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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.
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