Darkwing by Kenneth Oppel Page A

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,