The Cricket Song

By Ben Kraieski

This is a novel containing two parallel stories: a fable about Ortho the Cricket's quest to sing a World Song which transcends the traditional Cricket Song and it is also a story about Dan Lesniak's quest for artistic expression that transcends traditional painting techniques. Ortho and Dan travel different paths to same destination. Both meet obstacles on the way that hinder their quests and threaten to prevent them from achieving their life-long pursuits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491872727

Ben Kraieski

The author was raised in Bridgeport, CT and has lived in Chambersburg, PA for the past 48 years. He has been married 59 years and has five adult children, thirteen grandchildren and four great grandchildren. He is a Korean War Veteran. He is the author of the novel: Snow on the Desert

Book preview

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

ALSO BY BEN KRAIESKI

Snow on the Desert

DEDICATION

FOR MARLENE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ROBERT FROST’S POEM THE Road Not Taken is in the Public Domain and I have used a few lines from the poem in this book, giving credit to the late Robert Frost.

The song Oh Danny Boy is also in the Public Domain and I have used the lyrics in several passages of this book.

The song My Cup Runneth Over is not in the Public Domain. In this work, I have not used any lyrics from the song. I have referred to the Title and the recording artist which are in the Public Domain. I do have permission to use lyrics from the song, thanks to Alfred Music Publishing, Copyright Administrator, but decided not to use the lyrics. The task of monitoring future book sales in the printed and e-book format versus the value of including lyrics of the song in the book did not warrant the inclusion.

The parody of the Rubaiyat of Omar Kyaham attributed to the book’s character Mary Lesniak, aka Omar Kyamski, was written by the author. The parody:

Rubaiyat of Omarslaus Kyamski (Mary Lesniak’s Poem)

Each man is a product of the past

From the very first breath to the last.

The Culture of dirt-entombed cities

Torments, tortures, but never pities.

Hands reach across the ocean of time

Bringing forgotten mountains to climb;

Leaving a future that offers no clue,

Caused by a dusty past we ne’er knew.

In ancient lore we must seek to find

The answers unknown to modern mind.

But the truth is: No answer can be found

By him who lives on this earthly ground.

He seeks hardest: who will never know.

He seeks least: who ne’er cared to know.

Yet each of them must die—

Be it with a tear, smile, or a sigh.

Idiot and genius, both depart forgot:

Flesh rotted, brains decayed by maggot.

Each of them with no answer found

Is lowered forever into the ground.

PROLOGUE

THE ATOMIC AND STELLAR universes are like countless pirouetting sound-filled snowflakes, merging the sounds and shapes of atoms and stars into a single universal snow-symphony. Protons, neutrons, electrons, atoms, molecules are swirling at one end of reality while planets, satellites, stars, nebulae, galaxies are spinning in expanding eddies at the other end. All that comprises these polar universes in time and space are equal and are part of the Cosmic Music.

The rhythm of the universe, the beat of the stars, the cadence of life—these are the sounds of the Cosmic Symphony, the Grand Opus echoing in the vast void. No note is insignificant in the Cosmic Symphony. Everything that exists is a fragile snowflake and a melodic musical note. There are an infinite number of moments in this swirling vortex, no two identical, and all the single moments are combined in one Cosmos. The music resounds forever in the endless void and the swirling sounds ripple through eternity towards a distant, mysterious, and unknown gateway. Not a single note is ever lost as they float through the immense void, even those notes dying softly, suddenly mute, passing into a Cosmic Black Hole at the fringe of Time. Subtract but one note and the Cosmic Symphony is no more: it is soundless.

Deep within the sounds of this unified opus, Ortho the Cricket’s Song can be faintly heard. But it is there. Ortho’s Song is but a single musical note, vibrating within the cascade of Eternal Music, unique and forever.

When Ortho, the Cricket, was born, there was nothing to single him out as a Master Musician. The desire to sing a World Song began in his early infancy, when Ortho had no melody or harmony of his own, when his mother sang cricket lullabies to him.

