Darkwing Read online

  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 catchin
g 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.”

  “The newborn who died?” Sylph asked. “What’re you talking about, Jib?”

  “Didn’t you ever see her? She looked even weirder than Dusk. Her mother stopped nursing her.”

  “Why?” Dusk asked, horrified.

  “She was a freak,” said Jib with a shrug. “Her body was all wrong. They took her down to the dying branch and left her.”

  Dusk felt chilled through his fur and skin. The dying branch was a place he’d never visited. It jutted out low down, from the shady side of the tree, and was half veiled by hanging moss. It was where the sick or very old went when they knew they were going to die.

  “They say you can still see her bones,” Jib said, looking straight at Dusk. “Want to go see?”

  “Are you saying there’s something wrong with Dusk?” Sylph shouted at Jib.

  “No,” Jib muttered, taking a step back from her. “But I heard he probably would’ve been driven out of the colony, because of his sails and—”

  “You are such a bad loser, Jib,” Sylph said in disgust. “Get lost.”

  Jib snorted. “Congratulations on your lucky win, Furless. Come on, Aeolus, let’s go.”

  Dusk watched the two newborns begin the long climb back to their hunting perches.

  “Why are you friends with him?” Dusk asked his sister. “He’s not usually so unpleasant.”

  “Not to you, maybe. You don’t think Mom and Dad were tempted to abandon me, do you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Jib just hates me because he’ll never be leader.”

  “Dusk, you’re never going to be leader.”

  “I could!”

  “Well, I could too. I’d just have to kill off the rest of you first.” Side by side on the branch, the two of them absently set about grooming each other.

  “You are really filthy,” remarked Sylph with interest. “Don’t you ever comb your fur?”

  “Of course I do,” said Dusk indignantly. “Why? What’s in there?”

  “Just a whole colony of mites,” she mumbled, happily eating them off his back.

  “I have been pretty itchy there,” Dusk confessed.

  “I always know I can get a decent meal off you.” Dusk grunted, hoping to find something incriminating in his sister’s fur. But aside from a few spores and a single aphid, Sylph was, as usual, extremely well groomed.

  “Did you really get fifteen?” she asked sweetly.

  “Sylph!”

  “Just making sure.”

  “You just can’t believe I beat you!”

  “Well, it probably won’t happen again,” she said cockily. “Want to race back to the perch?”

  “Not really,” he said. “Afraid you’ll lose?”

  He knew he would lose. In the air he was fast, but on bark, his missing claws and weak legs doomed him to be among the slowest. He hated the climb back up. It was always so discouraging. He took a deep breath of the scented air, and his eyes strayed to the sun-bathed clearing. Insects soared effortlessly in the thermals.

  “I’ll even give you a head start,” Sylph said, “how’s that?”

  “Don’t need one,” he said.

  She looked at him strangely, then gave a laugh. “You really think you can beat me?”

  “I think so,” he replied boldly. “All right, then. See you up there!”

  Sylph darted up the trunk; for a moment Dusk watched her go, envying her agility and speed. Then, after only a moment’s hesitation, he hurled himself off the branch, sails unfurling. “What’re you doing?” he heard Sylph call out to him.

  Chiropters only went down, never up, Dusk thought. But maybe he could change that. Glancing about, he tried to find the thermal he’d encountered earlier. Where was it? “You’re really going to lose now!” Sylph shouted.

  He had no idea if his plan would even work. He’d slipped below the Lower Reach now, and with every second was falling farther. Dusk looked down in alarm. He’d never been so close to the forest floor. He saw something dark shift the undergrowth and disappear. Too risky. He decided to abandon his plan. What a waste. Now he’d have an even longer climb back to the perch.

  As he glided back towards the sequoia, warmth grazed his chest and he was suddenly weightless. He bounced up half a foot before tumbling to one side. Eagerly he circled and slid back into the thermal, this time angling his sails to anchor himself in midair.

  He wobbled but managed to hold on, and with an unexpected surge, the hot air lifted him. He felt it pushing against his sails, wafting past his chin and snout. He could not restrain his whoop of delight as he was propelled upwards. Chiropters could go up!

  It might not be flying, but it was the next best thing. Rising higher, he caught sight of Sylph diligently hurrying up the redwood’s trunk. “See you up there!” he called out.

  She turned and stared as he floated past, face blank with confusion.

  “Don’t slow down,” Dusk told her, hoping he’d remember her expression his entire life. “What’re you doing?” she bellowed. “Just riding some hot air.”

  “But … you … you’re cheating!” she wailed in outrage. “How am I cheating?” he asked calmly, all the while rising higher. “You’re not climbing!”

  “Who said anything about climbing? You just said it was a race.”

  “That isn’t fair!” she howled in outrage.

  For a moment she glared at him, shoulders hunched, sides heaving. Then, “Show me how to do it!” she demanded. “Maybe some other time,” Dusk said.

  “I want to know how!” And she threw herself off the tree and sailed out into the clearing, already well below him. “Dusk, show me!”

  For a moment he did nothing, just watched her fierce upturned face. A few chiropters glided past, hunting, and stared at him in bewilderment. “Please!” Sylph begged.

  Dusk sighed. This was getting embarrassing. “Find the column of hot air,” he told her. “It should be right underneath me.”

  He wa
tched as she sought out the thermal and then lurched straight through it.

  “Brace yourself with your sails!” he told her. “You’ve got to stay on top of it.”

  It took her three tries before she succeeded. Listing from side to side, she held tight and came bobbing up after him. He worried she might steal his lift, but there seemed enough for both of them.

  Sylph’s delighted laughter carried through the clearing. Her whole body rocked so wildly with mirth that Dusk worried she’d laugh herself right out of the thermal. Somehow she managed to hold on. “Oh! This is good, Dusk! Very good!”

  “Hi, Jib! Hi, Aeolus!” Dusk called out.

  Trudging up the redwood’s bark, the two newborns stopped and stared, Aeolus with bafflement, and Jib with undisguised envy.

  “What are you doing?” Jib demanded.

  “Just going back to the perch,” Sylph said smugly.

  “Watch out, everyone!” Dusk shouted. “We’re coming up!”

  They were rising through the prime hunting grounds now, and chiropters had to swerve around them to avoid a collision.

  “Nuisances!” one called out.

  Dusk was pretty sure it was Levantera, one of his sisters. She was only two years older, and when he was born, she’d still been sharing his parents’ nest. He’d been very fond of her, but two months ago she’d found a mate, and now had her own nest in another part of the tree. She was too grown up and important to speak to him and Sylph any more—unless she was reprimanding them for something or other.

  Dusk saw a few other chiropters watching, amused, but most looked suspicious and even disapproving before they sniffed and turned away. Dusk couldn’t believe that more of them didn’t want to try catching a thermal on their own. Weren’t they at all curious? Didn’t they see how much easier and faster it would be to get back to their perches?

  Dusk looked down at Sylph’s spread sails—luxuriant silver-streaked black fur, the three claws on each hand—and wondered how she and he could be so different, born within seconds from the same mother. He didn’t like the way his arm and finger bones always showed beneath his own taut, hairless sails.