Gold a'Locks And The Three Weres



  GOLD A'LOCKS AND THE THREE WERES

  Also by Steve Dunn:

  Viking Resurrection

  Raine Fall

  School Of Thought

  Gold a'Locks and the Three Weres

  by

  Steve Dunn

  Copyright © 2014 by Steve Dunn

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  stevedunnauthor.uk

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Author’s Notes & Acknowledgements

  Reading Group Questions

  FREE PREVIEW: VIKING RESURRECTION Prologue

  1

  To whom it may concern...

  Not all stories are passed on in sincerity. Some truths have remained untold; some have been spun but false. This one must now be woven in honesty's light, for it has been twisted through the generations since its inception. The childhood favourite tells of a spoilt little girl with hair of sunlight and three speaking bears, but this belies the darker threads of its reality. She was not just some little child, and they were not mere animals. Children: sometimes the monsters are the ones that look just like you...

  2

  ...The boy wriggled beneath his blankets, his feet curling in delight as they reached the spot the warming pan had heated. The rest of him snuggled into its cosy residue and his eyes implored his Mama for the usual request. Every night they did this, always the same. She cast her brown eyes upon her son with a knowing smile, the candle's flicker catching their sparkle. Say it, they urged. You have to say it.

  'Can you tell me a story before I sleep, Mama?'

  'Just this once,' she laughed and he joined her, his giggle a dancing harmony. 'Which story would that be?'

  'The one about Goldie. The one where she meets the Woodfolk.'

  Mama slid beside him on the bed and stroked his hair. 'But that one gets you too excited to sleep.'

  'Please tell me. I want to hear of the dog and the Constable and the cupboard...'

  They both grinned, each knowing she would spin the tale and he would gasp at all the right places. And of course he would sleep. He was not one to be frightened.

  Mama tucked the blanket around him, her dark hair tumbling and tickling him on the cheek. It smelled of fresh rain. She took a breath.

  'Upon the yesterdays there was a woman named Gold a'Locks and she was the most cunning of all the sneak-thieves...

  3

  '...It was the coldest night of the new year thus far,' said Mama. 'Sliding through the shadows, her black garb swallowed in their dark throat, she crept along the bank towards the newly-built house, envying its owners. Three storeys high, wide bows to either wing, it was a home to poets, the new kind, the ones that wrought longings and philosophies with their words. Also, the kind that collected the most delicate of jewelleries.'

  'What are philosophies?'

  His Mama's eyes glowed. 'They are the musings of minds, the reasoning of truths...'

  'Many truths are buried, Mama.'

  She gazed upon her young son and realised she had forgotten how different he was. He looked far younger than his numbered years. It was both a curse and a blessing; his mind was already full of secrets and dark corners. But it needed to be. He needed to be prepared for the world outside.

  'On to the yarn, little one!' she said.

  'The river hurried alongside her some feet away, the cover of trees and brooding clouds banishing whatever the full moon might have to offer. She thanked the night for its serendipity. Invisible, she was.

  'For years they had sought her and still the Justices had no clue. The famed prowler, pilferer of heirlooms and idolised treasures, was anonymous to all. Her notoriety stretched from London to Edinburgh, and it had earned no conviction and a revered name.

  '“Gold a'Locks”, the periodicals called her, both for her prowess at foiling the most secure of latches, and for her tresses that the rarest of victims espied in those fleeting moments. Her hair was bright, they said, when glimpsed from the shadows of her cowl. Woven gold, they hushed! Like threaded sun, was the cry!

  'But the legend was a lie, for her hair was not golden... it was silvered.' Her eyes glowed at her son's gasp. 'Yes! The wig she sported beneath her hood was a feint, chosen to protect her anonymity. Truly, her own hair had long lost its auburn life and faded to a white-silver over the passage of years. Distinctive enough as it was in her own circles – and they were reputed ones, at that – she opted for the ruse early in her career, and it had paid off wonderfully as her renown spread.

  'Yet the colour of her supposed tresses was not the only reason for her moniker: “Gold” at locks she was too, the most intricate of mechanisms as no match to her lock-sport. For a lifetime she had perfected her craft, defying all warded and tumbler locks with ease. The advances had been impressive of late, but keeping abreast of the times was of little concern: with the people she targeted being those able to afford the latest devices, and thus always presenting her with the most recent of challenges, she was already well-versed in the newest on offer before the rest of high society had seen them installed.

  'No one could keep her out of their home should she wish to intrude, and her expertise was second to none.

  'Let me tell you an aside, sweet one, one that demonstrates her mastery... When the inventor Joseph Bramah of Piccadilly had his much-lauded “Challenge Lock” created, the newspapers spread word of its impossibility and the gauntlet was laid. It adorned the centre-piece of his company's shop window, teasing all with its secrets. The formal offer of two hundred guineas to anyone who could defeat it lured a plethora of sportsmen. Many came from afar to solve its hidden depths, and none could open it.

  'The newspapers shouted of its ingenuity, but they remained silent on one belated incident at Bramah's behest. After many years in that window, the silent Tantalus had been untested for recent months when one particular night everything changed.

  'Bramah was summoned to the shop by his frantic assistant at dawn's break, the man having arrived early to open up the establishment. What Joseph discovered to his horror was the Challenge Lock wide open, its nethers bare for all to see. The lock was hastily closed again before the day's procession of passers-by commenced, and a handsome sum accorded to the assistant in exchange for his silence. The lock is still otherwise unbeaten to this day. Only Bramah ever knew the identity of the party responsible for such insolence. For upon closing the device, he found a tiny rolled note hidden within its open chamber...

  '“Mr.Bramah,”' it read, '“Please pass my two hundred guineas on to the Lancaster Locks Co., for your greatest rival must gloat in every way and I must remain but a phantom. Yours, Gold a'Locks.”'

  The boy punched his hands from beneath the covers and clapped them with glee.

