WHIRLPOOL 

Part 2

MAELSTROM MUD


    Esther slithered down the stream slope. It was a beautiful day, though cold as winter approached. She glanced back. The baby was waving her arms, making faint, funny noises. Bitsa looked up, on guard. Snakes would not be around, and hopefully, not miserable ants. The little dog stood as though to reassure her, fluffy tail wagging, then settled resignedly back down again.
    Already half-way down the slope, Esther felt inexplicably tired, weary to the bone. Sun glinted on the bright water, flashing silver in the sunlight.
    She looked down. The stream burbled along quietly, the monstrous whirlpool of a few days ago a violent memory. Esther shuddered. The banks were strewn with junk, broken bushes caught in flattened grass. She peered over the side of the big rock and gasped. There was a wide whorl of mud on the clear water bed. Colours glinted in the mud, flickers of gold rainbow opaline, flashes of bright white quartz. A miracle of colour, but no door with light pouring around the edges. The baby cried.

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