Darkwing

  “Well, I don’t think it’s fair,” objected Sylph. “Why’s everyone so angry at Dusk? He didn’t kill Aeolus. It’s the birds everyone should be angry with. Barat was right, we should—”

  Dusk saw his father’s eyes spark. “I won’t tolerate this nonsense.” His voice was almost a growl. “Haven’t you heard what I’ve been saying, Sylph? We can’t control the birds’ actions. If we want to keep the peace, to avoid further deaths, it’s simplest for Dusk to stop flying. Fair has nothing to do with it.”

  “I know it won’t be easy, Dusk,” his mother said to him. “But your father’s right. It’s for the best. The flying must stop.”

  “I crave it,” Dusk said quietly. Despite his feelings of guilt, he could not quell his sadness. He had flown; he had risen.

  “It’s too dangerous, for you especially,” Dad said grimly. “If the birds did mean for you to be their victim, the next time they may not make a mistake.”

  Dusk shivered, thinking of the shrivelled Aeolus on the branch. Icaron looked kindly at him. “Do you remember when I took you up the tree for the first time?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t even want to jump.”

  “I was very afraid.”

  “But then you jumped, and your sails filled and you realized that you were made for the air. More than any of us knew. I’m not asking you to forsake the air. You’re a fine glider, Dusk. Very fast. You remember the pleasure of it, don’t you? Go back to gliding, hone those skills, and try not to think about the flying. It will get easier as time passes.”

  “I’ll try, Dad.”

  “You’ll promise me?”

  “I promise.”

  The next morning when he hunted, Dusk’s sails wanted to flap—it was almost second nature now—but he would not let them. He held them rigid, sweating with the effort, gliding down and down, landing, clawing his way slowly up the trunk. He missed a great deal of his prey. He was slower and less nimble now—and that night he went to sleep hungry.

  Over the next few days, things got worse. After Aeolus’s death, none of the other chiropters would even look at him. He felt invisible. All his mother’s worst fears were coming true. Before, he was just a freak; now, he was a trouble-bringer. Even though he’d stopped flying, it seemed no one wanted anything to do with him.

  Sylph remained his only companion—and he was poor company. He didn’t have much to say. He kept thinking about Aeolus and the birds. It would’ve taken quite a few to hold him down while they pecked off his sails. He still could not imagine Teryx doing such a thing. But maybe Dusk was simply wrong. Birds came from saurians, his father had said. Did that make them like the saurians: fierce hunters of beasts?

  On the third day after he’d stopped flying, Sylph asked if he wanted to go hunting. He shook his head. “You go ahead,” he said.

  “Are you feeling unwell, Dusk?” his mother asked. “I’m fine. I’m just not hungry.”

  “I’ll see you later, then,” said Sylph, and eagerly hurried off. Hunting with her yesterday he’d seen the way she kept glancing wistfully over at Jib and his group. When she stayed with Dusk, no one else would come near her or talk to her. Dusk knew she must miss her friends, but she was too loyal to leave him alone. He didn’t want her to start resenting him. His mother came close and nuzzled him. “I know this is hard for you,” she said. Dusk tried not feel angry, but he was. “I was good at flying.”

  “I know, but it really is for the best. You’ll see.”

  “Do you still use your echovision?” he asked her. “There’s not much need for it during daylight, but yes, sometimes I use it when I need to see more clearly.”

  “You didn’t have to give that up.”

  “Nor do you. But only because no one knows about it. Flying’s different.”

  “I gave it up, and everyone still loathes me. Why shouldn’t I fly?”

  “You know why.”

  “I hate the birds,” he muttered.

  They were the ones who’d done this to him. Every time he glided, he imagined them looking down and tweeting smugly about how they’d beaten him, how they’d taken away his wings.

  “The other chiropters will forget before long,” his mother promised. “They’re just scared and angry right now. You won’t always be shunned. Now, off you go and catch another Sphinx moth with that lightning-bolt glide of yours.”