  'Gold a'Locks in every way!'

  'Truly so. But do not applaud our lady thief, for she is no one worthy of such commendation. Allow me to explain.'

  4

  The boy returned his hands to the cosy confines of his bedclothes and hushed. Mama shuffled for a bette
r seat on the bed. She continued.

  'And so, Goldie – for such as we will call her – stole past the river's edge and on through the gardens. This home resided on the outskirts of a market town, gazing across the tumbling waters to the hills and woods beyond. Unseen they were tonight, blanketed by the darkness, but by day the view was quite magnificent. The family who had built it originally had chosen the spot well, but only resided here for a handful of years before bereavement moved them on. The current owners, two families – sisters who had both married poets – sharing the property for mutual support as their children grew, had enjoyed a flurry of parties to charm local gentry and marry interests. Frequently, they would have other writers to stay, many of whom Goldie had heard of or even read.

  'At this juncture, I must add that she was no common thief. Heaven forbid! She was a lady herself, but one of her own making. Under guise of premature widowhood – there never was a husband, but a fabricated dead spouse “explained” her wealthy status – our silvered prowler used her prosperous gains to provide a lifestyle many would associate with the most eligible of aristocratic singles. She would only target the richest, for her appetite was considerate, and she waltzed through the upper circles of society with a beguiling charm, living in the best hotels and travelling the country at her whim. All loved her, many bachelors and otherwise pursuing her romantically – of whom she would have none – and the ladies envied her poise and wit. All the while, as they gradually invited her into their homes and boasted of their acquired treasures, Goldie would remember: the items, the values, the histories, the locations, the layouts of the houses, the number of staff and, vitally, the types of locks and bolts employed to keep their prizes safe.'

  'No one was safe!' cried the boy.

  Mama shook her head. 'You guess right, my sweet! Oftentimes, the best disguises are the ones in plain view.

  'Over the years, Goldie inveigled her way through the beautiful people and chose her marks carefully. Gemstones, necklaces, brooches and rings, she would pilfer whatever was of highest value and lowest in suspicion. She would strike only once, perhaps twice a year, never in the same area, and always at a distance from her last acquaintance with the owners. No property foiled her attempts, no fingers pointed her way, and never was she caught.'

  'Until the night of the poets!'

  'Did you want to tell this tale? You have heard it enough times.'

  He grinned. 'I want my Mama to tell it.'

  She chuckled and rubbed his hair. The candle flickered in expectation of what was to come. Things were about to change.

  'Goldie reached the back door of the house and waited in the shadows to catch her breath, the wide drainpipe hard against her spine. Silent, she had been, and she needed to remain so. These poets had a pet, a Dalmatian, which slept in the kitchen behind this very door. Peering through the window, her movements precise and practised, she saw the creature curled upon a wide cushion beside the range, legs splayed, white splashed beneath its blacks. An ear twitched – it sensed something – but its eyes remained closed as it dreamed of hunting and chasing. Picking the lock here was out of the question.

  'She had visited this house on a number of occasions; dinners and soirées she had been invited to – the first as the guest of a gentleman she had met in Carlisle, the owner of a large cotton company – and quickly won the hearts of the family enough to be asked to return on subsequent evenings were she ever passing. Of course she would love to! One of the ladies had a necklace handed through her family that enthroned the grandest of diamonds, and she took every opportunity to laud it to whomever may wish to listen and gaze. Goldie gazed too, and very much enjoyed conversing with the lady upstairs one evening while she placed it away in their bedroom safety chest and the men discussed more important matters downstairs.'

  'To the break-in, Mama!'

  'Indeed. To the break-in. Promise you won't be scared?'

  'I promise!'

  Mama took a sip of water from the jar on the table and took a breath.

  5

  'Prevented as she was by the hound in the kitchen, Goldie slid to her haunches and crept along the wall to the next corner. The wash house protruded from the abutment and she skirted the bayed wing to the front corner of the house with nary a sound. Nestled there in the parlour's crook lanced another drainpipe, this leading to the Poet's study upon the first floor. She had had the privilege of entering its sacred domain during one small dinner, the gentleman urging a fellow poet – a certain Wordsworth – to come sit at his desk upstairs, and inviting Goldie and Wordsworth's new wife to join them for the repartee while his own beloved entertained the rest of their guests below.

  'While the gentlemen compared oak tables and writing implements, choice of ink and wont of solitude, Goldie noted the gentle draught wafting from the sash window, unusual for that time of year, and made mention. The Poet explained his need for a fresh environs in which to write, preferring to wrap up warm and keep the stuffiness for the rest of the house. He kept the window fractionally ajar, secreted as it was in the house's abutting sections, all year round. For sake of climatic inspiration, the Poet had inadvertently alerted the greatest of cat burglars to a flaw in his property... Goldie merely smiled and made passing comment to the lady of the man's unusual pursuit for a muse.

  '“Mine own husband would dare no other muse but myself,” the woman replied and they all laughed, the men nervously so.

  'Peering through this very window from her perch some weeks later, Goldie could just make out the Poet's desk and paraphernalia in the gloom. The study was empty, as she had hoped – he was not one to work late in the night – and she eased her slim fingers into the gap in the sash. The window rose in silence. The wind gusted and papers flew from the desk. Goldie swung her foot to the floor and closed the sash as quickly as she could once inside.

  'She waited. She listened. No stirring from beyond the study door. She left the papers as they were upon the floor.

  'The hallway too was deathly still. A staircase ahead led to the children's and nanny's rooms above. Thankfully, she would not be interrupted by them. The sister's room was reportedly further down the passage, her husband so consumed by illness and opium he had left her and the children for warmer climes. The main bedroom waited directly opposite and its door opened easily. Within, the Poet and his wife slept, she on her front, he on his back, her arm reaching across to hold his shoulder in their slumber. Goldie listened to their breathing for some minutes, ensuring that whatever move she made next would not alert them. Nothing changed, and their dreams rolled on uninterrupted.

