邪恶

她微笑着，而那个孩子停止了呼吸。 我之所以讲述他的故事，是因为人们不断追问为什么那座旧宫殿上了锁，为什么夜里没人敢靠近那条干涸的河。我当时在场。我亲眼看见了发生的一切。那时我不明白。现在我知道了。 这件事发生在我年幼时，西非的一座小镇上。我们有一位女王。她并非生来就是女王。她嫁给国王时，他已年迈。他死后，她留了下来。 人们称她为土地之母。他们说她仁慈。他们说她带来了和平。起初，我也相信。 我在宫殿里做帮工。我提水。我扫地。我睡在后墙附近的一间小屋里。我看见了别人看不见的事。 女王从不衰老。这是第一件事。 岁月流逝。孩子们长大了。老人们死了。女王始终如一。同样的面容。同样的皮肤。同样锐利的眼睛。 当人们拿这事开玩笑时，他们一笑置之。“她血脉好，”他们说。“她用草药。” 但到了夜里，我听见了动静。 有些夜晚，我听见哭声。不响。很轻。像是有人努力不让人听见。声音来自内室，那间任何工人都不得进入的房间。当我问其他帮工时，他们说什么也没听见。 接着，孩子们开始失踪。 起初，是一个孩子。一个常在门口卖橘子的男孩。人们说他跑了。然后是一个河边的女孩。接着又是一个男孩。总是穷人家的孩子。总是没有强大家族撑腰的孩子。 女王什么也没说。卫兵什么也没说。 一天夜里，女仆长派我去内室送水。这从未发生过。我走过去时，双手发抖。 门半开着。 我真希望自己当时转身回去了。 里面，房间气味难闻。像血和烟。地上有碗。席子上有深色的污渍。女王站在墙边。她正在洗手。 席子上躺着一个孩子。一个小女孩。她的眼睛睁着，但一动不动。 女王看着我，笑了。 “你来晚了，”她说。 我说不出话。我动弹不得。 她叫我放下水。我的身体在我脑子来得及阻止之前就服从了。 她跪在女孩身旁，摸了摸她的脸。女孩没有反应。 “她会帮助这片土地，”女王说。“像其他人一样。” 接着她做了我永远不会忘记的事。 她把嘴贴在孩子的胸口，吸了一口气。用力。缓慢。像是在从女孩体内喝气。 女孩的嘴张开了，但没有发出声音。 当女王站起来时，孩子已经不动了。 女王的皮肤看起来更亮了。她的眼睛看起来饱满。 我跑了。 我一直跑到自己的房间才停下。我吐在地上。我无声地哭。我想离开，但我知道我做不到。夜里大门是锁着的。 第二天早上，女王宣布举办一场庆典。她说这片土地受到了祝福。鼓声响起。人们跳舞。没有人提起那些失踪的孩子。 我曾试着告诉别人。我告诉了一个守卫。他盯着我，然后走开了。我告诉了一个在宫殿附近卖食物的老妇人。她看了看我，说：“小心点。” 那天晚上，有人敲了我的门。 是王后。 她一个人进来的。没有守卫。她坐在我的席子上，好像那是她的一样。 “你看到了，”她说。 我点了点头。 她说她很久以前就被选中了。这片土地需要血才能保持富饶。那些孩子是祭品。如果她停下来，土地就会死去。 然后她摸了摸我的头。 “你会忘记的，”她说。 我没有忘记。 但我保持了沉默。 更多的孩子失踪了。土地依然富饶。庄稼生长。雨水按时到来。 几年过去了。 然后一个旱季来了。漫长而艰难。庄稼歉收。人们变得愤怒。他们私下说王后已经失去了她的力量。 一天晚上，哭声又回来了。这次更响。 我循着声音走去。 内室的门又开着。 里面，王后很虚弱。她看起来老了。她的皮肤松弛下垂。她的头发稀疏。席子上有一个男孩。还活着。被绑着。在哭。 她试图进食。她做不到。 我不知道自己怎么了。 我抓起一支火把，大喊起来。 守卫跑了进来。人们跟了进来。 他们看到了一切。 那个男孩。那些污渍。那些碗。跪在地上的王后。 她尖叫了。不是因为恐惧。是因为愤怒。 他们把她拖了出去。她像野兽一样挣扎。 在河边，长老们做了一个选择。没有审判。没有话语。 他们把她绑起来，推进了水里。 她没有沉下去。 她漂浮着。她笑了。然后水把她拉了下去。 第二年，那条河干涸了。 宫殿被锁上了。 不久之后我离开了那个镇子。 人们仍然说王后只是一个故事。一个谎言。一种解释坏事的方式。 我知道真相。 有时候，当夜晚安静下来，我听到不属于我的呼吸声。 然后我想起她的微笑。

She smiled while the child stopped breathing. I am telling his story ecause people keep asking why the old palace is locked, and why no one goes near the dry river at night. I was there. I saw what happened. I did not understand it then. I do now. This happened when I was young, in a small town in West Africa. We had a queen. She was not born a queen. She married the king when he was already old. When he died, she stayed. People called her Mother of the Land. They said she was kind. They said she brought peace. I believed that too, at first. I worked in the palace as a helper. I carried water. I swept floors. I slept in a small room near the back wall. I saw things others did not see. The queen never aged. That was the first thing. Years passed. Children grew up. Old men died. The queen stayed the same. Same face. Same skin. Same sharp eyes. When people joked about it, they laughed it off. “She has good blood,” they said. “She uses herbs.” But at night, I heard things. Some nights, I heard crying. Not loud. Soft. Like someone trying not to be heard. It came from the inner room, the one no worker could enter. When I asked the other helpers, they said they heard nothing. Then children started to go missing. At first, it was one child. A boy who used to sell oranges near the gate. People said he ran away. Then a girl from the river side. Then another boy. Always poor children. Always children with no strong family. The queen said nothing. The guards said