As the sun descended in the heavens and the dimness crept slowly over the land, she would face the waning sun-glow and sing to Ortho. Her bow-wing delicately caressed her string-wing and the soft notes blended with the shadows; soft, hypnotic and melancholy sounds that Ortho would never forget. She sang in a soft, monotonous sing-song cricket cadence, almost prophetically, of Ortho’s destiny.

This was his mother’s song, meant only for Ortho. It was not a traditional cricket song—but Ortho did not know that. He only knew her music was a soft, humdrum lullaby, caressing him, engulfing him in a comforting hypnotic weariness, and gently lowering him into a wondrous sleep, a warm sleep of beautiful visions and pleasant sounds:

Or—tho sings; with—his wings.

Sings—his song; all—day long.

All—day long; sings—his song.

With—his wings; Or—tho sings.

As Ortho grew and developed towards maturity, even before his third molting, it became obvious to many in the Cricket Kingdom that Ortho was, indeed, different. Some called him strange; some said he was demented. None truly believed there was within Ortho the latent ability to sing a World Song. Members of his own clan, including his parents, saw only that his behavior was strange and contrary to the traditional Cricket customs. Ortho’s obsession with singing a World Song was an embarrassment to his clan and a humiliation to his father.

What do you want? his father, Oric, asked. What is it, Ortho, that you seek, that is not in the Cricket Kingdom?

I do not know for certain, father, Ortho replied. I only know it is not here.

You are as one who would eat the seeds and throw away the fruit. For what? Sounds and dreams that come from your imagination?

Ortho sighed. Rain, he said, does not fall from empty skies, nor do dreams come from empty minds. I seek the light of truth, expressed in my music.

Ortho’s mother, who heretofore had been silent, spoke: Sometimes, one must turn from the light of truth as one must turn from the brightness of the sun. To look at either for too long is to become blind.

I do not understand your words, mother.

The sunshine is good, Ortho’s mother said, but too much sunshine for too long is not good. The plants wither, the moisture leaves the earth, and the soil turns to dust. Even the greatest of trees will perish from sunlight alone. So it is with all good things—food, rain, darkness—too much good can turn to dust. Even music, which is good, can become arid and turn to barren noise. The truth of life is that today’s comfort can become tomorrow’s adversity. You must plan for a lifetime, accept the unpleasantness of today for the future pleasures it will bring. You must accept your responsibilities and perform your duties, even when they are not to your liking. Remember this, Ortho: the blades of grass flex and bend to the fierce winds, the fragile spider webs vibrate and quiver, but they endure—while the rigid branches of trees snap and stationary trees are ripped from the earth: the fragile that yield are durable while the durable that are unwavering are truly fragile. This is Nature’s way.

With all respect, dearest mother, for your wisdom and experience, but I cannot accept what you say.

Cannot accept? Ortho’s father said. You cannot accept wisdom and experience? Your mother does not ask you to accept words—nor do I. We give to you our life’s experiences to spare you from future disappointments and to show you the path you must travel. When we tell you that each day the sun rises, we do not ask you to accept that as truth; you can observe it for yourself. You must observe experience or have experience revealed to you to understand. We give you what you have not yet observed.

Then I must experience what I have not yet observed, Ortho said. I may observe a different experience and see a different path which may be—

Bah! Ortho’s father said. He turned his body away from Ortho, stared unseeing at the foliage-wall so he did not have to look at his son. He spoke to the wall, but he spoke the words for Ortho: Can you hold lightening in your grasp? The Music of the Universe is like lightening and it cannot be held or played. You may see and hear the lightening, Ortho, and you may believe you hear Universal Music, but you will no more sing a World Song than you will hold a bolt of lightning. My son shames me.

Please, Ortho, his mother said. Her voice was soft and the words came slowly. Please give up this quest, if not for yourself, for my sake.

I cannot, mother. I cannot.

If you must sing, Ortho’s father said, rotating his body towards Ortho, then sing the Cricket Songs.

But, Ortho said, there is no single Cricket Song that is understood by all. The Cricket Songs can be of love, hate, hunger, anger, danger, fear, or mating but they cannot be all of them at once—nor can anyone outside Cricket Kingdom understand. The Cricket Song cannot distinguish types or degrees of love, hate, hunger, anger, danger or fear.

