Down Where The Crickets Play B (Rev)(Please Crit)

Note:
The premise of this story may seem far fetched. There is, however, some basis for it in the book "The Soul of the White Ant" by Eugene Marais. In this thesis, the author refers to the psyche as well as the sound making capabilities of insects.
So without further ado, let's get on with the second part of this story.

The Story Continues:

"What kind of music did you play Papa?"
"Oh we played Carrillo's microtonal music. He was famous for it. It's the kind of music that the world out there has always played. The Hindus, the Arabs and even the Greeks did. Carrillo used notes that weren't playable by a piano. Perhaps they are notes that el Maestro knows by instinct."
"Wow Papa, will you play once again tonight?"
"Yes my sons. Perhaps tonight I will give my greatest performance ever."
" On the grillo machine, Papa?"
"No no my sons. Not on that machine tonight. Not when I play with el Maestro. He has told me that he wants to make it a night to remember. It will be a night of great music that will echo throughout our community. I may not offend him by playing on that cigar box.

He wants me to take out my precious old Miittenwald violin while he will use precious gifts given to him by God. This violin was originally given to someone by the Archduke Maximillian when he was here in Mexico."
"You mean you want The cricket to use his long back legs to make music, Papa?"
"Yes, those long back legs. But be aware that in his case, those legs are not just legs. In his case, they are beautiful instruments. One day we may see these legs and I can tell you now that we'll be astounded.
Tonight you will hear music that you've never heard before."

As the sun began to set, the excitement in the house began to build up to a feverish pitch. The tension had become almost unbearable.
Papa could not come to rest. He restlessly paced up and down all day. He did a few routine exercises on his violin every now and then but his heart was not in it.

But when shadows began to lengthen he walked over to the highly polished walnut cabinet in the living room. He opened the doors and took out a bottle of Tequila kept for special occasions only. It was a bottle that he had not touched for a year.
He poured a large amount into a glass tumbler and swallowed the contents in one gulp. Then a strange calmness came over him.

He opened his well crafted violin case and slowly, with a tender loving care, took out his nut brown varnished antique violin and went out onto the back porch to sit on the same chair that he'd been using ever since he had first heard el Maestro.
We huddled silently inside the dark kitchen. No lantern was burning. We were all waiting for an event that we knew would be unforgettably awesome. No one even dared to whisper.

Then we heard the first sound.
El Maestro had announced his arrival by playing a simple series of notes. Like those that you hear from the orchestra pit before a concert begins.
They were no chirrp chirrp sounds. No no. They were musical notes of exquisite quality. The cricket played a short passage that ranged from a growl to a high C trill that any concert violinist would have been proud of.
Papa responded by playing a sequence of low notes that seemed to be like a rumble that one gets here before the earth shakes. It was as if he was telling his protagonist that he was now ready to accept any challenge.
It was as if he was also telling el Maestro "be careful because I'm a formidable opponent."

As Papa rested his violin he was amazed to hear el Maestro's response. It was more than recognition of the challenge but was an audacious mockery of what Papa had just played. It was a playing back of Papa's opening passage first slowly like a funeral dirge and then with ever increasing excitement at a higher key, then in a higher and finally in a still higher key.
It was as if el Maestro was showing Papa that if a musician is truly creative then he can use the entire musical scale to demonstrate his virtuosity.

Then Papa began to play a thrilling passage from one of his favourite Czardas. He played a piece that he had played many times and always to a tumultuous reception. He knew that no artist in Mexico had ever been able to match him as far as this piece of music was concerned.
Finally, in crescendo, Papa began to play in the upper register of his instrument. For longer than two minutes he played twittering sounds like those of a swallow. Sure that his skills were unmatchable, Papa lowered his violin and waited for a sign of surrender.

To Papa's utter surprise, el Maestro immediately repeated the whole passage that he had just played but this time with all chords transformed into separate arpeggio notes. This meant that el Maestro had recognised each and every one of the notes in every chord played by Papa and had played them back as individual notes with even more fire that Papa had mustered.

el Maestro was now beginning to show his prowess as a potential world class microtonal expert and was able to introduce brilliant runs and trills far outclassing Papa's attempts. In fact, I could see in Papa's face that he was hearing quarter tones known only to microtonal virtuosos.
Then Papa changed tack and began to play lower notes which rumbled with dark overtones. When he paused, el Maestro played the same piece but added five additional harmonics even dared to slip in a few bars of daring pizzicato virtuosity ending with grand glissando that ended up in the high C's.

Then all went silent. It was as if a powerful sound system had been switched off. It suddenly seemed as if the wood was now more silent than it had ever been.
Papa had immediately jumped up shouting "Mama, bring the lanterns. Sons bring more lanterns. El Maestro is in trouble. Come on. Hurry."

Our search lasted only for a few moments. It seemed that Papa knew exactly where el Maestro had stood.
We found el Maestro.
He was dead.
He was lying on his back. Somehow he didn't look unhappy.
We stood silently around him in a circle while mama went back to the house to find a small trinket box which she lined out with cotton wool.
That night we sat around the trinket box while Papa played a haunting gypsy melody filled with an insatiable longing. His fine playing was a final tribute was to a true el Maestro.

After Alfonso had completed his amazing and most touching tale, he handed over the trinket box with the mortal remains of el Maestro inside.

One of his daughters had taped a forest flower to the box which I took back with me to Boston.
Once there I took the box to our research laboratories and placed the body under one of our powerful microscopes. I was so amazed by what I saw that I had to call my colleagues and let each one in turn do a brief study.
The investigations are still continuing but we can already say, with full conviction, that
El Maestro's back legs and the lower part of his body had the nut brown colour of many brands of the worlds' best violins.
The other amazing things were his proudly held and broad shoulders and the rather large head and intelligent look on his face.

On one matter we were all agreed. There was a definite smile to be seen on the face of el Maestro.