He who laughs last (Part 4)

You may want to start here.

>>o<<

I was fixing our wooden platform one day when we arrived at a town in the eastern coast called Nab'kfir, when the kid approached me. At first he just looked. And then offered to help by holding the platform while I hammered.

"Business is bad", he said finally. I stopped what I was doing and looked at him. He then avoided my gaze, took the hammer from my hand and continued pounding the half-buried nail.

"Well, yes. If that's how you put it", I answered almost reluctantly, shaking my ears hoping my earwaxes hadn't developed any evolutionary trait we often called talking. There would be a deep silence if not for the repeated pounding into the platform.

"I could help." It took me too long to realize that he actually spoke sentences of more than one word. I was just looking at him while he pounded nails into the platform. In some cultures it can be called a shock. But I guess I was just amused to hear the boy speak. It was one of those rare moments I guess and I'm not prepared how to react when confronted with such alternative reality.

"I... well... what can you do?", I said finally when I realized that the silence was too long for such a sensible conversation. Want to know what I was thinking at that moment? My mind wanted to grab something to write on. I know I can rely heavily on my memory but at that point I felt it might fail on me and unable to record what's he gonna say. I'm not exaggerating. It's just a mere fact.

"I can laugh". Yes,of course, I thought, I bet you can but what good it can do to us? And he continued, "Among your audience."

It dawned to me then what he wanted to do. It also became clear what's bugging me ever since he talked that day. It seems that he limits or splits his sentences into three words this time and he's quite good at sticking to his acquired convention. I wonder how long he could keep at that. And I couldn't wait a year to actually hear him utter a hundred-word sentence. It's quite artistic really. Haiku's boring. I mean c'mon, you've got 5-7-5 and that's it.

"You mean you want me to plant you among the audience... and you...sort of...persuade them to laugh?"

He inserted some recognizable nods in between his hammering. Ha!, I thought, run out of 3-word sentences you there, sport.

"That's...quite interesting.", I muttered. "but I don't see anything very plausible to believe that you can actually convince people to laugh. Y'see people don't laugh just because you laughed. There has to be a laughable medium which conveniently points back to me and the stories I would tell them. That's just how exactly this kind of stuff works."

The boy didn't reply. If you happened to look at him intently at that moment, it was as if he was deeply absorbed by what he was doing. I was half-expecting he would eventually notice me, stop his hammering, and blurt out, Sorry what did you just said?

But of course that was a six-word sentence and I don't think he was ready to take that drastic step up on his literary word-play.

I was running out of patience which is, by the way, a very limited supply, so I broke the silence, "Okay, so tell me, how'd you gonna do that exactly."

He stopped whatever he was doing and took a better look at the mountain range in our horizon. The receding sun shone a bright but confused expression on his face.

"I don't know."

I sighed. Gathered the disoriented tools around me into a much more disoriented toolbox. I glanced at the disoriented boy one more time and it's not very impossible I could get very disoriented myself someday.

"I can't explain."

"Of course you can't...because there's none. Really." I mean don't get me wrong. I don't see any sign of humor in that boy's bones. Even without Grete burning to ashes, Norman was... Norman the timid. It was made worse by the incident at Grete of course.

"Let me try."

It was a piercing look. There's a certain look in his eyes that made all the swords in the world a friendlier foe. No, it wasn't anger. It was just... strange really. There was infinity beyond that black iris. Uncomfortable wasn't the right word. But I guess there wasn't a right word after all.

I snapped back just in time before that infinity consumed me. "Do whatever you've got. You're a persistent one, so you are." I let out a short laugh. "Now can you bring this tools inside the wagon and go see Ambrocia if there's any help she may need."

He who laughs last (Part 3)

You may want to start here.

