’ll attract too much attention.”

Goldy rolled her eyes and did her best.

“Although I wouldn’t mind a good cudgel fight.” Kent continued, giving the bar a few experimental swings. 

There was a lot of unresolved business that Goldy would like to question Kent about, like, what was his real job?  What did he mean when he said she was his hobby?  Why did she end up going to jail with him?  And why did he carry around perpetually sharp pocket saws in oversized shoes?  Did he expect to get into situations in which he had to saw himself out?

Kent at least had the decency to buy Goldy her breakfast after all he had put her through, but he didn’t reveal any more about himself than she already knew, which wasn’t much.  He also apologized for all the agony he had put her through, for getting her arrested, and even told her where she could start a new career.  And he advised her, at the end, to just forget about him for good.

“But Kent,” she said, “My records are tainted.  No one will hire me.  Not even your apology can change that.”

“Just change your name.  It always works.”  He winked and left.  She would not see him again for a very long time.

Goldy had an entirely different outlook on life than she had ever felt before.  She found herself doing things she never thought she could do, although she still did lack a bit of imagination.  With her library career completely shot down, not as though it was going anywhere, and the feeling that soon they would be on the lookout for her, the only thing she felt she could do was move somewhere else, somewhere she had never been.  Pathetically, she had lived in this little town her entire life, had accepted it, had at least pretended to be happy.  But she was no longer satisfied, she wasn’t going to take it anymore.  She was taking charge, taking hold; she was grasping life with both hands and shaking, demanding her due.  Perhaps meeting Kent was a good thing after all.

She scaled the walls of the library and forced open a window that she knew belonged to her room.  She took her life’s wages, changed into her own clothes, packed a few belongings and headed off.