Ah. Finally, 

the web-walker exclaims in a tone that implies great satisfaction. 

        A question worth answering.

Harper grimaces but chooses to stay silent.

        You must first accept.

Righteo, I accept then.

.

        Not so hasty, your acceptance must 

        be phrased more persuasively, it must 

        be clear that you have no reservations.

.

Oooo. Kaaay, then.  

I accept - what I presume is - 

the time-honoured position of ahem...  

Illustrious Harper to the errr...  

Cosmos. Herewith, forthwith or whatever  

chicanery is deemed most  

eloquent according to spiderish semantics. 

Harper then doffs an imaginary hat  

and bows satirically while  

sweeping it wide, musketeer-style.

        'I accept the position of Harper' 

        would have sufficed, admirably. 

        Chicanery, indeed! Impudence!

.

Sooo, what happens now that I've accepted?

.

        Look up and wait but you must 

        realise They are coming from 

        the far depths of your universe.

.

They? I don't like the sound of that.

        Too late for doubts, Harper.

I hate it when people say that,  

it never bodes well, Harper mutters.

.

        Stop, harp... errr, carping.

        Look! They have come.

.

Harper squints up, questing.  

Squints, you ask? Why, yes, of course. 

For the crow-dark night  

pierced by pirouetting light 

is a-jangle with speed-spiralling comets 

hurtling towards them. 

Ah shit! Harper proclaims  

or should that be profanes? 

Either way 

her alarm is abundant. 

Send them back! She vainly hissing insistests 

waving hands in a panicked, scrubbing out motion.

        Too late, 

observes the web-walker  

more than just a little smug. 

But something else, now intrudes claiming

Harper's notice.

As celestial will-o-wisps converge 

a white-hot-shooting         P A I N 

tantos* from pelvis to sternum. 

Harper crashes as if ham-strung 

kneecaps crack  

as if gun-shot, 

she is grappling, fingers scrabbling 

at her chest.

.

        Easy, now, Harper, 

.

the suspiciously solicitous spider cautions, 

        breathe deep, deeply, deeper,  

        hold a little, then release.

.

But Harper hears none  

of the ostensibly sage instructions. 

She is fighting for breath 

she is garnering life. 

Nor does she hear the click-shuffling 

as the Arachnid creeps closer. 

        Fighting won't help, 

the spider concludes, then sighs and stretches out fangs  

envenomed.

        Why must they always fight? 

she queries, rhetorically saddened 

for Harper is foaming and virtually  

unconscious. 

With a delicacy that would astound  

were there witnesses  

the Arachnid faintly strikes 

strangely tender - Harper's arm 

the merest of mere scratches.

.

*Smallest of the Japanese 'Samurai' swords.