When one is stricken with fear, one has no need to think or sing of hunger. When there is danger, it matters not what kind of danger.

But fear and hunger and love and hate and anger are one within us. They are like individual life-streams that merge and flow into the endless world-sea.

Bah, Ortho’s father said. You talk such gibberish! You cannot sing love and hate, fear and anger, hunger and desire as a single song! What would it mean? How can the Cricket world know what you sing? Surely you cannot sing everything, especially in a single tune that is understood by everyone. You sing but one song at a time—in turns.

Ortho sighed. It was foolish to continue the discussion—but he was unable to stop the flow of his words. The mood or situation does not have to guide the song; the song can guide the mood. I can sing a danger song when there is no danger and the clan will be fearful; I can sing the hunger song and they will bring me food even when I have no need for it. But if I sing of food and fear together, they will—

Bring you nothing! Ortho’s father shouted.

Exactly! Ortho said. But they would feel and hear the essence of both. You see, father, you do understand.

Yes, Oric, the father, said, I understand. It is you who does not understand. If a cricket sounds a song of alarm, everyone understands and flees. The sound of alarm is the same for all dangers and threats. You think each danger requires a different alarm, yet all are the same. If a cricket had to invent a new song for each danger, there would be alarms beyond numbers. A new alarm for each danger. There is but a single song put to a single purpose and you cannot commingle different songs. You cannot sing a single song that means many things and is understood by all. You desire to sing, but the world will not hear or understand your music. In the real world what you sing and what others hear will never be the same.

Ortho did not speak. His father was incapable of comprehending that Music is a Universal Language intuitively understood by all species. Someday, Ortho mused, my music will reflect those Universal Tones and Resonances and the World will understand my every note—even you, my stupid father, will someday understand.

There cannot be a single tune that embodies multiple events, Oric said. There cannot be multiple World Songs. That is contradiction. An impossibility. The Song would change moment to moment, never ending—Ortho, it would never be finished!

Ortho did not respond. His father’s words confused him. What the elderly cricket said was true: the Song would indeed be forever changing. Ortho knew, however, beyond all doubt, that there was a World Song and someday he would sing It.

What is it, Ortho, that you wish to sing? The Ortho song? The World Song? Be a musical part of the Universal Symphony? All of them? What? Tell me, Ortho, what?

Ortho was mute; he did not answer: he could not answer. He knew within the essence of his existence that there was but a single Universal Song and all World songs were within It. Paradoxically, as his father had said, it was forever changing, and—How does one explain such a complexity to an ignorant old cricket? Someday, father, Ortho thought, I will sing the Song and then you will understand . . .

*     *     *

You must learn to play the ancestral music of the Cricket Kingdom, his mother repeatedly told Ortho.

You must learn to play the ancestral music of the Cricket Kingdom, echoed his father.

Why? Ortho asked. The music of the Cricket Kingdom was music of the Cricket Kingdom. Ortho wished to play the music of Ortho, his own unique song. Other crickets had played their own music. Why couldn’t he?

Child, his mother attempted to explain, those few were special. They were maestros, master musicians. You are not special. You are but a commoner. You were not born of the special life-force and it is foolish for you to pursue what is unattainable. It is a waste of life to live a dream, a fantasy—a hallucination—and ignore one’s true existence. Do you not understand that an obsession to one purpose blocks out all other life experiences?

Ortho did not respond.

You are only in the third shedding of your outer skin and you presume you can do what the masters take seven and sometimes eight moltings to achieve. Ortho, the worm cannot see what it devours and you cannot see what devours you.

In all things, but this, Ortho acknowledged the wisdom of his mother. He loved her deeply. She was indeed wise, but in this she was wrong. Ortho was, verily, born a commoner, but in his essence he knew himself to contain the seeds of uniqueness with the abilities of a Master Musician. The pursuit of one’s uniqueness must be the goal of existence. That is no illusion, no hallucination. The true waste of life, it seemed to Ortho, is to accept the world without question. He would not follow the ancient ways of the Cricket Kingdom; he would follow his own path.

Blasphemy! his father said. I have followed the ways of my father and he of his father and each father before him did likewise, back to the ancient and forgotten beginnings of our species. None in our clan has ever been unique, thus neither are you, nor can you ever be. I will listen to your delusions no more!