  Dusk chuckled; his mother’s closeness and familiar smell were comforting. But his anger hadn’t entirely left him. The truth was, he didn’t even want to glide any more. He felt clumsy and sluggish in the air. After flying, it seemed like such a defeat. He wouldn’t give the birds the satisfaction.

  As everyone else in the colony hunted, he stayed behind on the tree. He ambled along the familiar branches, feeling sorry for himself. If his fellow chiropters wanted a freak, he’d become a freak. He’d scuttle about gleaning bugs and nibbling at seeds. It would never satisfy his hunger entirely, so he’d doubtless become thin and eccentric and scare little newborns by muttering nonsense.

  It was raining lightly, and though the tree’s enormous canopy kept most of the branches dry, in places water dripped down along the needles in perfect round drops, and filled small fissures in the bark. Dusk paused to drink before working his way out along some of the sequoia’s longest branches. They stretched out far enough to form a bridge to the next tree, and from there Dusk made a game of seeking out more branches that could carry him through the forest even farther from the sequoia. He wanted to be alone.

  As he went, he came upon some pink clearwing moth larvae boring into the bark, and ate them. They were very sweet and juicy, and much fatter than the average flying insect. Maybe he really could abandon the air altogether.

  Overhead, he was always conscious of the birds, a looming, sinister presence to him now. Their song no longer sounded beautiful. Through the gaps in the branches, he caught sight of large groups hurling themselves up into the sky, wheeling, suddenly invisible as they turned on their wings, then contracting back into a tight dark mass. Several birds shot off in the direction of the mainland. He wondered if they were planning some hideous attack on all the chiropters now, and would lash down upon them with beaks and talons.

  Dusk ventured no higher in the tree. He had no desire to get any closer to bird territory. Near the end of a branch he found a mushroom orchard, their translucent stalks growing from the mossy bark. He was astounded by how straight and tall the mushrooms stood, when their stalks were so wispy. Their pale heads bloomed at eye level, the edges faintly serrated and finely dusted with some kind of powder that caught the light.

  The newborns were told never to eat mushrooms. Many were poisonous, his mother had said. But he’d also overheard some older chiropters saying they weren’t truly poisonous, but made the eater see things no one else could. Dusk sniffed. It didn’t sound so different from seeing in the dark with his echovision. Newborns were told all sorts of things. He’d been told not to flap, that he couldn’t fly. But he could. Maybe there were too many rules. He felt bitter and reckless.

  He sidled up to the mushroom and cautiously licked its edge, then sucked at the tip of his tongue. It was certainly unlike anything he’d ever tasted, dark and moist, with a strain of something ethereal. He took another lick, this time crumbling a tiny bit of the mushroom’s fringe with his teeth. He liked the taste, but now felt worried. He probably shouldn’t eat any more, just in case.

  He waited for a bit, but nothing seemed to be happening. Thirsty, he moved to a small pool in the bark. He lapped, making the sunlight on the water’s surface flex and sparkle.

  He settled down beside the pool, still waiting to see something unusual. But all he saw were redwood branches. The wind swished gently through the forest. Dusk blinked.

  He realized that nothing was moving in the breeze. Not even the skinniest branchlet swayed. Up in the sky the clouds did not shift, and yet the sound of the wind was slowly building. He looked down at the pool of water and its surface was as s
mooth and fixed as hardened resin. Hanging in the air inches before his nose, a dragonfly floated, its wings motionless.

  Everything was frozen except him, and what was most surprising of all was that he felt no alarm. Heavy lethargy soaked through his limbs. He sank against the branch, sails spread, claws digging into the bark—though he felt that not even a hurricane could shift him now. Lifting his eyes skywards, he saw that night was coming on, though faster than any sunset he’d known. In a matter of seconds, the brightness between the branches was extinguished—and still the sound of wind built, though he felt nothing gusting against his fur.

  Complete darkness came suddenly and the world went silver, though he wasn’t aware of using his echovision. He couldn’t be, for the sweep and depth of his sight was impossible. He saw everything all at once, and not in quick flares. The trees stretched their branches into a sky that was suddenly pulsing with stars. Dusk gave a cry as some of them started growing bigger and brighter, moving slowly into new positions. The spectral wind blew and grew until it resolved itself into the rhythm of beating wings. Dusk’s first thought was the quetzal, but not even its vast wings could generate such a sound.