nothing. One night, the head maid sent me to bring water to the inner room. This had never happened before. My hands shook as I walked there. The door was half open. I wish I had turned back. Inside, the room smelled bad. Like blood and smoke. There were bowls on the floor. Dark stains on the mat. The queen stood near the wall. She was washing her hands. On the mat was a child. A small girl. Her eyes were open, but she was not moving. The queen looked at me and smiled. “You are late,” she said. I could not speak. I could not move. She told me to put the water down. My body obeyed before my mind could stop it. She knelt by the girl and touched her face. The girl did not react. “She will help the land,” the queen said. “Like the others.” Then she did something I will never forget. She placed her mouth on the child’s chest and breathed in. Hard. Slow. Like she was drinking air from inside the girl. The girl’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. When the queen stood up, the child was still. The queen’s skin looked brighter. Her eyes looked full. I ran. I did not stop until I reached my room. I vomited on the floor. I cried without sound. I wanted to leave, but I knew I could not. The gates were locked at night. The next morning, the queen announced a festival. She said the land was blessed. Drums played. People danced. No one spoke of the missing children. I tried to tell someone. I told one guard. He stared at me and walked away. I told an old woman who sold food near the palace. She looked at me and said, “Be careful.” That night, someone knocked on my door. It was the queen. She came in alone. No guards. She sat on my mat like she owned it. “You saw,” she said. I nodded. She said she was chosen long ago. That the land needed blood to stay rich. That the children were gifts. That if she stopped, the land would die. Then she touched my head. “You will forget,” she said. I did not forget. But I stayed quiet. More children went missing. The land stayed rich. Crops grew. Rain came on time. Years passed. Then a dry season came. Long and hard. Crops failed. People got angry. They whispered that the queen had lost her power. One night, the crying came back. Louder this time. I followed the sound. The inner room door was open again. Inside, the queen was weak. She looked old. Her skin sagged. Her hair was thin. On the mat was a boy. Alive. Tied. Crying. She tried to feed. She could not. I do not know what came over me. I grabbed a torch and shouted. Guards ran in. People followed. They saw everything. The boy. The stains. The bowls. The queen on her knees. She screamed. Not in fear. In rage. They dragged her out. She fought like an animal. At the river, the elders made a choice. No trial. No words. They tied her and pushed her into the water. She did not sink. She floated. She laughed. Then the water pulled her down. The river dried up the next year. The palace was locked. I left the town soon after. People still say the queen was a story. A lie. A way to explain bad things. I know the truth. Sometimes, when the night is quiet, I hear breathing that is not mine. And I remember her smile.