Darkwing (9 page)

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.

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!”

Dusk waited in agony as his father drew closer. “Is this true?” Icaron asked. Dusk nodded.

As miserable as he felt, at least the burden of keeping his secret had now been lifted. “Show me,” Icaron said gruffly.

Dusk dutifully shuffled to the edge of the branch. He had a quick, sad memory of his father teaching him how to glide, and then he jumped, unfurling his sails, and soaring up into the air. He could hear the rumble of shock and amazement from the watching chiropters.

For a moment, he considered flapping even higher, disappearing altogether so that he wouldn’t have to return to face his father’s anger and shame. He could find some new place to live and become odd and smelly and bug-ridden. But that would
mean leaving his mother and father and Sylph and his home, and everything he loved, and he knew he could never do that. He would have to face his father. He sighed, banked, and came in for a landing on the branch.

Walking through the hushed chiropters towards Icaron, Dusk stared at his claws.

“How long have you been able to do this?” he heard his father ask.

“I just found out yesterday.”

He didn’t know exactly what kind of punishment would be meted out, but he could only imagine it would be severe.
You are not a bird. You do not flap. Chiropters glide, not fly.
Would they drive him out?

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“I think this is extraordinary,” his father said. In disbelief, Dusk looked up at him, and saw that his face was not compressed in anger and disapproval, but opened wide with wonder. The other chiropters had gone suddenly quiet and were watching their leader carefully.

“You do?” Dusk asked.

“Really?” Sylph said, startled.

“Spread your sails,” Icaron said to Dusk. “Let me have a look at you.”

Dusk did as he was told, and his father moved closer and silently examined the underside of his sails.

“When you flap,” Icaron asked, “where does the strength come from?”

“From the chest and shoulders, I think.” Icaron nodded. “Yes. See, it’s here. Your chest is larger and stronger than normal. Your shoulders too. They’ve always been that way, since you were first born. You’d need a lot of muscles to flap your sails as quickly as you do.”

Dusk was unable to stop himself from sliding his gaze over to Sylph and then Jib.
Stronger than normal. A lot of muscles.

“He can’t be the only one who can do it, then,” said Jib boldly.

“Try it,” Icaron invited him. “I’ve never heard of another chiropter who could fly. I don’t think we have enough muscle power.”

“There must be others,” Dusk said to his father.

“I don’t think so, Dusk.” Icaron shook his head, looking again at his son’s sails. “It really is remarkable. When you flapped on your very first glide, I had no idea, no idea at all….”

“This is so unfair,” Sylph sighed, and climbed away, up the tree. The other chiropters were beginning to disperse now too, carrying on with their hunting or grooming. Dusk caught a few wary looks, and heard some sour mutterings about how it wasn’t right, and who would want to fly like a bird anyway?

“So is it all right?” Dusk asked. “To fly?”

“Why not?” his father said. “I think it’s a wonderful skill.” Dusk still had trouble believing his father’s reaction. He seemed genuinely excited, and it helped cleanse Dusk of the corrosive anxiety he’d felt.

“Just make sure you stay below the Upper Spar,” Icaron told him. “The birds won’t welcome another flyer in their territory.”

All morning Dusk flew, gleefully swooping and climbing through the clearing. An intoxicating freedom soared through his new body. Anywhere: he could go anywhere.

He was catching more prey than ever before. He figured he could manoeuvre in tighter spaces than the bird, but he couldn’t imagine his flight ever being so graceful. Best of all, he would never have to face the long, wearying climb back up the tree.
He looked pityingly down at the other chiropters hauling themselves up the trunk.

He found he still tired quickly. Ten minutes was the longest he could stay aloft before needing a good rest. But his hunting was so much more efficient, he figured he was still saving time overall. With more practice, he was sure his muscles would get stronger and keep him airborne longer.

The news of his flying blew through the colony quicker than a gale. He saw a few newborns, including Jib, trying desperately to fly. None of them had any more success than Sylph, and when their parents caught sight of them they were angrily told to stop.

At midday, when the sun was at its brightest and the drone of cicadas was almost deafening, Dusk found Sylph back at the nest, resting in the shade. He settled beside her and began grooming. She did not offer to comb his back.

“You know what really gets me?” she said. “If I’d been the one to fly, Dad wouldn’t have let me.”

“What?”

“You know it’s true,” she said, her ears twitching. “If it were me, he’d just see it as something else I did wrong.”

“Sylph, that’s not true. He’d have been just the same.” She turned to him, and Dusk was startled by the disdain in her eyes.

“Think what you like,” she said. “It doesn’t change the truth.” She glided off into the clearing.

Dusk stared after her, hurt and then angry. She was jealous, plain and simple. But her words echoed in his head all afternoon, and he wondered if there was some truth to them. Would his father have been so surprisingly generous with Sylph? Was Dad making a special exception just for him?

As he flew through the clearing, everyone stared. The looks
were not all nice. Though some were wide with wonder, many were closed with wariness. He didn’t like so many eyes on him. It embarrassed him. Sylph would’ve been different; she would’ve loved all the attention. It would have been impossible to get her out of the air.

“You’re in my way!” a chiropter snapped, as Dusk climbed steeply in pursuit of a lacewing.

“Sorry,” said Dusk, veering to one side before hurtling up to intercept his prey.

“That was mine!” his brother Borasco shouted angrily.

“Sorry,” Dusk said. “I didn’t see you.”

“Pay more attention, then! Anyway, you can’t go catching prey from below. It’s not done. It’s stealing someone’s food away! Work from above like the rest of us.”

Dusk apologized yet again, but he certainly had no intention of catching prey only from above. What was the point of flying, then? Still, he could see how irritating it would be to have someone forever pinching your bugs out from under you.

Maybe he should be feeding outside the prime hunting grounds. It was much less crowded and he wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. He sighed. Sylph was already angry with him, and if he wasn’t extremely careful, she wouldn’t be the only one in the colony.

That night, he woke to the sound of his parents’ low voices. They had moved off a little ways down the branch, but Dusk could hear them quite clearly if he pricked his ears high. Beside him, Sylph slept deeply. His stomach swirled: it must be serious if Mom and Dad were talking in private in the middle of the night.

“You know what would have happened to him back on the mainland,” his mother said. “I know very well. The colony would’ve driven him out.”

“Or killed him,” his mother added.

Dusk felt cold with fear. They were talking about him! He worried his parents would hear his nervous breathing.

“That’s why I showed the colony he has my complete approval,” Dad said. “If they think their leader approves, they will approve. We need to protect him, Mistral.”

“You wouldn’t have been so tolerant of our first-borns, Icaron. You would have forbidden them.”

Icaron’s tone was amused. “Perhaps, but the years of peace and plenty have obviously mellowed me. And it
is
an amazing thing, Mistral, you have to admit.”

“Others won’t be so kindly disposed towards it,” his mother replied. “Some will be envious; more will simply see him as a freak.” Dusk heard her sigh. “He’ll have trouble finding a mate.”

Dusk relaxed a bit. Was this all his mother was worried about? He wasn’t the least bit concerned. Most chiropters didn’t find a mate until their second or third year. Anyway, he wasn’t even interested. It wouldn’t be such a tragedy if he never found a mate. He had his mother and father and Sylph—though he supposed Sylph would go off to live with her mate when it was time.