“Shut up!” he heard someone shouting from Mr. Scraps’s courtyard.
“Robby!” He wanted to cry, he was so happy to hear his friend again. But his eyes
refused to make tears, and so he grinned madly instead when he saw the cat.
“Arry!”cried Robby, as he looked up from the bird he was ripping into. His eyes glowed
with an unnatural golden light that Arry assumed was due to the strange way his
own eyes were seeing things now.
Casually, Robby tossed aside the limp little carcass he had been nibbling on and bounded up between the table and chairs. Arry noticed a row of very unhappy looking
nightingales sitting on the back fence of the courtyard, but at that moment, it
didn’t seem important enough to mention.
“Oh, Robby!” Arry crouched down and scratched the purring tabby behind an ear. “I
was so worried. I thought you might be dead.”
“Not a chance,” replied Robby, leaning his head into the scratch. “And besides, I
told you you’d be lost without me, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.” Arry laughed and then stood up to have a proper look at the
courtyard. As he gazed in wonder at the softly glowing wisteria coiled through
the overhead lattices, he realized he could still hear the angels singing. “Can
you hear that?” he asked Robby, who had wandered back to continue feasting on
the dead bird.
“Hear what?” he replied absently.
“The singing.” It was growing louder, and, although still beautiful, some of its
notes were beginning to sound dark and sinister. “Robby?”
Arry had already seen so many strange and wonderful things, he wasn’t entirely
surprised by what he saw next. The nightingales no longer sat on the back
fence, and he only just caught a glimpse as the last one shivered and
shuddered, lifted up its spindly little bird leg, and placed a heavy paw upon
the ground. A rumble like thunder rolled ominously through the courtyard,
scattering the fireflies, as six enormous lions bared their fangs and scowled
at Robby, licking their chops as they began to advance.
Amber Gulley moved from Australia, where she was a qualified massage therapist, to the south of Spain, where she could, amongst other loves, write books and spend as much time in the ocean as possible.