Darkwing (2 page)

“Sorry,” said Dusk sheepishly. “It just seemed like the thing to do.”

“Your sails are made for gliding, not flying. Remember that.”

Dusk nodded dutifully.

“You did well,” said his father. “A bit fast. I’m wondering if it’s because your sails are furless. Less to catch the air.” Dad peered at him. “And your shoulders and chest make you a bit heavier up front. Might explain why you tend to pitch forward. You’ll certainly be a fast glider. A ferocious hunter. Those Sphinx moths won’t have a chance! But you’ll really have to work on that landing of yours.”

“I will, I promise.”

“Ready to go again?”

Dusk’s heart thundered. “Yes,” he said instantly.

SIX MONTHS LATER

Hidden behind leaves, motionless against the bark, Dusk peered up at the bird. Only a few feet above him, it perched on a branch, head tipping from side to side, occasionally answering the calls of other birds in the forest. Dusk admired its graceful lines, the way every part of it seemed designed for a life aloft.

The bird rustled its wings, and Dusk’s eyes widened expectantly. But then the creature merely refolded its wings, took a few steps, and pecked at something on the branch. Dusk exhaled silently. He wanted to see the bird fly.

It had taken him a long time to reach the Upper Spar, and it was no easy climb. His legs were stronger than they used to be, but his missing claws had never materialized. In fact, he was as odd looking as ever. Far below him, the other chiropters were slanting across the clearing, busy hunting. No one knew he was up here. It was his secret.

It was hard to see birds properly unless you came this high. Though they often flitted down through the trees to forage on the ground, they never lingered near the chiropter perches. And
they passed so quickly, Dusk hardly ever had time to get a good look. Here, on the Upper Spar, on the very border between chiropter and bird territory, it was much easier to study them.

This wasn’t the first time Dusk had come. He couldn’t quite explain what it was that drew him—and he’d certainly never told anyone. What would his father say?

It wasn’t the birds themselves he was interested in. Flying was what he yearned to see, especially those first few moments when the birds flapped and lifted into the air. Every time he saw this, Dusk felt a strange ache in the centre of his chest. He wanted to understand how it was done.

He was starting to think this particular bird was completely useless. It was just standing there, doing nothing. Why wouldn’t it fly? He’d been watching for almost fifteen minutes now. His stomach rumbled. He really should be hunting. But first he wanted to see at least one proper takeoff. Unfortunately, the bird had now decided this was an excellent moment to fluff and groom its plumage.

Silently Dusk sucked air through his nostrils, and then—

“Fly!” he shouted with all his might.

The bird instinctively leapt from its perch, spreading its wings and battering the air. Dusk leaned forward eagerly, watching everything, noting the flex of the wings, counting the number of strokes. And then the bird was gone, lost in the tree’s dense foliage as it beat its way into the midday sky. “Fantastic,” Dusk mumbled, his heart still pounding.

He backed out of his hiding place and found a wider spot along the branch. He unfurled his sails, still virtually furless. The bird had made it look so easy, hardly beating its wings as it rose, quickly and gracefully. Four flaps. Dusk looked all around to make sure no one was watching. He crouched and sprang straight up,
spreading his sails and beating them hard, one flap, two, three—And landed on the branch in a heap. He ground his teeth in frustration—and shame.
You are not a bird.

His father had told him that during his very first gliding lesson, and a few times afterwards, until Dusk taught himself never to flap, no matter how strong the urge. But the urge had never left him altogether. Some stubborn part of him still believed that if he could only flap, he would lift.

Chiropters only glided down, never up. But maybe they
could
go up, if they learned the secrets of the birds. He couldn’t be the
only
chiropter in history to think this. But no one else seemed at all interested in wings, or how they were used.

Was he doing something wrong? Flapping was hard work, but maybe he needed to do it faster than the birds, at least to get him airborne. He closed his eyes, tried to remember exactly how the bird had launched itself, crouched and—

“What’re you doing?”

He jerked around to see his sister Sylph, climbing out along the Upper Spar with two other newborns, Aeolus and Jib. Jib’s great-aunt was Nova, one of the colony elders. Dusk wondered how much they’d seen.

