From within the web of
string,
the Spider's harp begun to
sing.
his hammer legs plucked at
the maze,
the spider weaves the harp
for days.
“It's Matruy. M-A-T-R-U-Y.”
“OK, thanks, I'll write the order
number on the receipt. It's out on the 14th, so we'll see
you then”
“OK, thanks. Bye.”
as she left HMV, Viren (Pronounced
Ver-ren) Matruy pulled her coat further over her, bracing for the
cold autumn winds. She wore a big black woolly duffel, which was
perfect for keeping the cold off her in this sort of weather. Her
hair, which is very dark purple, neck lengh, and always shaggy,
whipped about in the wind.
She had ordered the Blu-ray for
Quatermass and the Pit, one of the Hammer films she did not own yet
in her collection. She is a keen collector of films, and won't stop
until she has converted all of her impressive DVD film collection
into Blu-Rays. Her friends always warn her against it; it's needless,
expensive, and soon enough a brand new format will come out and
she'll have to start again.
Viren loves expensive things. Just
look at her. She picked up the Mustard Yellow coloured dress she was
wearing from a pricey shop on London's Petticoat Lane. (it is not
dissimilar to the colour of the dress worn by the woman on the Stella
Artois train advert). It has become her favourite dress, and she had
quickly picked up a pair of vintage Doc Martens in the same colour
(which weren't cheap). Her black leather handbag is John Lewis, £79,
one of the four identical ones she owns. The black Duffel was £200.
as far as she is concerned, she is earning the money, who why not
spend it on lovely things?
She removed the duffel coat as she
entered one of the Café's in her native town, Kenilworth. Today she
had shopped around the town, instead of taking the bus to one of the
closer cities, like Coventry or Warwick. Despite the easy access, and
much larger range of shops available, today was a Kenilworth day.
She was halfway through her
Peppermint Hot chocolate and her cream of Tomato soup when she first
heard the music. She looked up, though it would be nearly impossible
to see her look up, since from nearly every angle her thick, messy
fringe covers both her eyes.
The music was coming from somewhere
close by. It was a gentle twang of strings, running up and down the
octaves like a tidal wave. There was no proper melody, like someone
was absent mindedly flicking at the strings without looking, or
without knowing how to play.
Viren looked around. There wasn't any
harp in the café, and the speakers were playing the usual slow jazz
melody tunes those sorts of places usually play.
Pretty much every coffee shop in the
world (with exception to all of them in New Orleans) wants to
be like all the ones in New Orleans.
The black frame windows, the jazz, the strong espressos. This one was
no exception. However, there was no harp player, yet the mysterious
plucking continued.
Viren didn't know why new Orleans
crossed her mind – to distract from the music, maybe. She hadn't
really thought about it before, though she had spent a lot of time,
in between shopping, browsing the French Quarter, and visiting the
sights, drinking strong, sweet black coffee in the various cafés.
Anyway. The harp music continued to
mindlessly twang out. Viren scanned the café. No one else seemed to
have taken notice of the music.
his spider heart has
picked his love,
the tune will drown them
from above.
his hammer legs will never
rest,
his spider heart will know
what's best.
Viren had spent most of the morning
asleep. She had work, but it didn't matter that much.
She worked from her attic. It was
drenched in the afternoons sunlight, and the hanging plants form the
slanted roof hung around her shoulders like spiders legs.
She sat at her posh desk, turned on
her red retro anglepoise lamp, and got to work. She restores the
covers of first editions for collectors and dealers. Popular fist
editions would sell for thousands. She had restored a first edition
copy of the Great Gatsby last month, which had sold at Sotherby's of
London for nearly £100,000. there was a lot of money in classic
books.
Today she had been handed a copy of
the Hound of the Baskervilles, that was in a fair, but not fantastic,
condition. It was published by George-Newnes, London, 1902. it was
not too big a job, as it was only expected to sell for too much. She
was getting £1,000 for the job, and the book was expected to sell
for about £5,000, if the job was done properly.
This particular job required the
cloth cover re-dying, and some cover design restoration. The first
job would be the dying.
She was carefully removing the cloth
cover from the back when the mindless tune struck up again. This
time, she took it more seriously. Yesterday, In the café, she was
concerned, but eventually assumed that the music might have been
playing from someone's phone or iPod. She was used to people playing
music too loud through their earphones on her many bus trips to
Coventry or Warwick.
However, this time, there was no
other way around it. The music had to be coming from somewhere. It
was still the same, tuneless tune, though this time it sounded
lighter, and much more pleasant. Like when you listen to a song at
first and it doesn't sound right, but when you come back to it later
on and it sounds so much better. Your favourite song, and you didn't
notice the first time.
Despite the pleasantness of the
melody, she felt the need to find its origin. The music didn't sound
like it cam from a particular source. In the café, she had located
it to an unnoticed web, hidden in the top corner of the café wall,
near the toilets. The web looked thin and full; not cone shaped, but
a normal, maze-like web. She told the Baristas, and one of the braver
ones brushed it away with a dustpan and brush. After that, the tune
had stopped.
She searched through the plants, and
on the windowsill, and around the corners of the old room. There
wasn't any webs. Yet the music still continued, and the more she
searched and the more she listened, the more she didn't want it to
go away. It felt warm and light.
Despite herself, she tried to put her
fingers in her ears. The music continued inside her head.
his spider harp will
always play,
his one will never get
away.
the tune will tell them
deep within,
the spider's love will
never thin.
Viren didn't get up today.
She lay on her bed, smiling. She was
feeling lazy and content. She hadn't felt the need to dress; though
eventually she left the bed to put on a mustard yellow dress she was
sure she didn't really care about. She would have thought about what
to do; the book needed finishing, she could go shopping, she could
visit friends, or pick up her blu-ray from HMV, or go on holiday. If
only she could hear herself think.
Her head was full of beautiful harp
tunes. The soft, mysterious, mindless melody. She could only hear the
repeated twang of the harp strings. She could see thin, black, hammer
legs, swinging in the air, tapping on long silky wires that stretched
across the room in odd directions, like there was electrical pylons
out of sight, all connected, all facing different directions. Though
it could have been her fringe, which was always in her eyes.
She felt light, and bright, and full
of fire. The feeling, the strong sense of relaxed excitement and deep
bliss. She never wanted the melody to end.
The midday sun shone through the bay
windows. The wires shone a slight grey-blue, and she thought they
were slightly vibrating in the air. She tried to brush her fringe out
the way, but was too content to lift her arms.
The harp has caught the
spiders pray,
the woven tune has had its
say.
the lover's caught deep in
the spell,
don't try to leave; it
won't end well.
