Darkwing (11 page)

“We’ve seen you flapping around!” the mother screeched. Her crest flared, revealing violent red feathers beneath. “You have no right! Stop flying, for your sake if nothing else! There are those who would gladly rip your wings from your little body!”

Dusk caught a glimpse of Teryx cringing behind his mother, head twitching, crest ruffling. He looked as terrified as Dusk felt.

“And stay out of our territory!” the mother bird hissed, lunging at him, jagged beak wide.

Dusk jumped, unfurling his sails and spiralling down through the branches of the great sequoia. A quick backward glance told him he wasn’t being pursued, and he landed, heart fluttering like a moth. He’d never been attacked by another animal. He felt a flare of indignation: who was she to tell him to stop flying?

Egg-eater!

It was so unjust. His father had come to the island to escape the egg-eaters. But these birds still blamed them for things they’d never done.

He didn’t know what to do. Tell his mother and father, and he might get in deep trouble simply for talking to the bird. Venturing into their territory was even more serious. He couldn’t believe how foolish he’d been. If Nova found out, she’d say she was right and that his flying was going to enrage the birds and bring trouble for the entire colony.

But what if Teryx’s story of saurian bones and egg-eaters was true? His father should know about it.

Dusk stopped shaking. His stomach no longer pinched and slewed. He could always have a look on his own. Teryx said it wasn’t far. That way, if the bird was lying, Dusk wouldn’t have to tell his parents at all. He could just forget about it and remember never to go near birds again. Barbaric creatures.

He would go and find these saurian bones himself—if they were even there to be found.

Dusk had already passed the clearing Teryx had described, and when the land started to dip, he slowed down. The trees thinned. He didn’t like being all alone in the forest. It hadn’t been so bad when he was with Sylph, but now he felt nervous and vulnerable. Chiropters weren’t exactly forbidden to explore; it was just that no one did it much. There was no point. Everything they needed was around the sequoia.

This must be the right spot. He didn’t want to go too close to the earth, especially after his last terrifying experience down there. He landed on a branch and peered into the tangle of greens and browns, brightly flecked with flowering vines. Sunlight shafted down, but there were many pools of shadow. His echovision illuminated them, the forest floor leaping into sharp focus as he searched for bones.

He sucked in his breath.

Teryx hadn’t been lying. They were coated in green moss and twined with plant tendrils, and with just his eyes he might have mistaken them for curving branches. But his mind’s eye easily saw the pattern they formed: a series of arcs rising from the earth.

Ribs!

What first appeared to be leaves plastered against the ribs with rain and mud turned out to be remnants of skin and scales.

Why hadn’t any of the recent chiropter expeditions stumbled on these remains? He supposed they’d all been bound for the coast, and weren’t looking for anything in the forest itself. And it would be easy enough to miss the bones unless you knew they were there.

He probed farther with his echovision, altering the strength of his clicks. Beyond the ribs, he made out the smooth surface of a large skull, picked clean over the years. And scattered across the undergrowth—

Dusk stared for a long time, listening to the streams of his returning echoes to make sure.

They could only be egg shards, thick and leathery on the outside, but smooth and curved on the inside. Strewn amidst the shards were small bones. A leg bone, maybe. A clawed foot. Two skulls, not much bigger than his own.

There
had
been saurians on this island, and it looked as if their eggs had been destroyed.

But what chiropter in their colony would do such a thing?

He had the answer almost before he’d thought the question.

Nova.

He flew back towards the sequoia, his head ablaze with what he’d just seen. He wasn’t far from the tree when he caught sight of
another chiropter up ahead. With surprise he realized it wasn’t gliding. It was trying to fly.

Dusk flew closer, trying to get a better view through the branches, wondering who on earth it could be. It was having no more success than any of the others, flapping clumsily and churning the air and going nowhere. It was always the speed, Dusk thought ruefully; they just weren’t able to flap their sails fast enough.

