The Clouds Weep

By Cassandra Hamm

We have been in the shelter for an hour, but it feels like a lifetime.

My tongue is thick, cotton-dry from disuse. Though my eyes have adjusted, the light is too dim to see my family’s expressions—just the faint outline of Mum’s slender nose, Finn’s trembling lips. My hair has unraveled from its braid, but my hands tremble too much to fix it.

The ground rumbles above us. Finn whimpers, and I reach for his face, finding its softness, then touch a finger to his lips. The whimpering stops.

If I lean forward, I can just catch a glimpse of the night sky. Our shelter, a hole in the ravaged earth, has no door, so we press our backs against the dirt and pray Dad finds us before the Skála do.

The first creation of the sky-dwelling gods, the Skála were banished underground because of their savagery. But we humans, the gods’ later creation, were not satisfied with the land we were given. We penetrated the ground—and broke through the Skála’s prison.

But the Skála’s time in the deep had only stoked their brutality and mettle. The gods, now too weak to imprison the stone-skinned, magma-covered monsters again, could not stop their advance. Our land burned, and terror filled the ash-dark air.

Now, we have no true refuge underground, for they called it home for eons, nor on the surface, for they have claimed it. Our only hope is the sky.

The shaking stops. Darkness clamps around my throat, constricting my lungs. Our breaths sound different—Finn’s quick and high-pitched, Mum’s forcefully slow and deep, mine shaky and shuddering—but all with the same ragged cadence.

What if Dad was spotted? What if the elders are wrong? What if the sky won’t save us?

A breeze creeps down the hole and brushes my sweat-streaked face. I hesitate, then edge forward, eager for a glimpse of Dad—but Mum latches onto my arm, and I sit back. The pressure of her fingers slips away.

Please let Dad be okay, I beg the gods. Please help him find us.

Someone screams, loud and piercing—too shrill to be Dad, and I feel a sting of relief followed by guilt. Guessing by Finn’s strangled noise, Mum must be covering his mouth.

Finn’s hand, smooth and sweaty, finds mine in the darkness, and I squeeze it. We were always more likely to scream at each other than embrace, but the raw fear we share eclipses any memories of his whining. I rub my finger against his clammy skin, silently promising, Dad will take us to the sky.

The elders say that the gods weep for our plight and dislodge bits of their home—the sky—and throw it to the ground below. When this substance is submerged in water, it expands a hundredfold and rises, carrying its inhabitants into the clouds. If Dad finds a piece of fallen sky, we could escape this wasteland.

But it sounds so absurd—inflating the sky? What if our hope is a beautiful lie?

Mum’s fingers bury into my hair, gently massaging my scalp, and I let out a quiet moan. She divides the hair into three different strands, winding them over, under, over, under. I close my eyes, focusing on the firm press of her fingers, the soothing rhythm of the braiding.

More rumbling. A flicker of light penetrates our hideout—a magma-clad Skála, no doubt. Its footsteps stop, but I can hear its breathing—it must be looming just above our shelter. I bite my lip.

When Mum releases my hair, I turn. In the faint light, her face is ghost-pale, her lips a thin line.

I touch her shoulders, almost as hard as a Skála’s skin. Gently extracting my other hand from Finn’s, I slowly work the knots out with my thumbs. She slumps against my hands.

She must be terrified about Dad’s fate, more terrified even than Finn and me. But we must trust that he can find a way to take us to the clouds, or else our lives will be forever spent running from the Skála.

The light leaves. The Skála has moved on. I release Mum, and she straightens, grabbing my hand. Finn rests his back against me. I stroke his hair with my free hand, marveling at the softness of the curls he inherited from Dad.

What if Dad never makes it? Will I forever look at my little brother and see the father I lost?

Light footsteps above, earth crumbling into the hole. I stifle a scream. Someone tumbles into our shelter, a shapeless shadow rolling to land at our feet. I tense. Some say the Skála can sense vibrations—but no stone creature comes to the mouth of our shelter, thank the gods.

I reach out, touching the arm—thick enough to be Dad’s. The hair is curly, damp—with blood, sweat, or some combination of the two. Then the face—slick, perhaps with tears.

More grumbling of the earth as another magma-bright Skála passes by our hideout. The light provides a glimpse of Dad’s freckled face.

I resist the urge to throw myself into his arms, instead hugging him gently. I bury my face in his shirt to muffle a sob, and he kisses the top of my head. Mum and Finn join the embrace.

After a moment, Dad pulls back. I hear rustling—he must be reaching into his pockets—and he presses something into my hand.

I run my fingers over it, noting its jaggedness—not sharp enough to cut, smooth in some places, flexible and moist. My heart threatens to beat out of my chest.

A piece of the sky.

Trembling, I hand it to Finn, who squeals, then groans—Mum must have snatched it away. The soft squelch tells me that Mum has pressed a kiss to Dad’s tear-stained lips.

We have found the sky. We have found our salvation.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cassandra Hamm has always been fascinated by the inner workings of the human mind. She received her B.S. in psychology and continues to apply her knowledge to her characters. Her love of writing prompts has spurred her to start blogging, submit stories to amazing websites like this one, and host flash fiction contests on Instagram. She may or may not be obsessed with cats, jigsaw puzzles, movie soundtracks, and musicals.

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