Darkwing Page 8

  There was more loud rustling, closer than ever. If he did not act, he would be eaten. The sudden, scalding will to survive evaporated his weakness.

  Before he even knew what he was doing, he had sprung into the air and was flapping his sails, fast. A strength he had never known coursed from his chest to his shoulders, down his arms, and radiated out along his fingers like forked lightning. His breathing quickened; his heart purred furiously. The pauses between his upstrokes and downstrokes dissolved until he could not tell one from the other, and was only aware of his arms and sails in perpetual motion.

  He was rising.

  The ground shrank below him. One foot, two, three! There was no thermal helping him this time. It was all his own power. He was free of the earth! No predator could get him now. He kept looking from side to side, seeing the blur of his sails, scarcely understanding how this was possible. It was as if all his past, thwarted impulses to flap had finally been explosively unleashed.

  Below him, something with wings thrashed out from the undergrowth and into the air, its beak filled with twigs.

  It was only a bird, foraging for its nest! That was what had scared him half to death. It had sounded so huge on the ground.

  Dusk was no longer just rising; he was moving forward, gaining speed. As he veered up towards the trees, he slewed from side to side, not knowing quite how to steer himself under power. His whole body suddenly felt unfamiliar to him, and he didn’t trust himself to make a landing. He caught sight of Sylph, gawking at him from the end of the branch. He stopped flapping, fixed his sails, and shakily glided down beside her.

  “You flew,” Sylph gasped.

  “I flew,” he wheezed.

  For a moment neither of them said anything as he caught his breath.

  “It’s the speed,” he said excitedly. “I just wasn’t flapping fast enough before!”

  “Before? You’ve tried this before?” Sylph exclaimed. He winced, but his secret was out now. “Well, just a few times.”

  “On the Upper Spar, right?” she said. “I knew it! I knew you were doing something weird up there!”

  “I was trying to copy the birds, but it wasn’t working, because they don’t need to flap as quickly as I do!” Sylph hunched forward eagerly. “Show me!”

  “Not here,” he said. He was worried one of the search parties would hear or see them, and come to investigate.

  They glided back into the forest a ways, and settled on a roomy tree.

  Dusk inhaled, closed his eyes, trying to summon up the exact sensation of flight. He found it easier if he demonstrated with his sails.

  “Down and forward, like this, stretching, then you’ve got to flex them—”

  “Bending at the elbows and wrists?” said Sylph, watching intently.

  “Yes. And then, look, right away you’re bringing them back, tilted upward. Way up over your head. And then you start all over again.”

  “That’s it?” Sylph said, unimpressed.

  “That’s it.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “You have to flap fast,” Dusk told her, a little annoyed. If she was going to be so cocky about it, maybe he didn’t want her to fly after all.

  “How fast?” she asked.

  “As fast as you possibly can.”

  “Right.” And with that, Sylph jumped.

  Clear of the branches she started pumping her sails up and down. She worked hard, but her strokes were sluggish, her sails billowing with every downstroke. Churning the air furiously, she was slowly but surely going nowhere but earthward.

  “Make your sails taut!” Dusk said. Despite his irritation with her, he didn’t want to see her fail. If she could do it, it meant others could do it, and he wouldn’t be alone. He wouldn’t be a freak. “Flap faster! Remember to flex on the upstroke.”

  It did no good, but she persisted, falling all the while. From his branch Dusk could hear her sharp cries of exertion and frustration.

  When finally she gave up and glided back to the tree’s lower branches, she made no attempt to climb up to Dusk. So he glided down to her.

  “Why wasn’t it working?” Sylph panted.

  “I don’t know. You flapped as hard as you could?”

  “Yes!”

  “You’ll get the hang of it,” he said confidently, hoping to mask his own doubt. “I didn’t get anywhere my first few times.”

  “I’ll give it a try later,” Sylph said. “Good.”

  “We should probably head back.”