>>o<<

Norman was, I could say, most of the time aloof. But an obedient errand boy at that. You'd rarely observe him as a clumsy rat. He's mostly on the listening side though. He'd nod. He'd grunt. Maybe a few yeses and noes. A fewer questions to ask. Or answers that mostly composed of a measly one-word or two-word sentences. But never any opinion or suggestion on any matter. Maybe it's his way of avoiding any conflict or affection to the caravan. I don't know either. I'm no expert in reading people's mind or behavior. Ambrocia would try to talk to him. Wanted to read his hands. But 'course he'd say no. Instead of saying Hey I don't wanna talk about my life... or my future... or what the hell's going with my mind and stuff, a simple no was enough to stop persuading him to open up. It wasn't really a problem with me. I perfectly understood what he had gone through. It's not very healthy at some point to rush things. I still believe that time heals. For the mean time, he proved to be handy when the wagon needs some pushing, or herbs needs to be found, or things needed to be fixed. I would be very much contented to leave things like that.

It's a popular saying – and rather cliched – that laughter heals most of the world's diseases. I'll tell you what. If gods intended that then they could have just give humanity one medicine to cure all these diseases. Some kind of elixir, only much more edible and much more unhypothetical. Because you see, humor is inherently very cultural and exhaustible. What is perceived to be a very funny joke in one place maybe an insult to another. And sometimes people would be very glad to poke a hole in your bodily parts just to tell you how sensitive things are. It's because of this limitation that jokes are exhaustible. I can resort to recycling them once in a while. But if there's a single trait that people never fail to bring with them all throughout the process of evolution, or in some cultures, reincarnation, it is our keen recall of trivial things. And the recycled joke, however you delivered it, would just be like warm and fresh horse turd respectably flung into your expectant audience. The point is, it was suppose to be funny but to them, it was simply a crap.

It manifested to me a hell lot of times. Because if you haven't noticed by now, It is – was – my job. During one of my acts, I would tell the audience some nice stories – at least that's what I'm thinking. My optimism would build up like an enraging lava inside my system only to be meet by very lousy reactions. And when I was about to drop a punchline, I could swear to the gods why they have to give some brains to these people if they would not be able to use them properly. GODS, it was suppose to be a good joke! I'd probably say it's one of the best. But not one vocal chord succumbed to any form of laughter. And for me, it was like having been skinned, or forcefully pulled all the nails on my feet. Apparently, someone from the back of the audience (I settled to thinking that it was a prankster) shouted What was that?! It wasn't even funny! And then much more like a gentle ripple in a pond to which a stone was recently thrown, repercussions of the same comment echoed among the other member of the audience. It's more than a slap into my reputation. Hell, if reputation was one breathing individual, it had already earned a very much broken nose and maybe a few broken limbs. It was that bad.

The twin's mime act often included a few tomato splattering. Thanks to the aggressive participation of some rowdy crowd. Mothers also tended to their children when Mog was around ever since words spread that it was him who released the noxious gas that burned the city of Grete. It irritated him a bit. One time he asked Ambrocia for a liniment saying he's not feeling well. Ambrocia handed him a strong one and said, Be sure to stay away from fire while using that thing and look around for any mysterious-looking guy with thunderbolt in his hands. And she would laugh as if she had just heard the funniest joke in the world.

These things go on for days, town after town. And the next time we knew, our funds became so scarce that we were forced to uproot random tubers that we saw along the way. Ambrocia would just nod at Mog after a meal of steamed namusch and everyone would just laugh. I would just pat the big guy and instructed everyone to put out any fire before going to sleep. Everyone laughed.

Yes, everyone, including Norman.

He who laughs last (Part 2)

You may want to start here.

>>o<<

And so everyone vanished. Every single inhabitant of that part of the land. There were a couple of human remains scattered around of course. But y'see, at this point, you cannot actually tell anymore which belonged to men and which belonged to dogs or pigs or the long-necked krappa. The city, or what remains of it, was more like a ghost town when we got there. There were no lush gardens, rivers dried up, and there were no Ganymede towers standing to challenge the Gretian skies. No doubt they were humbled down by the great conflagration. In another time and another instant, not seeing the grandeur of the Ganymede towers and the rest of the city should be a big disappointment. But seeing the city wiped out by unknown forces was totally a different thing. The smoke had already settled down. But the dust came swirling into the air. We had to wear extra clothing to avoid dust from entering our bodily orifices.