  'She enjoyed watching her victims sleep, their shapes dark against the greys, unaware they were being watched, vulnerable and at her mercy. How little she knew it would be her turn before day's break!

  'The lady's safety coffer was upon a mahogany chest of drawers. The size of a hat box, this one was of the new generation: made of iron, and with three clasps across its lidded mouth, each secreted by a small crest. Goldie twisted the badges in turn to three of the clock, revealing the locks' keyholes. They turned effortlessly and in silence. The best, well-oiled workings that money can buy are the ones which lean in an expert thief's favour. With a well-practised flick, her lock-pick was in her hand and she was teasing her magic upon the first mechanism's innards. The lock of choice comprised of eight bolts and toyed with her affections. It was impressively made, but her patience was long matured and with the gentle nudge of an artist she released the device, a tiny click responding from within. She paused. No stirring from the couple. Goldie proceeded onto the next. In no time, she had the other two submitting to her wiles and the chest was open. There, upon a velvet tray was the prize. She lifted the necklace out and planted it deep into her pocket.

  '“Who are you?” came the tiny voice.

  'Goldie spun, her heart lurching empty. A little girl, long night dress glowing in the drab light, stood in the doorway. What was this? The children should still be upstairs until morn. She did not even
recognise the child.

  '“What are you doing?” she asked of the thief.

  'The Poet roused. Goldie froze.

  '“Sara, is that you?” said the Poet, his voice still thick with drapes of slumber. He hoisted himself upon an elbow.

  '“Yes, Uncle. Who is that with you?”

  'The Poet's wife was by now stirring with the commotion at hand.

  '“Robert, what is it?”

  It was she who discerned the darkest patch at the foot of the bed, contrasted against the pale glow of her niece's nightgown. There was an intruder in the room!

  'Goldie had no choice. She bounded at the doorway, shoving the girl roughly against the jamb in her escape.

  'The Poet shouted after her and leaped from the bed, his wife screaming. Goldie fell into another figure appearing from a room by the staircase. Dark hair, long neck, much like the Poet's wife; it was the woman's sister, but that should not be her room. Everything was wrong. The startled woman shrieked and grabbed at Goldie's shrouded face in indignation. She sprang for the staircase, and the woman's clutch pulled the wig clean from her head with an astonishing tug.

  'A gasp. “It is that Gold a'Locks!” she heard the sister cry. “We have been robbed!”

  'Goldie raced down to the kitchen and lunged for the back door, her head throbbing, her silvered locks loose, her hood upon her shoulders, shouts and wails but paces behind her. Reaching for the key upon its hook, a punch from behind seized her breath in surprise and she fell to the floor beneath the snapping Dalmatian. Its jaws slavered, its teeth snapped at her nose and lips, Goldie barely strong enough to writhe aside and hold its head at bay.

  'At any moment, the family would enter the fracas and observe their friend, and their betrayer. What could she possibly do?

  'Desperation fast became her muse.'

  6

  'Tell me, Mama, tell me!'

  'As the voices neared, her doom imminent, the dog's strength ruled out and its teeth caught her cheek and tore at the soft flesh. Pain seared her face, blood poured! In that instant, Goldie did all she could in her despair. Her lock-pick was back in her hand by its familiar flick and thrust deep into the hound's throat over and over, jabs rapid in her frenzy. It whimpered and fell silent as a deep red conjoined its black spots. She let go and rolled away. Its life continued to seep, pooling beneath its sagging body, coarsing along the grooves between the tiles.

  'She had no time left. She rose to her feet and hastened through the far door into the dining room. She paused, chest heaving. The house owners had reached the hallway. This room was darker, curtains drawn across the rear window; there was a table set ready for breakfast. She recalled they practised the new “promiscuous” style of seating at their soirées: gentlemen and ladies seated alternately. Poets...

  'The drawing room was the next along. Voices outside the kitchen hurried her move, the man shouting for the ladies to return to safety upstairs with the children and nanny, and sending his eldest nephew to fetch the Constable.

  'Goldie idled behind a heavy drape, watching the Poet framed by the two open doorways via a mirror on the drawing room's opposite wall. Candle in one hand, wooden club in the other, he followed the source of the prior scuffle into the deserted kitchen. He found pots and pans but no prowler, and raised his candle-holder ahead. He slipped on the dark slickness upon the tiles, regained his balance, mind too focussed on the intruder to consider what the spill might be, until he tripped upon the Dalmatian. The Poet sprawled, horror in his cry. Their own pet, butchered by the fiend! He regathered his composure for sake of his kin upstairs and stalked on, shaken.

  'Club at the ready, he appeared in the dining room. The drawing room beckoned.

  'Goldie dipped her head back behind the curtain. This room had been the setting for many of her yarns before dinner. She'd held audience here with the best of them, spinning her tales of scolding a red-faced turnpike collector for his crudity, and the romantic inclinations of a church rector with sweaty hands. None of those tales had been true. Goldie oftentimes had a mind set to whimsy, but not tonight; this night, she was to fight for her future. She patted the diamond necklace, unusually heavy in her pocket; the Poet's steps neared. She tensed, ready to spring.

  'As he entered, she grasped her hood tight around her wounded face, leaped out and bellowed a breath at the candle's flame. In the sudden veil of darkness, Goldie danced to the far side of the room, seeking the exit back to the other end of the hall.

  '“I see you, pilferer!” cried the Poet, squinting. “You shall not get away with this!”

  'Goldie slipped through the door's crack and headed for the front entrance. If he were to seize a hold of her and see her hair...

  'The hallway rushed by and the front door was before her. Open it was, the wind holding it so, the nephew abandoning it in the flurry of alarm as he sped down the hill. With a grateful leap, Goldie burst forth and the Poet made chase.

