The Silver Glove by Suzy McKee Charnas

slowly and subtly sort of flapping its wings: its outer sides rippled up and then down. This was certainly not the way magic carpets were supposed to fly according to the special-effects people who did these things in the movies. They always pulled the carpet flat through the air like something on rails, which I guess a flying carpet in a movie probably is.
    This one was something else. I must say I found its ponderous way of flapping along reassuring. It made the carpet seem like an exotic animal with a brain of its own, maybe enough of one to keep us up even if Granny Gran got absentminded about the mechanics of flying the thing.
    The smaller kite below us was a neat diamond shape, like an Oriental fighting kite.
    I had made two kites and done a lot of research before Mom gave up on kite flying. In my reading I’d come across stories about kite fighting, which is a sport in Japan and Korea.
    What they do is, they run a good length of the flying line, just under the bridle where you hitch it to the kite, through some paste. Then they roll that part in smashed glass and let it dry. When the line is taut, it’s like a knife-edge that can cut other lines if it crosses them at the right angle.
    The flyer who cuts the other guy’s line gets to keep the downed kite as a trophy (usually the losing kite crashes and is ruined anyway). The kite is always small, so it maneuvers fast, like a hawk.
    One of the larger kites above us, with a soaring bird painted on it, suddenly fluttered and jigged and began to spiral toward the ground. Its line trailed after it, cut down below.
    â€œHey,” I said, “a kite fight!”
    Well, sort of. You’re only supposed to use a fighting kite against other fighting kites, of course. Cutting down ordinary kites is crude.
    The little kite was no longer below us but darted above, heading across the line of the second big kite, a huge one painted with a snarling samurai face.
    I peeked over the edge of the carpet, trying to see who was flying the kites. The meadow was scattered all over with the little dark figures of people strolling, throwing Frisbees, practicing karate and so on.
    â€œA kite what?” Gran said distractedly. “Blast it, this light is so hard to see by. I don’t want to bring us down in the trees!”
    â€œThat samurai kite’s no fighter,” I said. “It’s not even the right shape. This little guy must be a pirate, chopping the others out of the sky for kicks.”
    The fighter kite was painted with a black and orange stripe design, like tiger fur, with a yellow cat’s eye in the center. It was chasing the bigger kite, which floated lower.
    Then the wind shifted and suddenly the two kites collided and dropped. The tiger kite shot free and the samurai kite just fell out of the sky, looking ragged and torn. The little fighter zigzagged high into the air directly above us, undamaged.
    I couldn’t help but admire the thing, with its wedge-shaped tail and the arched cross-strut that made it look like a bow-and-arrow drawn to fire. Too bad it was being flown by a bully.
    A rasping noise made me look to my left. The flying line of the fighter kite was sawing at the edge of our carpet, tearing at the heavy wool fibers.
    â€œGran!” I yelled. I made a grab for the string, but the kite shot clear and the line was snatched out of my reach.
    Our carpet trailed a wispy curl of thread where it had been frayed.
    We both looked up.
    The tiger kite floated above us, its painted eye looking blank and innocent. Innocent, for Pete’s sake, what was I thinking? It was just paper, glue, a couple of sticks of wood, and some string!
    It fluttered suddenly and sped across our path, and the line hit the carpet edge at another place.
    â€œHelp!” I yelled. “Gran, what’s happening?”
    â€œBrightner,” she shouted. “Or one of his cohorts.”
    I could believe that, all right. I could believe anything about