  The stars throbbed, making Dusk wince. The hurricane of wingbeats grew. In one great gust, all the branches overhead were swept away and there was nothing now between him and the sky. He felt terribly naked and defenceless as the glowing dome of the night enclosed him. He wanted everything to stop.

  The stars blazed with renewed vigour as they began to move once more. The brightest of them formed an outline of vast wings, flapping, and the sound of the wind came from these.

  “YOU ARE NEW.”

  The immense voice came not just from the stellar wings, but welled from the very earth too. Dusk felt its vibration through the tree and his own body. “YOU ARE NEW.”

  Dusk stared, terrified. The wings were big as the night. With every flap he felt he might get blown away, along with the entire earth, though no air buffeted him. “BUT THERE ARE OTHERS,” said the voice.

  What are you? Dusk wanted to ask, but his throat and mouth would not move.

  Then the wings banked and swept all the stars into new constellations that formed moving images.

  A sleek four-legged creature raced through a forest. Its jaws opened and became so enormous that Dusk could see its strange sharp-ridged teeth, made for shearing.

  Dusk shut his eyes. He’d had enough. He didn’t want to see any more. But even with his eyes clamped tight, his view of the immense night sky was exactly the same. It was as if his eyelids had been torn away.

  The stars spun and the four-legged creature became one that sat tall and upright on its rump, and seemed to run on its hind legs.

  Again the stars realigned and now there was a frightful mosaic of giant beaks and jaws gnashing.

  Things grew: stellar plants and trees soaring upward.

  Then the giant pair of wings again, beating the sky. On their final downstroke the wings shattered and became billions of small creatures, wings thrashing, streaming from the stars towards Dusk, who cowered on the branch. From the open mouths of these winged creatures came high-pitched clicks, and as they hurtled closer, Dusk realized they all looked like him. “THERE ARE OTHERS,” said the titanic voice once more.

  When Dusk finally opened his eyes, the day was back. Branches rustled in the breeze. The pool of water glimmered. The dragonfly continued on its way. Dusk unlocked his claws from the bark. He was drenched with sweat, and his heart raced. His mouth tasted terrible.

  He retched several times until the contractions in his stomach eased.

  “That,” he panted, “is the last time I lick a mushroom.”

  He must have slept, because the next thing he was aware of was his sister’s voice in the distance. Confused, he looked around. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was. He listened harder. It was definitely Sylph—she was hard to mistake; even whispering she was louder than anyone else.

  Dusk thought he made out a couple of other voices now too. They were quite a ways above him. What were they doing away from the sequoia? He started climbing after them, peering up through the branches, hoping to catch a glimpse.

  There was Sylph, and with her—of course—was Jib, and another newborn called Terra whom he didn’t know very well, one of Sol’s children.

  He didn’t call out greetings; there was something secretive about the way they moved, quick and nervous, as though their destination was forbidden. But what might it be? Up, there was only one thing. Birds. Sylph knew better than to go into their territory after what had happened to Aeolus.

  Dusk was never fast on bark at the best of times, and he was still weak from his mushroom experience. But just as he was about to lose sight of them altogether, they all paused, silent, on the underside of a thick branch. Dusk kept going, hoping to close the distance between them. What were they doing?

  Then he saw the nest. Its woven underside was resting on the branch they clung to. There was no sign of adult birds nearby. Maybe they were off getting food for themselves, or more material for their nest. But they wouldn’t be long returning. Sylph and the others peered up at it intently, then scuttled onto the branch, claws gripping the twig walls of the nest, heading for the rim. Dread seized Dusk’s heart.

  He’d promised he wouldn’t, but he did.

  He flew.

  He had to stop them before it was too late. Flapping hard he climbed swiftly. He dared not call out and risk attracting a bird’s attention. Sylph had reached the rim, and then Dusk lost sight of her as she disappeared with her friends over the side. He beat his sails more quickly, and circled over the nest.