  7

  'It was raining, the sudden downpour strengthening with every stride that Goldie seized. She took off across the drive and down the hill, heading toward a row of miners' cottages and the town beyond. Her steed awaited by the riverbank west of here; she would have to return the long way once clear. In moments, however, the swinging glow of an approaching lantern deemed her route blocked. The Constable it must be, his stooping gait hurried, and a smaller figure hastening beside him; the nephew, his lit face aglow with the occasion's urgency. He was small for his age, but a hearty lad.

  'Goldie doubled back, scrutinising the darkness ahead and the punches of light spilling from the great house's front porch. The Poet stood upon the porch steps, searching for the sped intruder, his family behind, amassing with candles within the cocoon of their invaded home. She had no choice but to veer east, along the river, away from her awaiting horse.

  'The wet grass squeaked beneath her boots, her soaked-through hood fell back in the rush, the rain washed her ravaged cheek. Her hair clung to her head. On she pressed, a cry from the Poet behind when he met the arriving Constable.

  '“Over there! By the river! It was a woman!”

  'Her chest crushed with the strain; she was of fine vigour but apprehension gripped like a vice. On she ran. A stone bridge was ahead, spanning the rushing waters to the rising woodland opposite. Within moments, she was across and surrounded by the sudden shelter of hazel trees and an unending bed of ferns. The path ploughed through the skeletal remains of winter into oblivion, her adjusting eyes fetching snatches of branch and murky sky between. She stumbled, gained her balance and pummelled on, hands outstretched to grasp the darkness. The men's calls to each other had fallen behind, but still close enough to pick the words above the wind.

  '“She ran into the wood, Sir!”

  '“Let us make chase... Hartley! Return to your mother and aunt at once! This is not for you.”

  '“Do you deem she took anything, Sir?”

  '“My wife makes mention of our safety coffer laid bare. I fear she took an heirloom of great value...”

  '“There have been reports of strange occurrences in these woods, Sir. We must take great care...”

  '“Strange occurrences?”

  '“Yes Sir! Noises and shadows and disappearances...”'

  The little boy in the bed squealed with delight. His mother ignored him.

  'Goldie raced on into the void and veered aside, away from the path in delirium, taking no mind of the Constable's fair warnings. Never had she been so close to capture, but never had she risked such a busy household either. The diamond bounced against her thigh; it would be worth it.

  'The undergrowth impeded her. A branch whipped her torn cheek and it bled yet more, the sting rising to a scream of pain. She dizzied, breathing fast. Ducking her head, hands waving, she trudged through the ferns and distanced herself from the men upon the path. Pausing briefly to check their whereabouts, she saw no lamplight, only whispers upon the wind telling her of their remoteness. She was safe.

  'Resuming a slower pac
e, she wove between the trees, feeling her way forward, blacks upon blacks, shrouded creatures rustling as she disturbed them. After a time, she had no idea where she was. At a guess, she was still heading north; the fell woodland rose gently toward those distant peaks. The rain finally ceased and her sodden clothes adhered. Goldie had no idea how to return to her horse. The cold seeped into her bones. She shivered; she needed shelter. She asked the night to show her the way.

  'In answer to her invocation, a tiny glimmer of yellow cut through the wood's black cloth. Goldie squinted. The Constable and the Poet?'

  'No it wasn't, Mama!'

  'You're right! You've heard this too many times. What was it?'

  'A house! Where the-'

  '-all in good time, my boy! Patience.' She tapped his nose. 'Is this waking you too much?'

  'No, Mama.'

  'I fear you get more excited with every turn of events in this tale...'

  'I will sleep, Mama. I promise.'

  'We must be up early, before the dawn.'

  'I'm okay, Mama. Please finish the story...'

  'Then settle yourself as you listen. Now, where was I?'

  'The house in the wood.'

  'Ah yes, the house...

  8

  'As she neared, it still proved troublesome to discern the full outline of the property. A lamp upon the porch rail warmed a small sphere of the frontage, but beyond that the cottage's remainder was lost in the darkness. No windows adorned the front wall. Two steps led to the verandah, the door closed. Its high roof-line disappeared toward the sky. The planking was rough-hewn, befitting of its woodland setting.

  'The carpet of ferns extended to the steps. There was no path. The house simply erupted from the undergrowth, an organic melding of its surroundings.

  'Goldie crouched and watched the odd domicile for some time. She needed to hide, to rest, to dry, but could risk no further calamity. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. They throbbed; her head clouded with weariness. Still she waited, fighting the rashness that had brought her thus far tonight. Her fingers toyed with tonight's prize in her pocket, thoughts of how much she might get for it from her most notorious fences warming her chilled reverie.

  'No movement or sound yet effervesced from the strange lodge and eventually she took a chance.

  'She circled the dwelling, remaining low, watching her every step, feet rolling upon the froth of greenery. It was of fair size, and two storied judging by its height, but no windows were visible. As much as the gloom allowed – the sky was beginning to purple, and a mist was on the rise – all she saw were blank stretches of fashioned wood, no breaks in the lines, no chinks of light peeking through from any of the other three faces. The door was the only means of access.

  'Coming full circle, she approached the porch, ready to flee the moment any occupants might present themselves. The lamp's candle burned bright as it sat upon the wooden balustrade, a beacon to the night-tide. Who lived here? And why no windows?

  'With caution, Goldie climbed the steps and pressed an ear to the door. The house's innards wrought no life. A peek through the keyhole yielded little more than a snatch of a table in dull candle light. No movement. She tested the handle; it was locked. Why would a house hidden so deep from civilisation need a lock on the door?

  'Weighing the possibility of startling incumbents and a desire to rest a while, she groped for the lock-pick upon her belt. It was not there; lost in the melee, buried deep in a dog's punished throat, lay her faithful friend. A spark alighted upon her thoughts and she prised the lantern's slim handle from its body, relishing the heat upon her fingers while she worked. She straightened the adopted tool and within seconds heard the lock click free as she nudged its workings to her ought. With a breath, she entered.

