Night-Flyers

Something in the night woke him. It was a hissing noise. Sky-water, he thought. But there was no drumming, no noise at all, the telltale indicator.

Treading carefully, not to wake the others, he went to the circular hole and looked up. Night-flyers, he thought. Moths made cocoons in the trees around the hut and if they didn't forage all of the caterpillars, night-flyers were released into the air.

He noticed the shift in noise too, like everything had been deadened. Something was very different. He grabbed his spear and went to the opening in the wall. The mammoth fur that served as a covering was heavier to reveal, like it was weighted down with something. He stepped back and thrust his spear at it. It met no resistance. He grunted and used the tip of the spear to pull it to one side.

The night was white. His heart raced, the fire continuing to hiss as flakes met their death mixed with the soft snores of his babies and mate. The sky was breaking, flaking to the ground. He prodded the white with his spear and wondered when it caved. On the tip, he had gathered some and brought it slowly and carefully to his face. He sniffed it. Nothing. Touched it. Cold.

Very gingerly, he stepped into the white. It yielded and scorched with its cold grasp. He gasped. It was coating him, piece by piece.

He was scared, confused. It was a sign.

The gods were angry.