A Recipe for the Day Alban Kills the King

by M.R. Robinson

1. Start by chopping the onions. Best to get your crying finished, if you can. You’ll want to cry later, but that won’t be the right time, and it won’t help anyone—not you, not him. Two onions, then, straight from the garden. Peel them with unsteady fingers. Close the window, if you’d like, not that it will do you any good: you’ll still hear the whooping-laughing-singing of the children as they carry the news through the village. The king is dead! Alban killed the king!

2. Let the onion brown. You won’t mean for it to brown, only to soften, but you’ll keep turning your back to the pot to peer down the path. No sign of Alban, not yet. Don’t worry. Any soup worth the salt takes time. You’ve waited three years. You can wait a while longer.

3. Slice the mushrooms. After a moment’s hesitation, cut the slices to half their size. He’s never liked it when the mushrooms are too large. And he can’t be so different now, can he? He must still be himself. He will be himself. He’s been gone three years, but you’ve loved him for twenty. Oh, you’ve loved him since the day he was born. Not a soldier, not a king-killer. Not even a boy picking mushrooms out of his soup. Just—a strange little thing, pink and squealing and impossibly small. I wonder who he’ll be, his father had whispered. I wonder what he’ll do.

4. Add the mushrooms to the pot.

5. A rough chop will do for the carrots, yes, and the potatoes, too. Pour the broth. You don’t need this recipe. You know the steps by heart. The smell of mushrooms and onions takes you back to the year his father died, the year you had nothing more to eat than what little you could find or grow. Careful, now. Don’t let the pot boil over while you’re reminiscing. Still, take a moment. Picture him coming home muddy-cheeked with his cap full of mushrooms. Remember how he wanted to take care of you. Remember how lucky you have been to take care of him.

6. When the sun drops below the hills and he hasn’t appeared, take a deep breath. Stir your soup; add a pinch of salt, a sprinkle of thyme. He’ll be home. He isn’t far now. But he’s come a long, long way, longer even than you know. Keep the pot simmering. He’ll be home. He will.

7. Don’t run to him when he steps through the door. Don’t cry out. Don’t tell him you’ve missed his smiling face. He won’t be smiling. He’ll be taller than you remember. Broader in the shoulders, too. But somehow—somehow, standing in the threshold with his hat in his red raw hands, he’ll look like that boy with muddy cheeks and mushrooms in his cap. A boy. Only a boy.

8. Take his filthy bag. Try not to look too closely at the rust-dark stains. You’ll expect him to stand a little straighter once you take the bag from him, heavy as it is, but he won’t. No, no. There’s a heavier weight than that on his back. When you take the sword—then, maybe then, he’ll seem to soften. Put the blade somewhere out of sight, quickly as you can. His work is done.

9. He’ll look at you like he’s staring right through you, like he can hardly recognize you. Did you, he’ll begin, his voice not his own. He’ll falter. You cooked for me, he’ll try again.

10. For the first time in three years, fill two bowls. Set one at his place. Don’t ask him about the war. Don’t ask him about the king. Try not to stare at the scar on his arm, pink and raw and ugly even in the candlelight, or the bruise-black hollows of his too-thin cheeks.

11. When he looks up with his lips parted and his wet eyes shining, don’t say a word. Set your spoon down softly. Slide your chair back gently. Go to him, yes, but go slowly.

12. Hold out your arms.

13. Let him wrap his big soldier’s arms around you. Let him tuck his filthy face into your neck like a little boy. When he starts to whimper—when he croaks out Mama, I came home and his whimpering turns to weeping—don’t let go. Sink to the floor, even with your bad knee twinging and your back miserably tight from a day bent over the cookpot, and bring him into your lap like he’s half his size.

14. Run your fingers through his hair, kiss his brow, and whisper I know, Alban, I know.

15. Don’t let go. Don’t let go.

M. R. Robinson is an academic who studies time and desire in Renaissance literature. When not writing or teaching, she and her wife are very (very) slowly restoring their crumbly old house, which they share with three pets and too many books. Her short fiction has appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Flash Fiction Online, and Small Wonders, among other publications. You can find her at www.m-r-robinson.com or as @mruthrobinson on Bluesky and Instagram.