  Dusk nodded. The possibility of finding a saurian nest didn’t seem very enticing at all any more. The most exciting thing he could imagine had just happened to him, and the memory of his first flight throbbed in every muscle and sinew of his body.

  On their way back to the sequoia, Dusk didn’t know if he should fly again. He didn’t want Sylph to think he was showing off, trying to make her feel bad. But his shoulders and chest and arms felt different now. The urge to flap was overwhelming, and he was desperate to make sure he could do it again, that it wasn’t just some freakish accident.

  In mid-glide he took his first stroke. Down went his sails. Their wind buffeted his face. He shot forward, lifting. Then he flexed his elbows and wrists, half folding his sails, angling the leading edge upward, and raised them with all his might. And then, within seconds, he did not need to think any more. Instinct, long denied, took over.

  He was careful not to streak too far ahead of Sylph, circling back so he could practise his turns. They were tricky, and he was unused to travelling at such speeds through the branches. A couple of times he nearly brained himself.

  Landing was another challenge, because he tended to come in too quickly at the best of times. Now, under power, he was even more uncontrolled. For the time being, he merely settled back into a glide to lose speed, and landed as he’d always done. It didn’t feel right, but it was something he could work on over time.

  How had he tolerated all those months of gliding? It was so inefficient, so limited, the earth always pulling you down. Flying, all those restraints were cut loose. He could rise and fall as he chose. It was as if his body had been patiently waiting for him to realize the full extent of its abilities. It was sheer glee.

  Exhaustion was the only price he had to pay. He could only fly for a little over a minute before he was gasping, and had to rest. He hoped that in time his stamina would improve.

  “I want another try,” said Sylph. “I’ve been watching. I think I can do it now.”

  “Let’s see,” said Dusk. “I can’t be the only one who can do this. It’s just like the thermals—no one’s bothered to try it. If I can do it, others can do it!”

  With a whoop, Sylph launched herself into the air and started flapping. When Dusk flew, he’d noticed his own sails only as a blur. Watching his sister, he could easily count every one of her strokes. They were not nearly fast enough. Once again she fell, jerking wildly down and down. She landed dejectedly.

  “I can’t make my sails move any faster,” she said, her voice breaking.

  Dusk fluttered down to her, but she refused to look at him. His elation cooled. “First you see in the dark,” she muttered, “now this.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I’m your sister! I should be able to do this too!”

  “I don’t understand it either.”

  “Oh, I do,” she said after a moment. “You’re different, Dusk. Always have been. But this—flying—it makes all the other things seem tiny.”

  “There must be others who can—”

  Sylph cut him off. “No other chiropter has ever flown, Dusk.”

  “Not that we know of, anyway.”

  “It’s not right.”

  Her words stung, because the same thought had worried him. Still he was not ready to concede anything yet.

  “Just because something’s unusual or new doesn’t make it wrong,” he insisted.

  “I don’t know about that,” she retorted, turning angry eyes on
him. “All I know is that flying is something birds do.”

  “And winged saurians,” he pointed out.

  Suddenly he remembered the dream he’d had last night. I give you my wings, the dead saurian had told him. It was just a dream, but still, it made him feel a bit sick. “Chiropters were made for gliding,” Sylph said. “I’m not sure I was,” said Dusk. “My sails never glided that well. They always wanted to flap. Always!”

  It was the first time he’d ever admitted it, and the secret, after being clenched inside him for so long, came out in a triumphant cry.

  “Like I said, that’s what makes you different. It’s unnatural.” Sylph paused, as if wondering whether to say something. “It’s like you’re not even a chiropter.”

  Dusk’s heart thumped. “Don’t say that. I am a chiropter!” In his fear he almost shouted it. He did not want to be so different. The very idea terrified him.

  In that moment he wished he could undo everything. If only he hadn’t landed on the ground. If only that wretched bird hadn’t been foraging nearby and scared him half to death. If only he hadn’t flapped. “Is ‘different’ wrong?” he asked Sylph. She grunted. “Dad is going to be really angry.”

  “You think?”

