Dell's Journey

Part II: Chapter 19: The Music Of The Forest

The blue of the evening sky was deepening, the rich

yellows and pinks having already dissolved into ever

darkening grays. A handful of stars began appearing, and a

cool breath of air crept through the dense tangles of tree

branches, hovered over the dampening grass, and sprung up

again into the heights of the atmosphere. The cricket

songs had been struck up. Their chirps marked out a steady

rhythm, and the odd frog joined in and trampled through a

chorus from time to time. The nighttime forest creatures

were waking, and the last few daytime birds flew restlessly

in the dimming light, making sleepy calls to each other.

The music of the forest is not usually perceived as

music by visitors. A wayward traveler will not hear cheery

or tragic tunes in the creak-creak of cricket-legs. That is

because cricket songs are difficult to understand at first.

Their rules are different than those in most human music.

The changes are very subtle. An inexperienced listener

cannot generally discern anything but the rhythm of a

cricket piece for a long time, and we all know that music

is three things:

1. Rhythm

2. Melody

3. Harmony.

As I said, the changes are subtle. But as with many

things that deal in subtleties, an experienced connoisseur

will derive magnificent pleasure from distinguishing

between little degrees of this and that, praising the

"slight essence of such and such," or the "hint of" some

other thing. Often, one encounters the connoisseur gone

bad: the admirer of carefully crafted things who can no

longer appreciate any of the bolder, more obvious things

which so many enjoy without thought or pretension. This

broken person may be the possessor of a shrewd wit, so

cunningly crafted that they can no longer appreciate a

silly dance. Here we will not address those spoiled by

subtle arts any longer. Suffice to say that one should try

not to end up that way.

But as we were saying, the cricket musicians (and they

are almost all marvelous players) delight in subtle songs.

Once one begins to "get inside" their tunes, the real fun

has started. Someone has said that with modern music

theory, one must learn the rules in order to forget them.

An unintentional mistake is just a mistake. But a

musician's quick dart out-of-bounds can arouse surprise,

spark a debate, inspire imagination, and reveal a

sophisticated player. With the crickets, a tempo change is

one of the most satisfying artistic alterations. Some

crickets have experimented with light frequency adjustments

which a human's electronic tuner would hardly register.

But the ear is more sensitive still, and it can delight in

such a play.

Frog songs, on the other hand, represent something

closer to what we might consider the vulgar or common songs

of the people. This is not to say that they are not good.

A well placed vulgar jest amuses and humbles us all from

time to time. And common songs do not become common

without appealing to a great number of folk. Therefore it

may be easy to understand why frogs do not have a concept

for a "professional" musician. Each frog sings without any

regard for rules or convention. They sing for fun.

But there is a music so rich, so deep and complex, so

stirring, so moving and emotive, yet at the same time so

cerebral and intellectually challenging, that it has been

known to take breath away. This music can reduce one to

weeping. It can lift one into ecstatic joy and wild

abandon. It can make you stop and think, or make you doubt

the very foundations of rational thought. One of the best

things it can do, though, is make you forget to think at

all, while instead you just exist. This is the music of

the monster.