An excellent storyteller had to do more than display his craft; he also had to watch his audience's reactions.
Yi Shuyuan took in the reactions of every guest in the teahouse, and from what he saw, he knew they had already immersed themselves in the story.
But a voice needed its rises and falls, and a story needed its tension and release.
Now Yi Shuyuan eased the audience's unbearable tension, bringing back the low, distant voice from his opening.
"In those days, the world was in turmoil, and the times were steeped in chaos. Many riverside villages and towns along the middle reaches actually offered up boys and girls every year to sacrifice to the river god, hoping for favorable winds and timely rains, hoping their homes might know peace. How tragic, how laughable..."
As the narration returned, the listeners around him all breathed a sigh of relief. Some had scarcely dared to breathe a moment before.
Yi Shuyuan lifted his teacup and took a small sip, then gently waved his Folding Fan. The fragrance of tea drifted through the air, refreshing every listener.
No one urged him to continue, afraid of disturbing the storyteller's atmosphere. Yet everyone watched Yi Shuyuan, looking at his tranquil expression and eyes that focused on nothing nearby, as though gazing far away into the past...
Outside the teahouse, more and more people gathered to listen for free. Some, having heard this much, hurried away.
One was a porter who had merely stopped beside the teahouse for a brief listen while passing by. Now he rushed toward a shady spot at the street corner as though his backside were on fire.
A dozen or so porters sat resting there. They had clearly just finished working and had removed their headcloths to wipe away sweat and