  “He’s the leader of the colony. Do you think he wants a son who flaps around like a bird?” Dusk swallowed.

  “And remember what Mom said. Behave like the colony, or risk being shunned by the colony.”

  “You can’t tell anyone about this,” Dusk said urgently. “Promise me, Sylph.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said kindly. “I promise. I’ll keep your secret.”

  Carnassial prowled the forest.

  After his first kill, he’d been overtaken with a shame almost as overwhelming as the pain that had twisted his guts. On the bank of the stream he’d vomited up part of his feed, and then returned to the prowl, promising himself he would never do such a thing again. Patriofelis was right: it was barbaric.

  But a day passed, then another, and the memory of that warm paramys flesh never left him. It lingered in his mouth, tingled his salivary glands. The surfaces of his teeth could not forget the ecstasy of tearing. His mind became a weary battlefield, his thoughts clashing again and again until he was exhausted.

  It was unnatural; it was natural.

  He could not do it again; he would do it again.

  Even in his sleep, he was tormented by visions of hunting, which brought equal measures of remorse and elation.

  Now night was falling and he was deep in the forest, his pupils dilated. In his head echoed two words.

  I must.

  He was far from the other felids; but he had to be certain there were no other beasts watching.

  He barred his mind to all other thoughts and doubts.

  He ground his teeth; his nostrils flared. There.

  A small groundling rooted near the base of a tree. Carnassial approached stealthily from behind. It was not a he or a she. It was an it. It was neither son nor daughter, father nor mother. It was prey. It was his to devour.

  A twig snapped under his paw, and the rooter looked over his shoulder and saw him. Their eyes locked. At first the rooter’s squat body registered no alarm. It was common to see felids in the forest, and all manner of beasts crossed paths peaceably. But this time, the rooter must have sensed something other than simple indifference in Carnassial.

  Carnassial saw it tense, ready to flee.

  “No!” it squealed.

  Carnassial ran forward, then sprang. It was an ugly fight. The rooter thrashed with all its strength, scratching and biting, twice wrenching itself free from Carnassial’s jaws and trying to drag itself away on wounded legs. But each time Carnassial seized it again, clamping its throat tighter. The kill took much longer than Carnassial had expected. It was a sweaty, dirty, loud business. When the rooter’s body was finally limp, Carnassial was worried their noise must have been heard.

  Panting, he hauled the carcass into the thick cover of some tea bushes. His breath came in ragged little bursts. He listened for a moment, but heard nothing nearby. And then he could wait no longer. His blood pounded through him and he was almost whimpering with need. He pushed the rooter’s face down, so that he would not have to look at its dead eyes, and tore into the soft flesh of its belly. He knew he would have to feed quickly, for the rich, intoxicating smell of the guts would spread through the forest quick as a breeze.

  He ate like a creature who’d starved for days, heedless of everything else.

  When he lifted his head for breath, Panthera was watching him from the other side of the bushes, not five feet away. “What have you done?” she whispered.

  Her nose quivered with the smell; her whiskers twitched in agitation and her ears pricked high. Her astonishment made him realize how he must look, his face a mess of clotted blood, strings of flesh snared between his teeth. “We are meant to do this,” he said quietly. “Try some.”

  She took a step back.

  “Panthera,” he said, wounded by the fear and revulsion glimmering in her eyes. “This is the way of the future. This is how we will rule.”

  She turned and ran.

  CHAPTER 7

  WAY OF THE FUTURE

  Waking early, Dusk’s muscles hurt so much he wondered if he really was meant to fly. When he breathed in, his chest throbbed hotly and his shoulders jolted with pain. Flexing his sails made him wince. He lay very still, listening to the start of the birds’ dawn chorus, the first solitary notes carrying through the forest, then multiplying like echoes. Usually their music filled Dusk with a sense of wonder and well-being; he liked to imagine the birds were singing the day to them, conjuring the sun. But this morning he felt heavy with worry.