  Inside, Sylph, Jib, and Terra looked up in terror, thinking him a bird.

  There were three blue eggs, and Sylph and her two friends were gathered round one, their claws against the shell, ready to crack it.

  “All of you, get out of there!” Dusk cried.

  “Shut up, Dusk!” hissed Jib. “They’ll hear you.”

  “Sylph, leave the eggs alone!” he told his sister, breathless. Sylph looked from him to her friends, as if uncertain what to do.

  “Hurry up and smash it!” urged Jib, trying to dig his thumb claw into the shell.

  Dusk dropped into the nest and reared up in front of Jib, flaring his sails in the other chiropter’s face.

  “Get out now, or Icaron will hear about this!”

  “They killed my cousin!” Jib spat.

  “And they’ll kill lots more of us if you do this. Now get out before the mother pecks off your sails! I think I hear something coming!”

  He was lying, but he was desperate, and it seemed to break Jib’s resolve.

  “Let’s get out of here!” he said, and they all started clambering up the sides of the nest. At the rim, they launched themselves, gliding away swiftly. Dusk flapped and lifted off, following Sylph, and hoping fervently they had not been spotted by any birds.

  When they were within sight of the sequoia, Jib and Terra veered off, leaving Dusk and Sylph on their own. She landed on a branch and he set down beside her. She whirled on him.

  “You embarrassed me!” she said.

  “You should be embarrassed!” he told her. “Do you have any idea what you were about to do?”

  “Yes, and we would’ve done it if you hadn’t shown up. There probably wasn’t even a bird coming, was there?”

  “No, but I had to stop you somehow. Was this your idea?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sylph!”

  “Well, Jib and I thought it up. Dad wasn’t going to do the right thing. He’s lost his nerve! Nova wouldn’t have let the birds get away with this.”

  “Well, she’s not leader,” Dusk snapped, “and never will be.”

  “Jib says she would’ve been leader if it weren’t for Dad.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “It was Nova’s father, Proteus, who first thought of leaving the Pact. The whole thing was his idea. And he was the olde
st too. So he should’ve been leader. But Dad made himself leader instead. That’s what Jib says.”

  Dusk felt sick. “What Nova says, you mean. I don’t believe anything from her.”

  “Maybe you should! And maybe we’d be better off with her as leader.”

  “Don’t you dare say that!”

  He was startled by his own fury, and Sylph must have been too, because she flinched. For a moment neither said anything.

  “If you’d broken that egg,” Dusk told Sylph more calmly, “the birds would’ve retaliated, and things would’ve just got worse. You’re not going to try this again, are you?”

  She glared at him.

  “Sylph, promise me, or I’m telling Dad everything.”

  “Fine,” she snapped. “I won’t do anything. But I don’t see why we should be the forgiving ones.”

  “You don’t have to forgive them; just don’t retaliate.”

  “You sound like Dad,” she scoffed. “He’s trying to do his best for us.”

  “Is he? What about you? You could fly, and now he’s forbidden it. Doesn’t that make you angry?”

  “Yes. But not at Dad.”

  This wasn’t completely true, but he knew his resentment was unfair. Dad was just trying to keep the peace, and the price of peace meant taking something precious from his own son.

  “When are you going to realize that Dad isn’t perfect?” Sylph said. “He’s wrong sometimes, Dusk, and he’s too proud to admit it. He was wrong to abandon the Pact, and he was wrong to punish you instead of the birds!”

  “No—”

  “If I were you,” his sister said passionately, “I wouldn’t stop flying. It makes you as big a coward as Dad.” And then she glided away from him.

  At first, the prey was completely unsuspecting.

  Carnassial surprised many groundlings, pouncing upon them before they could bolt. But even a single kill—the frenzied sounds and smell of it vaulting through the humid air—was enough to make all the nearby beasts wary. And day by day the hunting became more difficult as news of Carnassial and his meat-eating prowl outpaced them through the forest.