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.