Ambrocia was freaking out. She'd just cry suddenly, utter incomprehensible words, and gestures with her hands and fingers, I would like to guess, used to summon the creatures of the deepest earth. Mog tried hard in hushing her. Even telling her that another eye might decide to come out beside the one she already had if she'd just only keep quiet. But Ambrocia's serious about what she had just seen and continuously seeing. I could feel the heaviness in those arms. It's as if all the suppressed feelings of that place was haunting her.

Help us and later Stop it. And then she'd laugh but immediately her face would turn expressionless and shouts Don't laugh you stupid...No you don't wanna laugh...you don't know what you were doing. She's sweating and spittles flying around her. She was horribly tensed. And that was no good. I have seen Ambrocia in a trance a couple of times. I'm not expert in all these things so I could not tell if it was real or she just wanted to attract some attention. But I see the sincerity in all those tears. Much to my desire to survey the whole city and take any valuable goods we ever could find. After all, gold would just melt and take another form, right? But we had to get out of that place right away. It's so heavy. I mean I started to feel the heaviness and the sadness in the air. It's as if it was slowly entering our exposed pores. The terror became visible dusts that tried to drag us out or pull us in forever.

And so we tried to find our way out. That – we knew much later – was better said than done. Or, in a more gentler way to put it, a pathetic wishful thinking. Y'see, the city was huge with confusing streets to begin with. At some point we had no choice but to admit that we were lost. In there, our sense of direction was of no use. If we try to walk straight east, buildings would eventually block our way. Mog said it was like one big labyrinth of sort. And I think for the first time I agreed with him.

It was when we turned to a corner to take the street we perceived to be on the southern part of the city when I noticed a human-like form lying on one side. It didn't bother me a bit. Another unfortunate lifeless Gretian, I'd say. It was also at this point when Ambrocia collapsed to unconsciousness. Mog caught her before she could hit the cobbles. The twins meanwhile had another thing in mind. Claudius (at least that's what his name tag suggested), later gestured that he could at least sort out dead people and people who appeared to be one. And definitely that man lying in the corner can be conveniently regarded as very much alive. The twins wanted to check further for any signs of life. But before they could do so, a terrified youth about 14 or 15 of age, though it's hard to tell from its dismal state, sprang to consciousness upon sensing two similar individuals walking towards him. He was trembling. Crossed his arms between us and him as if his improvised shield could do him any good if there really was genuine threat.

He was truly terrified. From the looks of it, it's as if he had just recently fled from the grasp of unthinkable monsters who wanted to dine on his innards. Body full of burns, bruises and scratches, frail and filthy, and eyes that saw every terror that might have seen the unthinkable horrors of the legendary Agnotius mountains. I know you knew that. Or at least have heard of the stories. The twins comforted him. I must admit I was amazed how'd they do that without even saying anything. I guess it's just simply inherent to them. They got the heart of the kid. He cried. Maybe because he knew from that moment, he could breath and live without ever fearing for anything ever again. He cried of loved ones who were lost amidst the ruins of the city. He cried of of relief and mourning. And his cries echoed through the nearby empty streets and alleys. Looking back to it right now, I had this eerie feeling of deja vu. I don't know why.

He led us out of that place without ever looking back though he would answer my inquiries not with too much enthusiasm I guess but answered them as well. Ambrocia regained her consciousness when we reached a hill not far from the city. This boy of the lost city of Grete who was called Norman joined our caravan from that day on.

