the Harp Spider

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 14^th, 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.