He didn’t want to embarrass the chiropter, and was about to detour around him, when he caught sight of the streaks of grey fur along its flanks. The chiropter swivelled unexpectedly in the air and looked straight at him, and Dusk realized who it was. His father quickly extended his sails all the way and glided in to land on a branch. “Dusk?” he called out.

“Hello!” Dusk called back, fluttering closer. He felt awkward: his father obviously hadn’t wanted anyone to see him.

“I wanted to give it a try,” his father said cheerfully. “Just to get a sense of how it feels when you do it.”

As Dusk landed, he could see his father was breathing heavily. He’d been working very hard, and for some time.

“It’s really difficult,” Dusk said. “And tiring. I still have a lot of trouble—”

His father gave him an affectionate nuzzle. “You don’t need to console me, Dusk. I’m too old and wise to yearn for something I can’t have. I’m perfectly content to glide.”

“Oh, I know,” said Dusk, nodding agreeably. He got the sense they were both pretending. He felt suddenly sad. He’d always seen his father as indomitable, and, against all common sense, had hoped his father
would
be able to fly, even without the right muscles in his chest and shoulders. But his father had been
defeated, and Dusk hated that. It also made him feel a little afraid.

“Where have you been?” his father asked him. “I don’t like you so far from the tree.”

“I know, I’m sorry. But—” He tried to think of the best way to begin. He’d been planning his speech as he flew home, but this sudden meeting had thrown him completely off course.

“I was on the Upper Spar,” he began, “and I got talking with a bird.”

“You were speaking with a bird?”

“We stayed in our own territories. Mostly,” Dusk added, then hurried on. “He wanted to see me fly, and I wanted to see him fly, and then a bit later he called me an egg-eater.”

“Did he now?” said his father with a gruff laugh. “Well, no doubt they’re familiar with what our cousins on the mainland have been doing.”

“And I tried to explain we were different,” said Dusk. “But Ter—” He cut himself off, not wanting his father to know he knew Teryx’s name; it would seem like they’d become friends. “The bird said there were once saurians on this island and we destroyed their nest.”

Icaron looked skeptical. “Birds are hardly the most reliable source. There’s never been any friendship between us. They’re descendants of the saurians.”

“They are?”

“Certainly. Long ago they were once feathered saurians who could climb trees, then learned to fly.”

Dusk was so amazed by this information that it took him a moment to rally his thoughts. “Well, the bird told me there were saurian bones on the island. He told me where I could find them.” Icaron’s gaze strayed from his son’s face. “And did you find these bones?” he asked.

Dusk nodded excitedly. “Describe them to me.”

Dusk did his best, trying not to leave out even the smallest detail. His father listened carefully. Then Dusk told him about the shattered eggs and the tiny dismembered skeletons among the shards.

“The bird said his great-grandfather saw a chiropter break the eggs,” Dusk said. “And I know who it must have been. Nova! Don’t you think, Dad? It’s exactly the kind of thing she’d do!”

His father made no reply, and as the silence stretched on, Dusk’s pulse quickened. Was Dad angry with him? His mind churned anxiously, and he realized how rash he’d been. He’d just assumed Teryx’s story was true.

“These are grave accusations, Dusk,” his father said. “If such a thing truly happened, it’s a terrible atrocity, and one obviously carried out in secrecy. I don’t like to think even Nova could be capable of such deviousness.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dusk, shame-faced.

“I’ll need to investigate the remains myself. They do sound like saurians, but I want to make sure. It may be they’re centuries old and died long before we came to the island.” His nostrils flared in distaste. “But if someone in our colony did this thing, I’ll do everything I can to find out who.” He paused. “But until I find out more, don’t mention this to anyone, Dusk. Not Sylph, not even your mother.”

Dusk nodded fervently, flattered to be trusted with such an important secret.

Carnassial woke swiftly, his claws already extended, a snarl unfurling in his throat. He was encircled by other felids, their
eyes flashing moonlight. No doubt they were sent by Patriofelis, to drive him even farther away from the prowl.

“I will fight,” he spat at them, showing his teeth.