He who laughs last (Part 1)

I found him amidst the rubbles of the once proud city of Grete. That city, you've probably heard a lot or read from your books, – that is if you're doing your studies a bit seriously – was once an abundant city of the western Antolan Peninsula. And a bit proud that is. Big businesses were sprouting like the golden Ganymede mushrooms. I mean really. If you've ever seen one, you'd be surprised how those towers exactly resembles them besides the fact that those poisonous terrestrial fungi does not grow around this side of the land. And a rare species at that. The city was prosperous in any way possible. Travelers tell of magnificent castles and skyscrapers. Of lush gardens and an efficient waterworks that runs abundantly around the city. Of wide and peaceful streets battered everyday by carriages run not by horses but by some other means that only them could have known. Because you see, the people there were not too friendly with outsiders, or passing travelers. They consider anyone outside the city a threat to the peace and abundance they were enjoying. Beautiful but proud people. They think they were the direct descendants of their gods. They think that Grete was the center of the creation of the world. And that all the people outside the Gretian border are scraps, toys, or experimental creations. And personally, I think, these were the things that eventually lured the city into its ultimate demise.

The city perished after the Great Fire almost wiped out the whole of the peninsula. I never knew about that until our small caravan made it to Grete. At first I thought there was a war. Like y'know bombs and those modern warfare we've never heard of in the olden days. It was totally devastating. Think of a huge boulder that came falling from the skies as huge as the M'ka mountains. And think of some huge cannons commissioned to blast those bugger off. Supposedly those cannons did their jobs as they were suppose to do and hit the boulder straight at its center. The debris that it could have created came falling into those unfortunate buildings and houses and the impact created such huge fires that leave the city unable to call for help. It was as if everything happened spontaneously. Terrible terrible thing really. The air smelled of sulfur or concentrated ash. Once in a while, I half-expected to see red-skinned devils. Because y'see, the place was more like hell, only doused by the gods for whatever reasons only their arrogant selves knew.

There was this story that have been passed down at taverns among drunk patrons and travelers. It amused me a a lot that I retell them to other people most often with my own version. The original story tells of a giant who have eaten a whole field of those humongous root tubers that grow only around the Antolan peninsula. It goes by the name namusch but it's popularly known as kasak among the Noram speakers. So it was said that the giant was so hungry that he uprooted all the tubers planted in a field belonging to a religious peasant. Of course the peasant was devastated upon seeing the field devoid of the precious tubers he was supposedly planning to sell in the nearby town on the next market day. His wife was so saddened by what happened that she refused to eat her meal that evening and fallen gravely ill. He was angry, of course. He readied himself for a little killing to be done but failed to identify who's the lucky subject. Their sole source of income was gone and now, he doesn't know how to replace all those lost tubers and sustain a food in the table for him, his wife and his 3 children.

And so he called the attention of the seven-headed god of lightning Chimera by sacrificing a kid from his small herd of goats. In his little stone altar, it was said that he burned the kid, bowed his head to the ground and calling out his grievance to his god. He was so angry that blood ran out his lips out of cursing. He asked not of food or a way to replant another batch of tubers but an appropriate decapitation or ultimate humiliation to whoever ransacked his field.

The vengeful god heard the peasant's prayers and the tears reached him like an acid - corrosive and full of hate. He learned the deeds of the voracious giant. Don't know how gods did it exactly but they just did. And so the god Chimera, the great god of the high Nadir mountains descended the earth and found the giant comfortably sitting in a huge boulder in a hill overlooking most of the lands that was part of the Antolan peninsula. I'm thinking of a very much contented giant whose belly protruded out its gigantic frame, rubbing it gently while conveniently picking its teeth. Chimera produced a huge bolt. The biggest he had ever created and struck it immediately to the unsuspecting giant. But before the bolt reached him in a split of a second, the giant farted as if he had never farted before – the result of eating too much gas-inducing tubers. Gas and lightning bolt was never a good combination as you might have suspected. And that – as they say – started the Great Fire we knew today.

Of course, there was a little truth to that story, if there was anything at all. The fact is, no one really did know how and where the Great Fire started. I think it's one of those simple mysteries. Y'know like oops, I've messed with nature. And the devastating effect was so fast everything vanished before you can even say sorry.