*     *     *

And so it came about that Ortho rarely spoke of his quest to his parents, nor did they, in turn, discourse with him on the subject. His father did not care to hear of World Songs and Universal Symphonies and Cosmic Music.

Ortho gradually withdrew from the customs and habits of his species; he sought new experiences and insights to the world around him. After his fourth molting, he started to creep quietly, in the early evenings, to the solitude of the fields, darkening softly as the setting sun sent long shadows over the landscape.

Standing alone in the field, Ortho would lift and cross his wings overhead, one over the other, like a bow resting against the strings of a violin and he would play his music, rubbing his bow-wing across his string-wing. And even in this, Ortho was different. Virtually all crickets in Cricket Kingdom favored the right wing as the bow wing and used their left wing as the string wing. But not Ortho, even in this he was different.

While the other crickets his age play-sang the songs of cricket communication: love, hate, anger, hunger, joy, mating, fear, danger and pain, Ortho sang strange, haunting tunes. Ortho, though young and inexperienced, displayed the potential for expressing his uniqueness and oneness with the world in an almost unique and singular style. But it was never acknowledged by the clan, and even his parents refused to encourage Ortho. No one believed that Ortho, some day, would express a part of his essence—his soul—in his music.

Unique musical ability was a rarity in the Cricket Kingdom. Few were able to fuse the songs of other species into a Cricket Song. Not many crickets, now or ever, possessed the ability, skill and creativeness to express their unique essence—one in the millions—but Ortho was convinced he was destined to be one of the elite few, a Master Musician.

While other young crickets in Ortho’s clan, and other clans throughout the Kingdom, learned the songs of their fathers and mimicked them eloquently, Ortho added each new individual experience to his music, at first augmenting the music of his ancestors, then gradually replacing strains of it. Each new experience added to the vibrancy of his music. He became more and more daring, both in his renditions and his travels. Travelling the land farther and farther away from home and clan, he searched for new experiences to feed his uniqueness. He wandered about, experiencing the world’s many musical vibrations. He expanded the tones and resonances he heard and incorporated them into his own distinctive song: shrilling, pulsating new rhythms, with mystic sounds weaving in and out of his emerging opus. But strains of the traditional Cricket Song remained, interwoven with his own notes, still discernible to the inhabitants of the Cricket Kingdom—not quite unique. The traces of the Cricket Song were slowly fading as more and more of the uniqueness of Ortho was expressed in his music.

Before long, throughout the Cricket Kingdom, they began to whisper skeptically, scornfully, derisively. Ortho believes himself to be unique, the young jeered. Ortho is demented, the elders decreed. Ortho is a shame, his clan lamented.

Ortho ignored them and continued to follow his own path. His uniqueness was elusive; the Cricket Song persisted as a sub-tune, faint and subtle, always there. Ortho needed more and more experiences to feed his expanding essence and to add to his intricate and increasingly complex music. He yearned to travel to other Kingdoms where he might hear foreign sounds that could be incorporated into his own music.

*     *     *

Soon after Ortho’s fifth molting, his mother, no longer able to hide her sorrow, spoke of his quest.

You must cease, Ortho, before you bring more shame on our home and your father. You have had your fifth shedding of the outer skin and still you behave like an infant. When you were young and spoke your dreams aloud, I encouraged it. A mother always encourages dreams in her offspring while a father tempers those dreams with the truth of reality. Our values change like the seasons. The Passion of Summer turns to the Winter of Stillness, the Life of Spring turns to the Autumn of Dying. So, too, I thought you would one day wonder how something once deemed so priceless could be so worthless. I thought with the passing of youth you would release your dreams and accept your father’s and the Kingdom’s traditions. You have done neither. Please do not continue in your ways. Can you not see how everyone derides you? Are you blind? Will you never grow to maturity?

And then she wept.

Ortho was silent. What was there he could say?