  He should be happy. Yesterday, he and Sylph had returned to the tree well ahead of the others, and rejoined the newborns, their absence completely unnoticed by the harried Bruba. They’d had their adventure and escaped punishment. And as evening came on, the search parties had returned one by one to the clearing, each bringing the same news. There was no sign of saurians or nests. The mood in the sequoia was joyous. Dusk was relieved that the island was safe, and delighted that his father had proven Nova wrong.

  But none of this seemed important. He could fly.

  He closed his eyes and remembered the thrilling sensation. Yet right now he felt about as buoyant as a stone. Should he tell his parents he could fly? Was he supposed to go his entire life hiding it? He glanced over at his mother and father, their eyes still closed, and wondered what they would say.

  “Come on,” said Sylph, shifting beside him. “I’m hungry.” Stiffly, he followed his sister. Launching himself into the air, he had to restrain himself from flapping. He gave a little moan of pain as he unfurled his sails, made them rigid, and began hunting. His empty stomach yowled, but he felt listless.

  “Are you all right?” Sylph asked as their paths crossed.

  “Just sore,” he muttered.

  As the sun appeared, the clearing became more crowded. Dusk’s hunting was lacklustre. Something was smouldering beneath his low spirits and he realized it was anger. Every muscle in his shoulders and arms wanted to flap, and yet he was denying himself. He could fly, so why didn’t he? Why should he be so afraid to be what he was?

  “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?” Sylph asked worriedly as she glided past.

  He banked away, fuming.

  He tried to catch a swamp moth and missed. “Not doing too well, are you, Furless?”

  It was Jib, sailing just above him.

  Dusk ignored him. He sighted a dragonfly, wheeled too sharply, and his prey shot over his head, climbing. Jib’s mockery battered him once more.

  “Let me show you how it’s done, Furless,” Jib said, swooping down on the dragonfly.

  Dusk couldn’t bear it. His sails exploded into action and he was flapping hard, climbing and banking at the same time, his hunting clicks guiding him straight to the dragonfly. He snatched it from the air, a
mere second ahead of Jib. “That,” he shouted, “is how it’s done!”

  Jib was too surprised even to cry out in indignation. He tumbled through the air for a moment, regained his glide, and stared up at Dusk, incredulous.

  Dusk landed on a branch, heart pounding triumphantly. No dragonfly had ever tasted better. But his glee was short-lived. He noticed that all the chiropters nearby, some gliding, others crouched on the branches, were staring at him. They gazed at him like something alien that had plummeted from the sky. Sylph hurriedly set down beside him.

  “What have you done?” she hissed. “What about keeping it secret?”

  “I … I just couldn’t help it,” Dusk said.

  Sylph, who had never feared being loud or argumentative or annoying, looked stricken. “This is going to be really bad,” she said.

  Dusk’s throat felt dry, and he almost choked on the last bit of dragonfly.

  “How did you do that?” he heard someone shout. “He flew!” someone yelled. “Icaron’s son flew!”

  “You flapped!” Jib exclaimed, climbing the trunk towards them. “What kind of freak are you?”

  “Chiropters can’t fly!” someone else said. “This one did! I saw it. He flapped.”

  “He’s some kind of mutant!” That was Jib again, on the same branch now, with an unfathomable look blazing in his eyes. Was it envy, or fear, or hatred?

  More and more chiropters were crowding around him now, and Dusk didn’t like it. Why hadn’t he controlled his temper? His split-second mistake was going to get him in more trouble than he could imagine. Some of the chiropters didn’t merely sound surprised; they sounded angry, and Dusk started to feel afraid of what they might do. A musk of aggression wafted past him. When he caught sight of his father gliding towards the branch to land, relief welled up inside him.

  “What’s going on?” Icaron demanded, his nostrils wrinkling as he sniffed out the ugly mood.

  The chiropters on the branch made room for him—a little path that ran directly to his son. They were all talking at once.

  “He flapped!”

  “Dusk flew!”

  “We all saw him!”

  “He flapped like a bird!”