So, this is my new story. The first chapter is short, sorry, but I am really busy. I will hopefully update tomorrow, or next next Saturday. I don't know if the name 'Silent Message' is a good title; I might change it later. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Alonzo sighed and tossed restlessly as his sleep was disturbed by a dream. But what made the dream even more disturbing was that he had been having the same dream for the past two weeks.

Opening his eyes and groaning, the patched black-and-white tom was awakened from the dream at 4 in the morning. Every night, the dream was identical. And every morning, he awoke at 4 and could not get back to sleep. Resignedly, the tom rolled out of the bed he shared with his queen, Cassandra. It was dark outside and the moon bathed the Junkyard in its white light. The silhouettes of the trees danced as a lone night breeze rustled their leaves.

Looking at himself in the mirror illuminated by the moonlight, Alonzo studied his reflection. He had a white face, with a black patch over his left eye, and a black patch dotted with white spots fringing the right corner of his mouth. He had a black nose, too. What made his face all the more different was that, for some unknown reason, his left eyebrow was white and his right black. Under his serious brown eyes, there were dark circles, placed there and darkened by two weeks of broken sleep.

Contemplating his reflection, the tom's thoughts wandered to his dream. In it, he was standing in the shadows of the Junkyard, watching nothing in particular, when a voice called out to him,

"Alonzo,

The tribe is in great danger. Someone you and everyone else loves dearly will betray us, and is the key to the evil that has haunted us for so long, which will now return with greater strength. Uncover the traitor and save the tribe… and yourself… from the danger that lies ahead…"

Always, after the voice, which repeated the same message each night, had completed the message, Alonzo would awaken suddenly, and it was always 4 in the morning. The voice sounded very familiar, but the face behind the voice lay beyond Alonzo's thoughts; he could not grasp the name. This dream was made even more frustrating by the fact that, every night, Alonzo could feel the name dancing on the tip of his tongue, but could never place it.

Choosing, as he had the past two weeks, to dismiss the dream as a recurring fantasy that he would eventually cease to dream, the patched tom opened his window, catching a breath of the crisp night air as he did so. Now he could hear every sound that played in the Junkyard that early morning. The wind whistling through the trees, the crickets chirping quietly, the swishing of the blades of grass as the wind brushed them to and fro, the bubbling of the distant river as it flowed steadily on its course and the leaves of the trees rustling as they danced to the song of the night. It was a song that followed no beat, but it had a melody. Alonzo fully appreciated and heard the beauty of the song of the night that morning, as it played for him.

It was much like the song of the Jellicle Moon, one best heard but not spoken of in intricate detail, nor taken apart to analyse each beat, each layer, each harmony, but sang and danced to by the heart only, and accepted like a friend without criticism. That was the beauty of the song of the night.

"Daylight,

See the dew on a sunflower,

And a rose that is fading,

Roses wither away,

Like the sunflower, I yearn to turn my face to the dawn,

I am waiting,

For the day…"

Alonzo heard Jemima's beautiful voice ring out in the relative silence of the Junkyard. It was a beautiful melody, and the tom knew it was no written song. Jemima had heard it from the Jellicle Moon. The spine-tingling beauty of her voice did the song justice, and Alonzo crept outside to watch her sing. At the conclusion of her singing session, Jemima noticed him watching avidly, absorbing the melodies. She blushed, but smiled understandingly at him. He nodded in return.

In that one moment, a silent message had been sent, and each knew that the events of the morning were to be remembered but best not spoken of.