Free Pure Dead Brilliant by Debi Gliori Page A

the Bruce,” the spider prompted. “Ancient biped, big hair, especially on his face. Come
on,
you know this stuff. Stuck in a cave with a blunt razor and a helpful spider? Already hacked his chin to pieces in a misguided attempt to obtain a smooth shave—?”
    “Um, actually, that's not the version of events that I know,” said Pandora.
    “Whatever,” Tarantella said dismissively, consigning the incorrect contents of many history books to the oblivion she so patently thought they deserved. “So, legend has it he's sitting there, freezing in his woolly skirt, peering at his blunt razor, chin a mass of cuts and scrapes, beard still attached. He's totally depressed, gazing at his reflection in a puddle, and the cave's resident spider, name of Apocryphylla, drops down in front of his face. She says, ‘Check this out, bog-breath,' and proceeds to spin a web right in front of his eyes. So he goes, ‘Eurrrgh! Spiders!' or something along those lines and reaches out to wreck the web. . . . You
are
listening, aren't you?”
    “I'm fascinated,” said Pandora truthfully. “Do go on.”
    “With a patience that future generations of spiders can only admire, Apocryphylla trucks off to a distant corner of the cave and begins again, this time spinning a web of such Celtic intricacy that despite himself, Bob is deeply impressed—”
    “Bob?” queried Pandora.
    “Oh, do keep up,” chided Tarantella. “Bob the Brute, Robert the Bruce. Anyway, he watches as my talented relation creates an ephemeral masterpiece—”
    “And?” prompted Pandora. “What happened?”
    “Well, it's a bit of a gore-fest from now on in. Not for the whole family. . . . So, the web's hanging there, testament to Apocryphylla's powers of endurance, and Bob turns to her and demands to know what it all means. ‘Means?' she says. ‘You want philosophy as well as beauty? It means, O woolly-skirted one, that if at first you don't succeed, due to some unshaven cretin failing to appreciate your true genius, then you have to try, try agggg—' She meant to say ‘again' but, insulted by being addressed so disrespectfully by a mere spider, Bob the Brute brought his massive fist down upon her fragile body, and then got on with trying to have a shave.”
    “Oh, how
awful,
” breathed Pandora, ashamed of her common humanity with this monster.
    “Don't give it a second thought,” said Tarantella cheerfully. “Listen up. How's this for divine justice? Bob cuts himself shaving—draws the razor across his own throat and—shock, horror—hits a vein and collapses on the floor of the cave gargling horribly, lifeblood leaching across the et cetera. Regrettably, for him, a scant six feet away, and sadly unreachable by a man in extremis, is the only thing that could have stanched the flow of blood and thus saved his life—”
    “The
cobweb
?” asked Pandora, eyes shining.
    “The cobweb,” said Tarantella. “A simple and effective remedy against hemorrhage. Used since time began to assist in the healing process.”
    “Poor Apocryphylla,” said Pandora. “What a waste.”
    “Indeed,” said Tarantella crisply. “But tell me, what brings you dripping up in my domain? Not a need to shave, I trust—you are hirsutely underendowed enough as it is.”
    “It's Titus,” said Pandora, as a wave of gloom swept over her. “I don't know how to make things right with him again. He's so distant—”
    “Not distant enough,” muttered Tarantella. “Even Betelgeuse would be too close for comfort. Still, there's no accounting for the eccentricities of human nature. You came up here to consider how best to deal with the problem of your brother?”
    “Something like that,” mumbled Pandora, imagining what horrors lay ahead. What would the tarantula suggest? Bite him? Wrap him in spider silk and hang him up to dry . . . ?
    “My advice, for what it's worth,” Tarantella began, grinning widely at Pandora, “is try again. Try to win him back. Take him a peace