MAZE TRAVERSED the underground passage toward the domain known as the Chamber of Everything. He had been informed that before reaching that destination, he must first board the Cradle. As he walked, the discourse he had shared with Mr. Frogvinsky and Mrs. Toadellia regarding Sir Azaniel refused to leave him.
In truth, the memories remained fresh, seeming to flicker vividly within the corridors of his mind.
He perceived that the spiraling staircase widened as he descended, though it was not the steps themselves that expanded, but the vastness of the space beneath the threshold. It resembled a bunker of immense proportions, the staircase stretching long and winding, which promised many more rotations before the journey's end. This staircase was structured with railings along the outer edge, as if it served as a safeguard against any misstep or sudden accident. When he cast a glance into the abyss below, he beheld glimmering specks akin to fireflies in the dark — grains of light shining amidst the blackness. Yet his path was far from lightless, for three-headed candelabras were mounted upon the walls every two meters, illuminating his stride.
If he were to estimate the depth of his journey, he realized he was venturing deep into the earth.
However, considering how the architecture of this realm was designed, he found himself beyond surprise.
But is it not that the Towers Below themselves are built upsidedown?
The only distinction here was that the Chamber of Everything resided in the depths.
Beads of sweat began to form upon Maze's brows. After nearly ten minutes of steady walking through the broad and cavernous expanse, he finally reached a curved, flat landing. There, at the far end, stood another figure.
Maze struggled to recall the name mentioned by Mr. Frogvinsky.
This frog was intended to be the conductor of the Cradle.
Was his name Mr. Coaxley? Crookie? Croaky?
The detail was faint within his mind, though the names he considered shared a similar resonance.
The conductor appeared twice the size of Mr. Frogvinsky, yet Maze could see the family resemblance. Like the wedded pair, this frog was green of skin and possessed heart-shaped lips reminiscent of Mrs. Toadellia. He, too, wore a frock cap, though he was clad in a white shirt and black shorts, paired with sandals. A whistle was gripped between his teeth, and he bore a grumpy countenance. He appeared neat and youthful in his features, yet his stature and bulk were such that he could no longer be called a frog of normal proportions.
"You must be the final passenger." His voice was not deeply defined, yet it carried a certain warmth and a slight baritone quality. The conductor then peered behind Maze. "Judging by the lack of companions, I shall assume you are alone. Am I correct in this?"
Maze offered a nod from behind his mask. Beneath the wood, his skin felt damp with perspiration. A small voice within urged him to remove the shroud, yet he suspected his features appeared haggard, rendering the act pointless. Furthermore, the air in this region had grown chilly, and should he continue, the temperature would surely turn biting. He realized he must simply endure.
"It seems you are the Orphan of whom I was told." The conductor appeared somewhat relieved by this realization. "What is your name?"
"I am an Orphan, and I am called Mizmaze," he replied, offering his introduction to the conductor.
Though he felt a brief impulse to inquire after the frog's own name, he deemed it a futile and irrelevant gesture. This was not born of ill intent — rather, his impression of the conductor was assumed as him harboring little desire for social pleasantries.
"Well, Mr. Mizmaze, I am the conductor, Mr. Croakley. I presume I was introduced either by the Farekeeper or the Clerk." Thus did the conductor identify himself, confirming the name that had previously been but a faint resonance in Maze's memory. Mr. Croakley then gestured toward the space behind him, directing Maze's attention to the object of his service. "Behold, the Cradle. It shall bear you to the Chamber of Everything." A weary smile touched the frog's features as he spoke.
Maze first cast his gaze upon the circular platform upon which the vehicle rested. It was forged from a dark, heavy metal and appeared far from an ordinary floor, and it felt almost alive, as if at any moment it might rotate clockwise like a great mechanical dial. Perhaps it was the means by which the machine was turned, though that was merely a suspicion Maze held as he faced the vessel itself.
So strange yet so bewildering, I guess.
