Darkwing by Kenneth Oppel Page B

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 wouldmean 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