SEIZING THE RIDE as the brumal air danced around him, Maze remained silent for a time. Without a task to occupy his mind, he found himself swaying in a consistent slow cadence with the vehicle as the chains cradled against the poles, the railway seemingly guiding their turn. He observed that while the crescent-shaped vessel was incapable of navigating curves on its own, the poles and wheels connected to it did so with grace, though the motion caused a slight rocking pace.
Fortunately, the journey appeared slow and secure. Had it been a swifter pace, the Cradle might have transformed into a violent rockabye. The tremors would have flung the conductor and his passenger into the abyss to meet their demise.
But then again, such thoughts might merely be the product of Maze's wild imagination.
"Mr. Mizmaze, you know, this year marks my fourth as a conductor within the Camp," Mr. Croakley said, initiating the discourse. "You may have learned that the Camp opens but twice a year — early and late — spanning for only a month's duration."
Maze realized he might have been sent to this place during the latter half of the year, yet he chose not to let such worries bother him.
"I recall you mentioning that you find favor in being a conductor," Maze replied, selecting his words with deliberate care. "That it is a privilege to escort the Children to the Chamber and return them to the surface."
"I am pleased that you remember the details." Mr. Croakley offered a light chuckle. "You see, I was born within this Camp. I have no siblings to call my own, yet I have always dwelt in awe of this place since my parents first took me to the Chamber. The first time I boarded this vessel, I looked up to the conductor who came before me. When he retired, I overtook his station. I truly fell in love with this vehicle and wondered how such a marvel was ever conceived." There was an unmistakable endearment in his tone, a sentiment easy to perceive.
The Orphan's lips twitched behind his mask as he gleaned this knowledge. "Your parents reside here as well?"
It seemed there truly existed a race of speaking frogs in this domain. He wondered if they shared a lineage with the Statue of the Divine Frog, though that figure was merely a relic. Its origin, however, might be tied to these frogs of the Camp.
Mr. Croakley nodded. "Why, yes, of course, Mr. Mizmaze, they remain here," he confirmed gently. "In fact, they serve a great purpose in this place, though I have lived apart from them since I took up my mantle as a conductor. It seems, however, they have forgotten they even possess a son." His voice carried a bittersweet, melancholic ring. He then cleared his throat. "Pardon my rambling, dear Sir. Frogs are prone to croak and speak when they find themselves in a comfortable situation, and you happen to be the muse of such comfort."
A genuine curve formed upon Maze's lips, transcending a mere twitch. "I have taken quite a liking to that behavior, Mr. Croakley. Besides . . . " Maze closed his eyes for a brief moment, ". . . there is not much to talk of here." He did not wish to make much of the sentiment.
In truth, he welcomed the idea of grasping silence whenever and wherever possible.
"I might say the same is true for me, and for every frog citizen within the Camp." Mr. Croakley navigated a slow turn, the Cradle producing a continuous clinking as the shrieking wheels collided with the rails. "Ever since the Great Migration, sightings of Frogslings have grown scarce, a truth that extends to the other Tongued Creatures, excluding mankind. I assume those such as you, who have sought refuge within the great City of Welfanshelm, have no inkling of what lies beyond the walls."
A cold sensation washed over Maze upon hearing those words.
"I assume you have been mindful of the barren scenery outside the walls. The Never-Ending Barren is as uninhabitable as it is corrupted, Mr. Mizmaze. It is a land of great peril, and without doubt, a domain of evil." As much as Mr. Croakley sought to hide his fright, the tremor in his voice betrayed him. "Pardon me for speaking of things you are unaware of—"
"It is only right that I be made aware," Maze said, cutting short the conductor's apology. "While I have beheld it, I still harbor questions regarding what I have seen. The walls, the mists within the endless woods . . . and you spoke of the Great Migration and the Tongued Creatures, like your own kind, the Frogslings." Maze sighed heavily. "It is apparently even more terrifying to realize the world I believed in was clouded by so many veils. People forgot to ask why the walls existed in the first place, or why the chosen are sent to the towers, only to become non-existent to the city. It is a profound irony."
Mr. Croakley fell silent.
Maze recognized the several puzzle pieces he would be compelled to assemble, one by one. From the mystery of why the Builders had constructed the Towers, to the origins of the Great Migration, and how such an upheaval led to the great City of Welfanshelm being barricaded behind high walls. I could only wonder how they are raised in the first place. How was it that Tongued Creatures existed, and by what means were these truths kept hidden, as if it were only natural to dwell in the dark?
Was this the sole purpose for which people were sent into the Towers?
He felt his heart thud with a sudden, heavy violence.
Questions followed upon the heels of a pocketful of other inquiries.
There were the Child Darkness and the Father Darkness, the paths presented to him, and even the notions of above and under that seemed to offer hint after hint. The concepts of ascension and descension, how some things appeared suited to their era while others remained strange and peculiar in both form and function, much like this Cradle, or the very uniform he possessed as an Orphan.
He had not imagined that a mere ride would unfold in such a manner.
Yet Mr. Croakley proved talkative enough to allow him to glean several truths during their journey.
"Worry not, Mr. Mizmaze," Mr. Croakley said, seeking to wash away the troubles that seemed to loiter about them. "While these are but the things I learned from my frog parents, you possess all the time required to suffice yourself with greater truths within the Camp and the Towers. Even your Siblings might teach you of many other matters." He croaked as he turned the Cradle once more — clink, clink — and then glanced at the masked Orphan. "It is only fair that you should come to know these things, even when there are much greater mysteries to behold." He adjusted his cap. "After all, we are but feeble beings capable of grasping few truths, trading the few for a few more."
Though it was Mr. Croakley who uttered the final sentiment, Maze felt an urge to complete the thought, and so he did. "For a few more is as vast."
Mr. Croakley could only offer a nod in agreement.
"For a few more is as vast."