Then she spoke the words that would one day come back to him, to haunt him and taunt him with their truth and wisdom. But he could not understand what his mother said to him when she said: "Ortho, the Universe is in harmony. It has always been in harmony. There is but one Harmony. There is but one Song; there is but one Singer—and everyone is that Singer and their Song is the Song. If you must search for the World-song, look for it first within yourself; then look for it outside of yourself. When they are One, you will have found it. You are right in believing that there is a Universal Symphony, but you are wrong in believing that you can sing it. You can only sing Ortho’s Song; you can sing no other Song—nor can anyone but you sing Ortho’s Song. But more than that, you must understand that an individual can sing a song or play a tune, but only the Cosmos can make symphonic music."

Ortho vaguely sensed the meaning of his mother’s words, but he did not truly understand them at the time. Not understanding his mother, Ortho attributed his confusion to her, not to himself.

*     *     *

Young Ortho, in his search, forgot the things he was expected to do. His parents were dismayed and made increasingly unhappy by Ortho’s apparent disregard for the traditional values. Ortho spent much time practicing his own music, which chagrined his father no end. At last, his father could no longer remain silent. He said: Ortho, you must stop this madness and begin to act as is expected of you—as your brothers and sisters act.

Ortho argued: Why must I be as my brothers and sisters? I am myself. I must be myself.

Oh, Ortho, his mother pleaded, you must listen to your father and stop your foolish ways. It is not good to chase dreams, for they are as shadows that grow with the setting sun and fade when darkness falls upon the land.

My dream shall not fade with the setting sun, Ortho said, saddened that not even his mother understood the song he had to sing. He told her again of his need to give sound to his essence.

Ortho’s mother listened, patiently, sympathetically, but she seemed not to really understand. Ortho’s father had no patience. He grew angry and his words were harsh:

You will never be a Singer, let alone a Master Musician, he said. You are a fool to dream of what cannot be. The world will turn, the days will change to night and just as each day must end, so too will you. If you persist in your foolish pursuit, you will waste your allotted time on what might have been, not on what is and must be. You will pass into oblivion, alone. Heed my counsel, Ortho, or you will end your days with your life wasted. I will hear no more of your babbling. No more! You are Ortho. You must be Ortho, a cricket among many crickets, a cricket like all crickets. You are not and cannot be Ortho the Cricket who stands alone, outside of Cricketdom.

But, father, Ortho attempted to protest, I am Ortho, alone and unique—

His father would hear no more. Savagely, more brutally than Ortho had ever heard him speak, he said: You are a cricket! You are called Ortho. You are a cricket called Ortho—nothing more than that. You could be called Kanta or Phido—would you then be Ortho, the unique? Or would you be a cricket called Kanta or Phido? You are one of millions of crickets, past, present and future. You are a single, insignificant cricket, in a cricket world. You think you can go out and become a part of another world. That is beyond childishness; it is stupidity! You cannot look to other worlds. The cricket and the bird, the fish and the worm, the sky and the earth, the wolf and the rabbit cannot be one. To join the two is to destroy them both. You are playing with dust particles floating in the sunbeams. They cannot be grasped—

Ortho did not hear his father finish. He turned and crept slowly away. He was both angry and drained. Simultaneously, he was filled with resolve to prove his father wrong and haunted by the fear that his father’s words were true.

But, alone, in the field, his understanding of his destiny returned. He sang that night, like never before, and the crickets could perceive that Ortho’s music was somehow different this evening—not deviant, as it usually was—but really distinct. Something had been added.

Ortho’s father and mother listened from their lair. The father paced the ground-floor and, without anger, finally spoke:

He does not listen to my words, to the wisdom of my father and his father and all our fathers to the beginnings of time. He will not listen; therefore, I will never speak to him or give him counsel—ever again! My heart is heavy and sad, for I do not know what is best for him. I fear his dream is a spider’s web that he cannot pull away from; he is trapped and the Spider of Death shall devour him—and I must watch, helpless.

The mother did not speak at once. She listened intently to Ortho’s unmistakable music lilting above the night sounds. Ortho was of herself, from the egg of her body. She could not disown him. His pain was her pain. She said softly:

He has added Rebellion, Resolve and Assurance to his Song.

What do you mumble? Oric, the father, asked.

Nothing, she replied. But, at that moment, she knew instinctively that after this night had passed she would never see Ortho again. She would visit with him one last time after her mate was asleep.