  9

  'The house was quiet as a tomb, save for an insistent tocking that drummed in her head. A triangular table and three chairs took centre-place in the room, which spanned a central staircase and led around to a similar space upon the other side. A fireplace upon a wall's midriff offered generous heat and light. Goldie rushed to receive its offerings, aware of its portent – somebody lived here, somebody who was here not long ago. An empty cooking pot sat aside from the hearth, its cradle looming bereft over the flames.

  '“Hello?” she said. “Is anybody here?”

  'No reply. She removed her hooded jacket, wet through as it was, and dabbed it upon her ruined cheek. She knelt upon the floor as she warmed, studying the strange home in more detail.

  'The odd-shaped table was set for breakfast, much like the Poet's, although this with three covered bowls of differing sizes. Three varying chairs waited before the settings, sets of clothes draping the high backs.

  'Carved effigies lined a multitude of shelves, all of animal forms, some large, some small. Ornaments of strung bone and feather dangled from the beams overhead; jars adorned a nearby dresser, each filled with a variety of liquids and indefinable solids.

  'The room upon the other side of the staircase contained three rocking chairs, again unalike each other in dimension, their frames ornately whittled. A bookcase overflowed with a cascade of books, many of which spilled in piles along the floor and the wall. Other than a door's outline and its keyhole etched into the under-the-stairs compartment, no other breaks were evident in the walls around her; there truly were no windows.

  'She finally espied the persistent clock, above the doorway she had entered. Except it wasn't strictly a timepiece as she knew them: for sure, a pendulum swung below its body, the wagging tail upon some fashioned creature, and its rhythm knocked at the ether, tock... tack... tock... tack... But it bore no numbers, only lunar phases in delicate brush strokes, a single hand pointing to an old moon, pregnant and white. The hand did not move.

  'Goldie swallowed another yawn and kneaded her eyes. The fire had the coupled effect of invigorating her bones and bestowing a thick fatigue upon her. She had no idea how near the Poet and Constable might be and could not risk returning to the bridge to retrace her steps. If she could rest here but a while, then make progress home once the current alarm quelled, that would be of fair turn. And were the occupants of this curiosity to appear, it would take but an innocent claim of having found the door unlocked and leaving promptly to make her escape.'

  'The cheek of it!' said the little boy. 'Lies fall from her lips like candied fruit!'

  His mother coughed at his turn of words. 'That is the truth, my sweet one. Now for her downfall...

  'Goldie rose to stretch her legs and perused the three-sided table and its bowls. Lifting the lid from the largest dish, a cloud of steam gushed its escape to reveal a portion of porridge twice the size of any she could presume to eat. A sweet aroma rose to greet her. Her stomach growled and she swooned. Perhaps if she could partake of a little... The owners would not mind meeting the needs of a hungry rambler, surely?

  'She spooned a taste into her mouth and spat it back out immediately, her tongue screaming, the scald urging her to scream. She fought the cry down and removed the lid from the next dish along in a rush. This one was a welcome relief: it was tepid, almost cold, and laced her tongue with a cool sweetness that doused the fire. Another spoonful helped again, but proved too cold to eat a whole bowlful; already its stodgy weight sat upon her stomach.

  'Last try was the smallest bowl. She pulled it over to her, lifted its cover and tested its delights. Here was the stuff of bliss!'

  The child giggled.

  'Perfectly heated, a sweetness to match its just-right consistency,' his mother continued, 'this was porridge of a kind Goldie had never encountered! Its succulence filled her belly, its aroma her nose, its luxuriance rallying her taste-buds to elation. She began to tuck in, and sat upon the greatest of the chairs. Eating the heavenly gruel, she wriggled upon the hard seat, her legs aching in a matter of moments.

  'Between mouthfuls, she opted for the chair of middling size, with a vast cushion tied to the posts that swallowed her diminutive derrière. She rested upon the woman'
s dress adorning the seat's back as she fed and slipped right forward, the cushion far too soft to stay in one place. This just would not do. She tried again, but the same problem repeated itself, and the long knots were too tight to unfasten. Goldie grabbed the bowl, a few spoonfuls remaining, and sat upon the final seat, the smallest of the three. It promptly collapsed, its legs splaying with nary a resistance like an exhausted creature beneath her, the bowl and final scrapes of porridge spilling across the floor. The food had been rich and wondrous, but she was to eat no more.

  'She lay stunned, staring up at those hanging charms, their feathers and bones rocking fractionally in the aftermath of the thud. Hypnotic, they were, sedatives to the night's distress. The clock tocked and tacked behind her head, beating the present into the past. The rich fare had satiated her hunger, and a final drowsiness enveloped her. To sleep was all she desired.

  'Gathering her senses and her coat, she investigated upstairs.

  'Reaching the landing she found a single attic room, squeezed by the eaves, still warmed enough from the chimney's rising breast. Here three beds lay in wait, carved to match the furniture below, each with a table, a candle and a bedpan. The beds, as with the chairs and bowls, were large, small, and in-between. These home-owners' lot was evident enough: a family, unassuming, poor, living off their surroundings, minding only themselves, proffering little in way of a threat. Simple folk of the woods...'

  'No, they are Woodfolk! If she'd known the difference she would have fled!'

  'You speak the truth, my little one! The Woodfolk are not ones to be toyed with...

  'And so, fool as she was, she removed her shoes and climbed into the largest of the beds. Massive it was, and the blankets were thick and warm, but the mattress? So hard! She may as well have bedded down on stone! Her hips and back groaned instantly. She turned and stretched and rolled and huffed, and she knew she could not rest in that one.