The nearest slunk back submissively. “We didn’t come to fight,” she said quietly.

Carnassial stalked closer, sniffing, and remembered her. She was Miacis, an accomplished saurian hunter. He moved around the other felids, sniffing and recognizing most of them. There were twenty-five in all, males and females both. When he realized Panthera was not among them, his heart gave a quick, hard squeeze of sadness.

“Why have you come?” Carnassial asked.

“We are like you,” Miacis told him. “We too crave flesh.”

“Ah,” said Carnassial, pleased. He knew he couldn’t be the only one. Others must have tested their teeth on hatchling saurians and carrion. But he’d wondered how many would be courageous enough to admit it. “Does Patriofelis know you’ve come?”

“No,” said Miacis.

“Have you killed yet?”

“No,” said Miacis. “We are afraid of being caught and expelled.”

“Then you must ask yourselves how great your craving is for flesh,” Carnassial said. “I tried to quench mine, but it couldn’t be quenched. You must ask yourselves if you’re willing to hunt and to kill.”

“We are,” said Miacis, looking at the other felids. “But are you willing to leave the prowl forever?” Carnassial asked.

“Surely if we all return united and speak to—” Miacis began, but Carnassial cut her off.

“No,” he said. “Patriofelis is old and set in his ways. He lives in the past, and he will not allow our new appetites to flourish in
the prowl. He fears war, but that is always the way of the future. There are too many beasts for all of us to feed on insects and plants. Sooner or later, some beast will begin hunting another. And they will get stronger and heavier with that meat. Then they will become the new predator we all fear. I say, let that predator be us. But Patriofelis will not listen to reason.”

“Then we can overthrow him,” said Miacis. Carnassial growled. “Patriofelis is well loved, and many will fight for him. We have no hope of winning.” He paused. “Once you hunt and kill, there is no going back. Are you willing to leave the prowl forever?”

“Yes,” said Miacis, after only a second’s hesitation. One by one the other felids gave their assent.

“And are you ready to accept me as your new leader?” Carnassial demanded.

Miacis looked at the other felids and returned her gaze to him. “We are,” she said.

He dreamed of flying above the trees, exultant. Birds watched him from their perches. Every time he glanced down, there were more and more, until the branches seemed made entirely of feathers and wings and beaks. The birds sang to him, quite sweetly at first, but then the music became ominously discordant.

As he woke, the dream images dissolved from his mind, but the birds’ dawn chorus remained, carrying through the forest. He listened carefully, and the hair on his neck lifted. There truly was something sinister about it this morning: a low, crowing aggression. Strangest of all, he thought he heard a refrain interspersed with the melody, something he’d never known the birds to do.

“Come and see,” the birds sang over and over. “Come and see the way of things.”

What was it exactly they wanted him to see?

Across the sequoia, chiropters were beginning to stir, a few already hunting in the clearing. Sylph and his parents awoke, and as everyone made their morning greetings and began grooming, the odd dawn chorus faded away entirely. No one else seemed to
have noticed it, and Dusk was ready to think it was just his anxious imagination—the memory of that ferocious mother bird—or some sonic mirage cast by his still-dreamy mind.

As he moved about the dawn-dappled branch, he was pleased to find his muscles were not nearly as stiff and sore as they’d been the previous mornings. His body was getting used to flying after all.

“Will you hunt with me higher up?” he asked Sylph. “All right,” said his sister easily.

Dusk nuzzled her, grateful. He knew it was work for her to make the climb, and that the hunting was not quite as good up there. But he needed her company more than ever. Despite his father’s support, Dusk felt a definite chill from the colony. He’d never been the most popular newborn; his odd appearance had guaranteed that. But since he’d started flying, he sensed the other chiropters retreating even further, newborns and adults alike. It was nothing obvious, nothing overtly cruel. Mostly it was new little ways of ignoring him.

