How did Shi Tuo, the storyteller, die?

In The Storyteller, the storyteller vomited blood and died, which is very tragic and makes people feel sympathy and sadness.

Story writer

Author: Shi tuo

The first time I saw a storyteller was in this small town.

Under the platform of Chenghuang Temple, he put a broken leg board table with several benches in front and on both sides. He is a middle-aged man, wearing a blue gown, and his face is very yellow and thin. He has a folding fan-the black sector has disappeared, a huge piece of wood-also known as Starwood, a small basket for collecting money, which is everything to him. His voice is not high, and he often coughs, but obviously, sometimes he wants to shout like his minions. He hit, stabbed, chopped and split with a folding fan. When it comes to joints, he taps the gavel, and the audience gives him one or two dollars at a time.

Storytelling is undoubtedly a cheap industry. A storyteller, a world-famous liar! I was fascinated.

He talked until it was dark at night, then the gun went off, then the big clock in the temple, and then the Yunka on the Drum Tower. When these voices sounded one after another in their grand and familiar tones, all the booths were taken away, and the temple was silent, leaving only the storyteller and his audience in the darkness. At this time, what is more touching than this? When everything that once made me happy and miserable faded with the years, only those that were praised and never existed appeared in my hazy memory until now. Accompanied by these figures, there are stone fences around the jade mound in the night, temple corners that have been rushing up, and bats flying in the air.

Time passed quietly, and the storyteller still had the broken folding fan, the small mallet and the small basket for collecting money. Whenever I come to this town, I always think of him first. He is yellower and thinner than before; His robe turned gray-green; He coughed and vomited blood. Sometimes he still growls, but he is weaker than before. The number of people listening to books increased from one or two to three at a time, then to five, and then the money disappeared, and he was given a copper coin at a time.

"Please eight, a steamed bread. There are six more; There are four left; There are only three left, which one is enough. " He often counts the money he receives. He lamented that life was hard and asked the guests to give him another raise.

His old audience gradually decreased, and the old audience also died one after another; Young people have grown into adults, and they have the status of adults, otherwise they will go elsewhere and leave this small town.

Last time I came to this small town, I went to the Town God Temple (the Town God Temple has long been changed into a clubhouse). Under the platform, where the storyteller sets the table, there is a soup seller. I felt a pang of disappointment. How lively the Chenghuang Temple was in our eyes at first, and how desolate it is now.

"hasn't the storyteller come yet?" I can't help asking

The soup seller said, "He is ill and hasn't been here for several days."

The next day, I was walking casually outside the city, and a coffin caught up from behind. I stopped by the side of the road to let them pass. They are two bearers, and the other is followed by a shovel.

"Who are you carrying?"

"A storyteller," one of them replied.

"Is the storyteller dead?"

They probably thought my words were boring, so they kept silent.

"How did he die?" So I kept asking.

"vomiting blood."

"vomiting blood and telling books?"

"Yes, tell him to stop. He will continue to wear that dress and he will be proud. "

"What about his family?"

"He doesn't have a home. Everyone received a little copper, at least after listening to his books for so many years. "

They went to the country along this road. I followed them. The so-called spirit box is actually just a reed mat tied with a rope. The storyteller's feet are exposed from the mat and keep swinging with the steps of carrying his hands. The corner of his tattered robe hung straight to the ground, sweeping the eluvial soil on the road all the way.

We don't talk. The undertaker quickly crossed a dirt slope and stopped at the mass grave. It was here that they dug a hole in the middle of the wasteland, then put down the storyteller and sent the soil down.

"Now you can go underground to get your book." When they put the storyteller down, one of them said sarcastically.

I watched and stood quietly. Exactly, storyteller, you really should take your book underground now, but have you ever thought that you will blow a stream of life into this dreary world, and in the ordinary life of human beings, you will create another world, a world that this world will never reach, a world of chivalry and courage? I'm the only one left in the countryside. What's going on here? Where is Cross Slope now? Where is Xiaoshanghe? I looked up at the front, how desolate the city outside is!

1942 1 3rd of the month

(Excerpted from "Orchard City", with deletion)