“Oh, hello,” Dusk said, casually folding his sails away. “I was just about to hunt.”

“You don’t usually come so high.” Sylph looked at him strangely. She knew how much he hated climbing.

“Gives me a longer glide,” Dusk said. “And it’s less crowded up here.”

“He doesn’t kill as many chiropters that way,” Jib sneered. “I haven’t killed anyone in days,” Dusk said, stealing Jib’s laughter. “Anyway, the number of deaths has been exaggerated. If
everyone would just sail a little faster, there’d be plenty of room.”

Dusk had earned a reputation as a breakneck and somewhat dangerous glider. Over the past six months he’d tried hard to learn how to slow down—with minimal success. His sails, his entire body, simply would not co-operate. There’d been several collisions with other chiropters, including, not so long ago, a much talked-about mid-air landing on Jib’s head.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Sylph said, nuzzling Dusk in greeting. “Have you been up here long?”

“What are you three doing on the Spar anyway?” Dusk asked, eager to change the subject. Jib and Aeolus, he noticed, glanced quickly at one another, as if reluctant to answer.

“We’re having a contest!” Sylph said excitedly. “Here to the Lower Reach. Interested?”

“Sounds fun,” said Dusk. “I like winning.”

“It’s not a race,” said Aeolus, a bit sharply. “It’s a hunting contest. Whoever catches the most on the glide.”

“Ah,” said Dusk.

All the newborns knew he was fast, but also that his speed worked against him when hunting. Because he fell faster, he had less time to target and intercept prey.

“Well, why not,” he said. He was just glad none of them had seen him flapping. He could imagine what they’d say.

Always been a little odd, and now this.

Thinks he can fly.

Bird brain.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” Jib said, flicking a sail at Dusk. “If he crashes into someone, we all get in trouble.”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” said Dusk. He hated Jib’s barbs, and only hoped he didn’t let it show.

“You’re just worried he’ll beat you,” Sylph said to Jib.

Jib snorted.

“Dusk’s the only newborn to catch a Sphinx moth,” Sylph reminded him.

Dusk looked fondly at his sister. She was amazingly loyal when they were around the other newborns. When it was just the two of them, she was not nearly so considerate—but then again, neither was he.

“So are we ready to go?” Sylph asked impatiently. Sylph was loud. She had a big voice and tended to shout. Their mother said she’d been born shouting, and really hadn’t stopped since. She was always getting shushed by Mom and Dad, and she hated being shushed. Sometimes Dusk wanted to tell her to shush, too, but what he loved was her laughter.

When Sylph laughed, she laughed with her whole body. It wasn’t enough for her just to laugh from her mouth; her entire body jerked and lurched and she’d often throw herself around a bit until she ended up splayed on the branch. It was quite something to watch.

“I’m in,” said Jib. “Let’s go.”

The four of them lined up along the edge of the Upper Spar. “You haven’t got a chance,” Sylph murmured to Dusk. “Against Jib?” he whispered back.

“Against me,” she said. In her normal voice she shouted, “Everyone ready? Launch!”

Dusk threw himself off the branch, unfurled, and within seconds was well ahead of the others. His hairless sails cut the air unhindered. It was this speed that had enabled him to catch a Sphinx moth, the fastest of bugs. But Sylph, overall, was a much better hunter. There hadn’t been many days when his tally of prey was greater than hers. Dusk knew he had little hope of beating her. He just didn’t want to disgrace himself completely.

He caught sight of a snipe fly and unleashed a barrage of hunting clicks. The returning echoes told him everything he needed to know: the fly’s distance, its heading, its speed. Dusk tipped a sail, kicked out his left leg, and banked sharply to match his prey’s trajectory. Then he dumped some air, and plunged upon the fly’s tapered black and gold body, dragging it into his mouth, wings and all.

He scarcely had time to savour the pleasantly sour tang before he had to wheel to avoid the trees at the clearing’s far side. The sun set alight drifting spores, dust motes, and the myriad insects flitting through the air.

It was important to focus, to not get distracted by all the choices. A few times he was too ambitious and missed his prey because he overshot it.
Slow down,
he urged himself. He caught a few more insects. Below him, in the prime hunting ground, hundreds of darkly furred chiropters glided between the giant redwoods. He’d be in the thick of them soon.