  'Clambering to the next in size, she sank into it like it was a quickening marsh, recalling to mind the middling chair's cushion below. It enveloped her body, folding in, its downy pile yielding and boggy. For some this might be the height of luxury, but for Goldie it was an annoyance. Her pampered requirements had become most peculiar to sleep, and her own bespoke bedstead at home had taken many months of the manufacturers' tinkering and replacing until it suited her eccentricities. She'd had the monies to spend, and she had grown quite accustomed to accepting nothing less than perfect for a lady such as she. All the hotels she visited were the most illustrious too, and she would demand the finest of arrangements to suit her impeccable tastes.

  'These beds just would not do. Too hard, too soft. She needed a bed just right.

  'With a last disgruntled move, she slid beneath the covers of the smallest bed and, despite having to curl sideways to squeeze into the tight cot, her legs and back sighed a heavenly song. Such blessed relief! Oh, neither rock nor bog, but a nest of pure elation! Goldie closed her eyes, her silvered hair a halo upon the pillow, and immediately slumber enwrapped her mind in dreams of diamonds and close encounters.'

  The young boy smirked and snuggled deeper into his covers while he listened, his eyes wistful.

  'And it was then, as she slept, did the owners of that odd little house return home...

  10

  'The front door swung in silence. A shadow, near seven feet in height, filled the opening. It sniffed. Its head tilted. Listened.

  'Its countenance strung taught, the figure stepped forward, stooping to enter, followed closely by two more, each smaller in turn. All three were dark of colouring, and all were naked. A mist rolled in behind the trio, the dawn's light tracing its curls in orange and purple. Above the trees the great moon belayed, full and pregnant with residual night. The New Year this was, and thus a Bear Moon. An omen of nature's power!

  'The three gathered in the soft glow of the fire and regarded their home.

  'People, they were, but not human. The bare-skinned man was long of mane, full in beard, and his skin covered in a moss of thick black hair. His eyes matched in darkness, and they glowered at the scene. His wife, a mass of curls covering her breasts, slid forward, his hand reaching out to her protectively. His fingers touched her skin, gentle but strong. She looked up; his head gave the tiniest of shakes.

  'Their eyes studied the broken chair, the spilt bowl, the dislodged cushion. Their child stepped between them, face curious and innocent until he saw his beloved wares so heartlessly spent. An angry heat swelled in his cheeks. Though he fought the impulse to roar and fuss, he restrained it well. He was your size...'

  Her son's eyes twinkled with glee.

  '...a whelp on the edge of rage, but his parents had reared him commendably.

  '“Somebody's been eating my porridge,” he whispered. “And that somebody's been sitting in my chair, Papa!”

  'His father nodded and said nothing.

  'The clock beat on; the fire fought the open door's impertinence. A jut of the man's chin and the Woodfolk took his lead. They dressed in the clothing on the backs of the chairs, the young boy retrieving his from beneath the splintered wood. Still no one spoke.

  'The man straightened, his head just missing the dangling charms of animal husks. He sniffed again, long and slow, the intruder's scent strong, distinct. A refined smell, not earthy but fashioned, peculiar to the Modern Ones – those who depended upon machines and guile. He hated their ways. The men styled their hair with the fat of bears. They were a detestable race. Not all, but most. This one left a bouquet of oil and flowers, dampened by the rain but that taste of deceit still remained.

  'He pointed to the stairs. Up there. His wife and cub nodded. He closed the door and they ascended without a sound.'

  'Mama? Why do the Woodfolk and the Modern Ones live in enmity?'

  'It harks back to the turn of the Ages, my sweet. A spilling of blood, a parting of brothers, long before the Books were written. These divides do not heal with ease.'

  'Will it ever be so?'

  'Too much do the Modern Ones desire to rule; the Woodfolk just wish for peace. They possess nature's bond, but are too few to resist an inevitable cull. And so they reside in obscurity.'

  'It makes me sad.'

  She kissed her son's forehead. His sentiment twisted her gut. Ancient truths in a young heart.

  'And so, this family assembled around a sleeping Goldie in the young boy's bed; Old World gazing upon New. She did not stir. Her breaths were deep, resonant, the porridge's aroma still so strong on her lips.

  'She had stood over the Poet and his wife while they slept, relished the power it bestowed her. Now she was at the mercy of a people altogether alien. One that spelt her plight.

  'A knock at the door interrupted the affair. The husband looked at the wife, his brow knotting. She shrugged. He stared at the oblivious Goldie until a second knock.

  '“Hello?” It was the Constable! “Is anybody home?”

  'The wife nodded once, reluctantly, and they descended the stairs together, the son taking one more look at the silver-haired woman in his cot before joining them.

  11

  'The father adopted a disarming smile and opened the door.

  'Upon their porch stood an officer of the law, his lantern illuminating his face from below. These constables were elected from among the parish residents – those upstanding and literate, that is, of which there were not so many – and served unpaid. Most of the rich bought their way out of service; the role was not popular. This much the father knew. He cared little for their ways, but enough had been passed from his forebears.

  'Thus, this man might well be carrying a truncheon that bore their royal crown, but he was not one to be regarded with consternation.

  '“Constable. Is everything okay? It's very early.” He spoke with gilded tones and scanned the dark-swallowed trees behind as if expecting to see the problem. Another gentleman stepped into view alongside the officer and together they stared up at the beast of a man. The constable lost his words for a bea
t. The ensuing silence rang loud.

  '“I... I, er, we're in pursuit of a dangerous criminal. Sir.” The father's brow rose, and his wife and son emerged from the house.

  '“Criminal?” she asked.

  'The officer relaxed visibly at her presence. “Yes, Ma'am. A renowned scoundrel, that she is.”

  '“She?”

  '“Her persuasion must not fool you, madam,” said the other. He was wearing a long coat over what appeared to be a nightshirt. “She may be a woman, but her wiles surpass many men. Her infamy stretches our country wide. Gold a'Locks, they call her. A home-invader, safe-cracker and pilferer of priceless heirlooms!”