That evening, she approached Ortho and said softly, almost mournfully: Remember all that I have said to you, Ortho, and remember me—for if you do not remember me, it will be as though I never was.

Why do you speak in riddles? Ortho asked. I do not understand.

I do not speak in riddles; I speak of remembering because I feel that I will never see you again. As long as you remember me, I will be a part of your song. I know that you have decided to leave the Cricket Kingdom and set out upon your quest. I can hear it in your song.

I will return, Ortho said, not believing his own words.

*     *     *

Sometime in the early morning, before the sun had started its ascent at the horizon, the music of Ortho stopped. His father, who lay awake in silent vigil all night, understood his son’s need to sing and, silently, wished him success in his quest—whatever it was. Ortho’s mother wept, without sound or movement…

*     *     *

Before sunrise, Ortho knew it was time: he would seek his destiny and continue his quest in the outside world, alone. It could be no other way.

That day, he traveled to the hinterlands and paused at the boundary marker. He pondered for a long time, then stepped into the world of the unknown. There was no turning back. He would go forth and share his song with the world. If the Cricket Kingdom would not or could not understand or appreciate his music, he would take it to those who could.

Ortho saw the plains, hills, valleys and forests stretch before him endlessly. Immediately, ancestral memories immerged and he recognized forms and shapes he had never seen before.

He was, at last, an adult—he was Ortho! He was essence and substance, thought and dream: he was one with his song and his song was himself. His heart was full and he wanted to share his music with the world. He was exuberant and excited over the promise of his new life.

As Ortho passed the boundary line of the Cricket Kingdom, he also felt a sense of loss, and a subtle doubt haunted his thoughts. He moved forward, alone, hesitantly. Was his search a youthful fantasy as his father had said or a real quest, a real goal? Was he to lose the varieties of life’s experiences with his obsession to a single purpose, as his mother had warned?

He was no longer certain what it was that he sought, or even if he sought to find something. He felt that he wanted the world to hear his song, to know he existed. Perhaps, he thought, he simply wanted to give something to the world.

As Ortho traveled over the unfamiliar, yet familiar, terrain and went deeper into the world, he realized, sadly, that somehow—somewhere—he had lost his youth—as the trees lose their leaves in the Autumn. But, he thought, like the trees he would be reborn with the Spring-time. That was his vision, his dream.

*     *     *

One day, Ortho paused beneath a tree to rest. He asked himself: what am I? Where is my destination? Is it within myself or outside this body? Perhaps it is both within and without as my mother suggested; perhaps it is nowhere and everywhere. I am Ortho, he thought, and I am here. I will not come again nor will I ever be truly gone, for once one is, one is forever. The tree in the forest is of itself, yet it is of the first tree, which is no more, yet is—always. Ortho was a part of everything, yet himself…

The day slipped away with the setting sun and it was night again. Ortho looked up at the blinking lights of the night. The enormity of the Universe suddenly impressed him deeply. Never before had he sensed the vastness of the skies. It was a sight he had looked upon many times, but had never really seen or known before. It filled him with a sense of awe. In that moment he wondered how so tiny a creature as himself could be such an integral and indispensable part of all he sensed to exist in the vastness of the Cosmos.

Ortho lifted his bow-wing, poised it gently on his string-wing and began to play. His song filled the air and his song was as strange to himself as it was to the woodland creatures who heard his music reverberating throughout the forest. Ortho played throughout the night…

*     *     *

In the days that followed, Ortho traveled a rambling route, going nowhere and everywhere, far and near. He met many new and strange creatures, observed miracles and heard many exotic songs. But his music was merely a cricket song to the other creatures; they could not distinguish it from the thousands of cricket songs they had heard before.

Ortho learned of fish who swim in and breathe water, birds who swim in the skies above, bats who flew by sound, caterpillars who went to sleep and awoke as moths and butterflies. He met frogs who had been tadpoles. He saw maggots who dined and thrived on stench and decay become flies who did the same thing. He learned that the destruction of a tree was the price nature paid for the wondrous transformations of ugly larvae into beautiful moths. He walked on barren soil that once held colorful flower beds; he