If he landed on a branch near other chiropters, they tended to shift away a few steps, as if making space for him, but more than was really necessary. Very few called out a hello. When he drew too close to a group of chiropters chattering, their voices trailed off, as though a nasty smell had wafted past. If he nudged another newborn while moving along a branch, they sometimes looked uneasy, and he’d caught one or two grooming themselves afterwards with fierce attention. This was the one he found most hurtful, because he could tell they weren’t doing it to tease him: they were truly afraid they’d been infested with some dreadful parasite.

Maybe it would change in time, but for now Sylph was his only friend. As she started to climb the trunk, Dusk climbed with her. “What are you doing?” she asked, stopping.

“Just keeping you company.” He figured it was the least he could do.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’ll just take us longer to get up there. I’m faster than you on bark.”

“I know, but—”

“Fly, Dusk,” she told him, sounding almost irritated. “You can fly, so fly.”

“You sure?”

“If I could fly, believe me, I’d fly!”

“All right, thanks. Thanks very much.”

He fluttered alongside her among the branches, trying not to pull too far ahead. Jib called out to them as they passed his family’s perch.

“You coming hunting, Sylph?”

“Dusk and I are going up high,” she called back.

“The hunting’s not great up there,” Jib said. He didn’t even look at Dusk. “I’m going to find Aeolus. Sure you don’t want to come?”

“No thanks,” said Sylph coolly.

“Go with them if you like,” Dusk said as they carried on up the sequioa.

Sylph shook her head. “I don’t like the way he talks to you.”

“He doesn’t talk to me at all any more. It’s a nice change, really.”

“You know what I mean.”

Dusk said nothing, marvelling at his sister’s loyalty. He’d never understood her friendship with Jib, but they’d been friends for most of their young lives. He didn’t want to spoil anything for her, especially since she was being so kind to him. He wished he could tell her about the saurian nest he had found. The secret rattled inside him like a swallowed stone.

He alighted on the Upper Spar and saw with surprise that Aeolus was already there, crouched at the far end.

“Hi!” Dusk called out as he landed. “Jib’s looking for you down—”

“Dusk,” his sister called from below. “There’s something …” Her voice trailed off, but its frequency was enough to send a shiver through him.

“What’s wrong?” He leaned out over the edge of the Spar and looked down. Sylph was near the trunk, staring at something out along her branch. It was some kind of large, dark leaf he’d never seen before. It certainly didn’t belong to the sequoia.

He stared at it harder, letting his echovision brush its surface. The leaf was unusually thick and had a texture that looked almost like … fur. His mouth was suddenly parched. Sylph’s thick voice came to him, as if from far away.

“Dusk, you don’t think it’s …”

There could be nothing more familiar to him, yet it was so horrifically out of place here, draped all alone against the bark.

It was a chiropter’s left sail, severed from its body. The arm bone had been wrenched from its socket, and was protruding slightly from the ragged edge of the torn membrane.

He looked over at Sylph, who had crept closer to examine it. Their eyes locked, and then he pulled himself back to the Upper Spar, trembling.

“Aeolus?” he called out.

The chiropter did not move. Dusk stepped nearer. His heartbeats thudded slow and hard in his ears. Aeolus did not look right. His body seemed strangely thin and shrivelled.

Dusk stopped. He needed go no farther to see that Aeolus was dead, and that both his wings had been ripped off.

From the branches overhead, the birds were suddenly singing again, hundreds of them shrieking out the refrain of their malignant dawn chorus.

“Come and see! Come and see the way of things!”

Yelps and growls welled up from the crowd of chiropters gathered around the newborn’s body. Aeolus had been carried down to his family’s nest, and an almost suffocating odour of fear and fury now filled the morning air. Dusk found his heart beating as it never had before. Swept up in the collective rage of his colony, his jaws clenched and unclenched and a low snarl rose from his throat. His hair bristled, from his neck to his tail.

Aeolus’s parents crouched closest to the broken body, along with Barat, who was the newborn’s grandfather. After examining Aeolus, and speaking quietly with the parents and the other elders, Dusk’s father looked up and addressed the colony, his strong voice cutting through the din.