  'His face had reddened with his statement's crescendo. The Constable steadied him with a grip of the arm, solidarity between friends.

  'All three Woodfolk were shaking their heads, faces blank.

  '“She has been in all the newspapers. You have not heard of her?”

  'The father gestured at their surroundings and smiled. “We have no need for news here. We need only ourselves.”

  'The Constable cut to the chase. “The very reprobate has struck this fine gentleman's home tonight and stolen an item of immense value. Have you seen or heard anything untoward this night?”

  '“Nothing, I can assure you. She headed this way? We are not on any path as you can see.”

  'His statement rang with a question. They should not have ventured this far from the natural routes unless they had good reason.

  '“We have followed her for an hour and more,” the Poet said, “and noises drew us from the trail...”

  '“Then I must apologise. That would have been my kin and I returning but a short while ago. We hunt when the woods are most alive.”

  '“Hunt? At night, Sir?” said the Constable.

  'The father smiled. “Yes, at night.”

  'The officer's eyes clouded and his jaw wobbled.

  '“I trust you apprehend her, gentlemen. A fiend such as she deserves incarceration.”

  'The officer scoffed. “For shame, I fear no jail will hold her.”

  '“That so?”

  '“No lock has ever defied the woman in thirty years; no matter where they imprison her, she will only escape in time. But my concern is to arrest her. The judge can decide her fate.”

  'The bear of a man considered them for some seconds. “Then you had best get after her. She must be stopped! Good night.”

  'And with that, he and his family shut the door.

  12

  'The Woodfolk looked to one another, enlightened by the encounter outside, unspoken agreement between them: they avoided conflict with the Modern Ones to live in peace, but they despised the degenerates even more. And here was one they could teach a thing or two...

  'To the clock's sonorous beat, they returned to their infamous guest.

  'She was not there.'

  A gasp from her son. 'The rascal!'

  'The bed was empty, covers discarded. While they had been conversing with the Constable and the Poet, Goldie had somehow slipped their grasp. The father sniffed the air, his wife and cub following suit.

  '“Downstairs,” they said together, and retraced their last movements.

  'Upon reaching the living space below, the man startled a spectre as it dove from the room behind them, darting for the door. Their quarry!

  'Angered, he erupted, his clothes ripping as the sinews beneath swelled and stretched. Hair poured forth from his frame, his face punching forward as a snout grew. Teeth sharpened and head and torso spread wide and claws burst from paws larger than a common man's head... The bear crashed upon its forepaws and roared at the petrified Goldie.

  'Trembling, she had witnessed a man become a bear!'

  Her boy applauded with abandon. 'Yes yes yes!'

  'For the Woodfolk are Weres: Changelings, Moon-siblings, the marked progeny of a banished Cain... They are not fettered by the weaknesses of the Modern Ones, but unleashed through nature's raw power...

  'And in seconds, the mother and child had transformed too: three great bears in all, from the size of a juvenile to one excessively monstrous, its shoulders brushing the cadaverous ornaments above. The ursine family moaned and launched for the tiny intruder.

  'Goldie sped for the door, opening it in a practised move like it was some merry dance, only her face belying the sickening nature of the moment. The bears made chase, the mother thrusting her beloved table aside in ire, her cub racing ahead through the opening and into the woods after their prey. The sow just scraped through the aperture but her husband ripped the jamb to splinters, his massive girth splitting the woodwork as if it were but kindling.

  'The mist swallowed the four of them, dawn's early light a glow but the wood still a morass of shadows and oblivion. One raced for her life, the others for her demise...

  13

  'And here I fear we must end our tale. It is late.'

  'Mama, no! It is almost done: Goldie's fate rests beyond that murky mist! Please, do tell.'

  'You know exactly where the story leads, my little one, and you are getting too excited.'

  His scowl wrung only a smile from his mother. 'I will not sleep until you tell me the ending, Mama.'

  'Oh? You deem to make demands of me?'

  His face softened. 'No. I'm sorry. I just mean I cannot rest until the tale is complete.'

  'You are fully aware it is still yet to end.'

  'Of course. But I can at least hear of that night's remaining turns, no? Goldie's comeuppance!'

  'It is not nice for a young one like yourself to hear before sleeping.'

  'I have heard it many times, and it does not loiter, nor grant me fitful sleep.'

  She sighed. 'Quickly, then...

  '...Heart racing, head spinning, Goldie flew through the mist, her legs carrying her anywhere but that house of godless horror.

  'She did not know in which direction the Poet and Constable had departed. The moon had disappeared behind grey covers, and although the day's glimmer was waxing, the trees were still tangled blacks and the mist rolled thick above her head. Many times she narrowly missed a branch or sudden trunk. She sensed a gentle rise in the sod beneath her feet and stumbled on, deeming it the opposite way to the bridge and her mount but right this moment all she could hope for was away from those despicable beasts.

  'Unlike her earlier hotfooting, running for her freedom, now she was fleeing for her life and she dared not hesitate a step. Her feet pounded the undergrowth, her breaths rasping, each a shrill cry for help to the people she dared not encounter. Perhaps she should? Any jail was preferable to a hideous death...

  '“Help! Help! Please, someone!”

  'She raced on, ducking a low limb as it swiped over her, her throat constricting and the rest of her body aching. Her sleep had been a sweet respite from the night's offerings, yet she had awoken abruptly to a seeping dread: the home-owners had returned, and were conversing with her pursuers! If only things had stayed as simple as that.

  '“Help!”

  'A huff from alongside chilled her bones. The smallest bear was racing mere paces away, toying with her, maintaining the same speed, never nearing. Its shoulders rolled like a boat upon the waves, its paws hitting the dirt with such immense power for a young creature. Its head undulated, level with her chest, and its eyes were black holes. From the corner of her vision, it almost appeared to be smiling.

