The Train Station Chapter 8 (sorry it's short.)

The endless street seemed more endless than ever, and the echoing crunch of their footsteps was a lonely sound. Even the strange patterns of the pipes and aqueducts were no longer quite the oddity of interest that they had been, and the blackened substance coating them had become sort of a settled mystery. Jingle longed for the procession of empty gaping doors and shadowy windows to end, and she longed to feel the sun on her face and hear the wind and birds; the “hollowness” of this place---it's deadened look and feeling—was giving her a nasty lonesome sensation somewhere near her stomach.  
Beach marched slightly ahead, eyes locked grimly on the guiding tracks in the road, noticeably avoiding eye contact with the ancient structures surrounding them, while Gary straggled behind, jaw slack with wonder as he craned his neck to see into the shadowed corners and crumbling passageways. Jingle hovered somewhere in the middle, sometimes (like now) wishing dreadfully to be gone and forget the whole place existed, and at other times experiencing almost overwhelming waves of awe and curiosity. What did those pipes do? What other interesting things did these people leave behind? How many secrets did those darkened chambers preserve? The number must've been uncountable, and somehow that only made it worse. . .
The silence stretched. Jingle sighed. Gary stumbled over a piece of rubble and sent it clattering away into the shadows.
Gary finally spoke. “Here's what I don't get. We see the yellow stuff back at Jingle's place. Then, it spills. Then, it's in the cave. Then, all of a sudden we see it running along here. How's the stuff moving? Its not like it has legs. . .”
“Maybe it don't need legs.” said Jingle, relieved at the breaking of the silence. “Its kind of like water and all water needs to move is gravity—or so my Ma says,” she added quickly, uncomfortable with using such an important sounding word. 
“What's that—some kinda carriage?"
“No—i dont know,” she admitted, glancing at Beach's stiffly-moving back. “But I don't really think it matters. Ma'll make more of the stuff if she wants it.”
Jingle hadn't actually seen her mother make the yellow liquid; but she was right in assuming that by now Ma would be more concerned with her daughter's safety than the safety of her chemical. Bother that substance, whatever it was! How she wished that she had not been so absentminded as to mix it into the bread, thinking it was flour! Not for the last time she imagined what it would be like had the bread been uneventful. She would probably be wiping up the house as best and as quickly as she could before running off to explore the blackberry patch with Gary and Beach or to run errands for the local fletcher. Her greatest worry would have been the greasy patches on the stove or the last batch of bread-baking afore Ma got back.
“I suppose I've never realized. . .” She thought to herself dismally. “how one's perspective changes. I would much rather have to deal with grease-spots than this.”
Suddenly Gary burst out, as though he just made up his mind,
“Come on, let's just look in one of these houses. It won't hurt us. . .”
Jingle jumped with surprise.
“I was wondering if you would ask that.” said Beach.

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