“The wounds were made by the beaks of birds,” Icaron said. “There can be no question of that. Aeolus was not hunted for food. His sails were deliberately amputated. This was an act of murder.”

Dusk felt sick. The purpose of the bird’s ominous dawn chorus was horribly clear to him now: it had drowned out Aeolus’s cries of pain.

“Why?” came an anguished cry, first from one, and then from dozens of throats. “But why?”

“Why would they do this?”

Dusk watched his father closely, saw him about to speak, and then falter. Nova reared back on her legs, sails spread to attract attention.

“The birds wanted to send us a message!” she shouted. “They have taken away this newborn’s sails, his ability to move through the air. They are saying the sky is theirs and theirs alone.”

Dusk took a breath and still felt as though his lungs held no air.

“It makes no sense!” Barat said angrily. “We’ve never intruded on their sky. How have we threatened their dominion over it?”

“As gliders, never!” said Nova. “But as flyers, we might!”

A strange murmuring enveloped the colony, sounding like a low wind that could quickly build to a gale. Dusk thought of Teryx’s mother, the fury in her face, telling him not to trespass on their territory. He pictured her sharp beak. Could she really have had such murderous intent? He pressed himself closer to the bark, wishing it would absorb him.

“But Aeolus couldn’t even fly!” the newborn’s mother wailed.

“I know,” said Nova. “But perhaps the birds thought he was someone else.”

Dusk could feel eyes seeking him out, finding him, boring into him. He forced himself to stare straight ahead, looking only at his father. His face felt hard and brittle. Had he somehow caused Aeolus’s death?

“We must kill one of their own!” exclaimed Barat. “A life for a life!”

There was a roar of approval from the colony.

“That might bring more attacks,” said Icaron firmly.

“It was not a newborn of
your
family!” Barat retorted.

“I know, my friend. But that’s why I’m more able to make a cold, rational response.”

“I want justice, not cold reason!” cried Barat.

“I know it gives you no comfort right now, but it’s what serves all of us best.”

“How does it?” Barat demanded. “If we do nothing, we’re giving the birds permission to kill again. They will have no fear of abusing us. They’ll think us cowards.”

Dusk glanced over at Nova and saw her bright eyes moving from Barat to Icaron with great interest. No doubt she was glad to see another elder finally disagree with their leader.

“We’ve lived with the birds peaceably for twenty years,” said Icaron. “We have never been friends, but we’ve tolerated each other. For some reason they may see my son’s flying as a threat—to their territory, to their food supply perhaps. We both eat insects. Their actions are monstrous, and unforgivable, but I see no gain to be made by taking revenge.”

“You’re wrong,” Nova said tersely. “I agree with Barat. We cannot overlook this. Sol, what do you say?” Dusk could see Sol inhale uneasily.

“I agree with Icaron,” he said. “Retaliation rarely leads to an easy peace.”

Icaron turned a fierce face to Nova. “You are mistaken if you think our voices have equal weight! Mine is the only one that carries authority. Do not think a vote can change that.”

“It is your son’s flying, Icaron, that has brought this upon us,” Nova said. “It should never have been allowed. It’s unnatural.”

“You will take no action, then?” Barat demanded. Dusk felt sick, watching his father endure these attacks. “I will indeed take action,” Icaron said. “Though it may not satisfy you, Barat.”

Dusk saw his father’s gaze turn on him, and in his eyes was a terrible remorse.

“I will make sure that the birds never again feel their territory is being threatened.”

“The birds don’t want you to fly, Dusk,” his father said. “I know,” he said.

It was late afternoon, the sun’s gentle light slanting through the forest from the west. This was the first time in the long, grim day that they’d had a chance to meet as a family in the privacy of their nest. Aeolus had been carried down to the sequoia’s dying
branch, where his family looked upon him one last time before leaving him to the insects and elements. “You must stop,” Icaron said.

Dusk simply nodded, too guilty to object. Maybe it was pride that had made him fly—to be better than the others. But he did love doing it; he loved the exultation and freedom of it.

“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.