  'Movement to her left caught her attention, and there was the mother, shoulders as high as hers, running equal pace to her and the cub. They were playing, neither committing to attack her. They were simply guiding her in the direction they chose.

  'Goldie would have none of it. She did not know where the father was, but she was the one to dictate the outcome of this, not these dumb beasts.

  'She halted, skidding, the bears racing on for some strides before they gathered their thoughts, and she spun around to head downhill, veering wildly around a clump of rowan. The mist bestowed her favour; she presumed the bears would have no problem s
eeing her in the darkness, but no creature she knew could see through such thick vapour. Here was her chance. It was only their sense of hearing and smell that could prove her undoing. She stumbled upon an uprooted tree a hundred yards down the slope, and clambered into its pit, mulch enveloping her as she nestled in as quietly as she possibly could. She stilled.

  'Snuffles and grunts from the clouded wood wended their way. She could not see much more than a handful of paces around her, and hoped beyond hope the bears would leave her be.

  'Another moan, deep and hateful, much closer this time, perhaps only just outside her range of view. She held her breath, daring no sound. Her heart thundered in her chest.

  'Silence.

  'The wood waited, suspended in time, curling mist its only movement, the trees sentinels upon a frozen moment.

  'A sniff from down the hill, closely followed by a gentle grunt indicated the whereabouts of her hunters. Goldie relaxed. Her skin tingled with relief, her chest sagged and she dared draw a new breath that enriched and smelled fresher than any she had ever savoured before.

  'A crash, a falling shadow, the ground shaking at the impact, and the father was there before her, his face inches from hers. Anger rippled across the brown fur on his face. His eyes exhumed hatred. He roared, raised a paw and clubbed her in the head.

  14

  'Goldie awoke two days later. She was in a small cell, walls of wood, the ceiling sloped, no windows, a small candle offering paltry service upon a shelf. A bowl of water in one corner, a blanket to cover herself with, no bedding beneath her. Her hips and spine cried with stiffness. The side of her head throbbed intensely. Her cheek stung, taking her back to the Poet's kitchen. The bears! What was that she had witnessed? Had she hallucinated?

  'She banged upon the door for hours, hearing no reply, no sound at all in fact. Eventually, she heard hammering and sawing and could not imagine why. Exhausted, she slept again upon the rigid floor.

  'When she finally did receive company, it was the returning Woodfolk from another hunt. She was locked inside their under-the-stairs cupboard. Her new home. She was given fresh water. The father finished his repairing of the front door.

  'For days she pleaded; for days they did not speak. Eventually, when they did, Goldie tried every which way to win their favour. She gained none.

  'In desperation, weeks into her captivity, falling upon a last ditch attempt to plead for mercy, she confessed all over the ensuing years: of her story, of her crimes, of that fateful night at the Poet's. Of the Challenge lock and the dog and the diamond. They listened. And they weighed.

  'A decision was made. She was to stay. To be handed over to the Modern Ones would mean eventual escape. The Woodfolk deemed otherwise. And so she remained, a prisoner in their small under-the-stairs cell. For the rest of her days. She never saw the light of day again.

  'Three things worthy of mention before I finish:

  'Regarding the necklace so wilfully stolen from the Poet and his wife: strangely, it reappeared upon the Poet's doorstop the following spring. No further mention was made, only an assumed acceptance that someone knew and wished to remain in anonymity.

  'The Woodfolk fed Goldie porridge in deference to her crimes against themselves; sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold, it was never just right. Every day. Nothing else.

  'And how to keep the country's greatest lock-picker from discovering a means of escape? They removed her fingers with a wood chisel. The mother held her down, while the father hacked each digit in practised hammer blows and their cub watched on. The bones became a new dream-charm, hanging from the beams, telling of her shattered future.

  'Goldie lived out the rest of her days in obscurity, the nation left to speculate as to her sudden cessation of crimes; while her legend spread abroad, gathering whispers and half-truths, the lady thief festered in a remote cabin, fumbling wooden spoonfuls of scolding or sickening porridge with mutilated hands until she could no more.'

  15

  'I love that story, Mama.'

  'Of course you do. You played an important part.'

  'I did! She made me angry when she broke my chair. I loved that chair, Mama.'

  'I know. Your Papa made you a very beautiful new one though, no?'

  He nodded.

  'And now you must sleep, my sweet. We must arise early to hunt while the woods are most alive!'

  She kissed her little cub good night and went downstairs to her husband, who was preparing their guest her evening porridge...

  16

  ...And so, dear reader, my Mama recited the truth of it night after night and now in my parents' absence I must tell it myself.

  Corners of truth are worn through the ages, their pertinence lost in the ether, and we lose the eyes that saw the events themselves. The voices pass and the fallacies take their place... So here I must write our tale.

  Now I am alone and Gold a'Locks too has passed. She is buried behind our house in an unmarked grave. I am old and when I am gone perhaps you will read this letter and know the truth. Not just that of the infamous sneak-thief and her bears, but of our kin, the Woodfolk. There are still others of us out there. Your world is not your own. And sometimes the monsters are the ones that look just like you...

  Author's Notes & Acknowledgements

  Robert Southey first introduced us officially to The Three Bears story in 1837, although it had existed verbally for some time before. In his original telling, Goldilocks was an unnamed and unlikeable old woman. It was only after a series of iterations including silver hair did she arrive at the young Goldilocks we now know.

  The house where we first meet Gold a'Locks is based in large part upon Greta Hall in Keswick, the home for a number of years to Southey, his family and his sister-in-law's. Perhaps the incident that night triggered something in Southey's mind...

  Joseph Bramah's Challenge Lock remained publicly unsolved until 1851. It can be found today in the Science Museum in London. Only you and I know of Goldie's brazen display of expertise in 1803.

  The Woodfolks' forefather Cain was marked for his protection and that legacy still resides in their blood to this day. Not that you'll ever find them.