The vehicle was a most peculiar sight, for it was indeed a cradle, yet it defied the common definition. It was formed from a dark, weathered gold, appearing rough and unyielding at its edges rather than soft. It seemed to bear the marks of many ages, and if one wondered, it likely served as a vessel of transport since time immemorial. This Cradle, as it was titled as such, did possess a crescent-shaped body suspended between two towering poles. These poles resembled great pitchforks with but two tines, flanking the vessel like rigid legs and holding it aloft by heavy iron chains.
The structure was joined to sets of iron wheels — strange, interconnected discs that rested upon a path of parallel metal bars embedded in the ground. Maze had no words for such a mechanical arrangement, for it was a marvel beyond the simple wagons of the world above. It appeared a complex assembly of gears and axles, designed to glide upon the rails with somehow a precision that deemed to mock the uneven paths of a horse-drawn carriage.
In all his years, Maze had never beheld such a vessel, and as he gazed upon it, the world seemed to grow stranger still. There were many wonders in this life, most of which remained far beyond his grasp. Yet, if this machine truly behaved as a cradle, he feared the sway might steal his balance.
Slowly, Maze felt his wits sharpening. He sensed that he was nearing the threshold of true adaptation, beginning to fathom the depths of this new existence. He approached the carriage, and though he felt a sudden itch to remain silent, he allowed his curiosity to prevail. There was no shame in the pursuit of knowledge, nor in the asking of a question.
"An artistic vessel of transport," Maze remarked to the thin air, yet loud enough for the conductor to hear. "Even a royal carriage would be shamed by the sight of it."
"Is it not so?" Mr. Croakley replied with a note of pride. "It is a privilege to serve as its conductor and to guide the Children toward the Chamber of Everything. Though I must confess, it is wearying work." The frog released a heavy sigh, a faint mist escaping his lips as his whistle gave a soft, involuntary chirp. "You know, it is only this year that the number of Children in the Camp has grown so numerous."
Maze flinched almost imperceptibly at those words. A sudden wave of self-consciousness washed over him, carrying a faint sting of guilt.
"Why is that, Mr. Croakley?" Maze asked, his voice carefully devoid of suspicion. He knew well that there were meant to be only thirty — the chosen among the chosen — yet by some miracle, forty-six now remained. Sixteen Heirs had been snatched from the jaws of a perilous death during the opening trial, though sixty had originally set out.
"Well, by tradition, only thirty are meant to dwell here. No more, no less." The conductor paused, appearing lost in thought. "I wonder what has caused such a change . . . "
Maze chose not to dwell upon the matter.
Mr. Croakley led him to the side of the Cradle, where a door stood open for his boarding. As the vessel sat elevated from the stone, a short ladder was provided for the ascent. Maze noted that the craft lacked a roof or any protective shell; it was entirely open to the cavernous air, save for the low walls and the door.
Mr. Croakley stood by the ladder and gestured for Maze to ascend first. The man complied, finding the climb brief, though the Cradle began to sway beneath his weight. Once he reached the interior, he observed that the seating resembled the structure of a narrow boat. There were three seats in total, each fashioned for a single occupant. At the fore sat the conductor's station, equipped with a steering wheel and a heavy iron pedestal for the driver's feet.
As Maze took his seat, he felt the cold and hard vessel rock in response to his motion, a sensation that brought a fleeting wave of nausea. When it was Mr. Croakley's turn to board, the sway deepened with the frog's greater bulk. Clink, clink! The sound of iron chains brushing against the poles echoed through the passage as the Cradle swung.
Once Mr. Croakley had settled into the conductor's chair, he pressed the pedal and maneuvered the wheel. The machine gave a sudden, piercing shriek of metal grinding against metal, and a minor tremor passed through the frame as it began to rotate. When it had fully turned clockwise, Maze beheld the path ahead. It appeared as a road formed of many iron teeth, stretching into the dark — though in truth, they were rails of which Maze had no name.
Mr. Croakley glanced back at the stiffened Orphan.
"Now, Mr. Mizmaze, shall we begin our journey to the Chamber?"