He sighted a blue dasher dragonfly, strafed it with clicks, and set his course of attack. A flick of a finger to angle his sail, and the spicy dragonfly was thrashing its translucent double wings against his teeth as he bit down and swallowed.

“Watch where you’re going, newborn!” someone shouted after him.

Dusk careened through the crowds, doing his best to stay out of everyone’s way.

“Slow down!” one of his older brothers barked. It was either Diablo or Norther—Dusk always got them mixed up. “You’re going to kill someone!”

“Sorry!” Dusk called back, and seconds later snagged a fairy moth in his jaws.

“Hey, that was my food!”

Dusk gulped down the cloying moth and glanced back sheepishly to see yet another chiropter glaring at him. “Are we related?” Dusk said. “Unfortunately,” said the chiropter.

Dusk couldn’t tell which cousin it was—after all, he had something like three hundred.

“Sorry,” he chirruped again, then looked higher to check on the others. There was Sylph! It looked like she’d just got herself a hover fly. He couldn’t see Aeolus or Jib.

Below the crowds he got lucky, very lucky indeed. Hovering near a tree was a haze of newly hatched insects. He made a quick turn, took aim, and skimmed through, taking six small bugs into his mouth at once, and spitting out a seventh when he started to gag. Not even their stingy, bitter taste could temper his glee—this just might put him in the lead.

He didn’t want to get lazy, though. He figured he had about twenty-five more seconds, and he planned to make each one count. His eyes and ears, brain and body worked together seamlessly. He caught a soldier fly, then a marsh moth.

There was the Lower Reach looming below him—the great branch that marked the end of chiropter territory. They were forbidden from going down any farther. Dusk sighted a wood nymph fluttering for the shade of the forest. He decided he had enough time before having to land.

He timed his attack perfectly. His mouth was just opening to snatch up the moth’s dark thorax when he felt a gust of heat against his belly. It pushed him up into the air and spun him off to one side so that his right sail collapsed. He tumbled for a half-second before managing to level off. He was startled, but not afraid. He knew he’d just hit a thermal, one of the columns of hot air that sometimes rose from the ground at midday. This one was surprisingly strong.

He circled tightly and cast about for the wood nymph. It was already above him. There’d be no catching it now. Chiropters could only glide down, never up. His ears twitched in irritation.

The Lower Reach was before him, and he glided in to make a sturdy if not exactly elegant landing. With practice, his technique had improved over the months. He reviewed his prey count. He could scarcely believe it. It was strong. Very strong. Would have been one stronger if he hadn’t hit that thermal. He wondered how Sylph and the others had done.

As he waited, he peered down to the forest floor. Fifty feet below was a dense tangle of tea and laurel shrubs, ferns and horsetails. He tasted the air with his tongue: a humid funk of leaves and flowers, rotting vegetation and sun-baked mud—and urine. He’d never set claw down there. All sorts of four-legged groundlings lived amidst the undergrowth, foraging and burrowing. According to his father, they were mostly harmless, though a few weren’t very friendly. Luckily none of them could climb trees. If you listened you could hear them scuffling and snuffling, and occasionally he’d make out their dark furtive shapes.

Aeolus came in to land, quickly followed by Sylph and Jib.

“How did everyone do?” Dusk asked cheerfully.

“Not good,” said Aeolus. “Just eight.”

“Thirteen,” said Sylph, preening. It was an excellent count.

“Twelve,” muttered Jib.

Dusk waited a delicious moment. “Fifteen,” he said. “What?” Aeolus exclaimed. “You did not get fifteen!” Jib said.

“My brother doesn’t lie,” Sylph said, and Dusk saw the fur lifting on the back of her neck.

“It was pure luck,” said Dusk, trying to avoid a scrap. Sylph could be combustible. “There was a cloud of something just
hatched. I glided right through it and took six all at once! They were tiny.”

“Count it as one, then,” grumbled Jib. Dusk said nothing, but refused to break Jib’s angry stare.

“It counts as six,” Sylph said firmly. “It’s fair.”

Jib hunched his shoulders at Dusk. “If you weren’t the leader’s son, you’d probably have ended up like Cassandra.”