Book Review: Francis of Assisi

Leppin, Victor. Francis of Assisi: The Life of a Restless Saint. Trans. Rhys S. Bezzant (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2025) E-book.

Short version: A very readable source-critical biography of Francis of Assisi.

Long Version: I saw the book advertised in a special “St. Francis” theme issue of Medieval History magazine. Since I needed material for an adult history series on St. Francis, I bought the ebook. I have a passing knowledge of Francis of Assisi and his place as part of a sort of reform/realignment in the western Christian Church in the 1200s, but not much more than the basics. This is the 800th anniversary of the saint’s death, and he’s a popular topic at the moment.

The book fills in a lot of gaps, BUT it is not an all-inclusive biography or hagiography. It is source critical, meaning that it takes the oldest and most reliable sources we have for the topic, in this case the life and works of Francis of Assisi, and considers his life in light of biases in the source material. It is also limited, because the author doesn’t try to “get inside Francis’ head” so to speak, but limits himself to what Francis actually wrote or very likely said. A great deal of the book is source analysis, so if you are looking for a straight-forward biography, this will be disappointing.

Leppin begins with the background of Assisi, the Church, and the Holy Roman Empire at the time of Francis birth and life. The High Middle Ages were in full bloom, with a merchant economy that had begun to expand and flourish. In the area of northern Italy, this meant growing social tensions between the newly rich and the old nobility, the commercial class and the church, and various city-states against each other and the nobles. Assisi had only recently become independent, and the merchants made the most of it. The Church and nobles did not approve of flaunting such wealth, for different reasons. One group felt that the old order was being challenged (it was) and that commoners should not be so rich. The other group maintained that the merchants too often crossed the line between having lots of coin and worshipping said coin.

The sons of merchants, such as Francis, rebelled by dressing and acting like nobles, if they could, including going to war against their fathers’ wishes. Francis spent almost two years as a prisoner after one such battle, and likely got tuberculosis while in prison. He also began to have doubts about society’s priorities, and rebelled in other ways, like handing coins (alms) to the poor rather than having servants give out coin in his name, and then kissing lepers, the most dangerously unclean members of society. If that was not sufficient, he had a vision of a Crucifix calling him to “Rebuild my church.” At first Francis took it to mean the physical building of a much-neglected chapel. Then he came to understand that the Lord meant the relationship between people, the Church, and the Lord. He spent the rest of his life trying to bring people back to the Church, teaching, preaching, praying, and doing mission work, most famously to the commander of the Muslim forces at the Siege of Diamatta in the 1220s during the 5th Crusade.

The book covers phases of Francis’ life, and focuses on four early manuscripts, as well as Francis’ own writings, and some other contemporary documents. If you are not broadly familiar with some of the history and politics of the time, it could be slow going. Too, if you are not interested in the differences between accounts of the saint’s life and why they are there, the book is a plod in places. I admit, there are a few spots I skimmed, because that’s not an argument I have interest in. However, overall the book was very useful and filled in a large number of gaps. Putting Francis in context helps. For example, I had forgotten that Francis coincided with the Lollards and Cathars, both heresy movements that were dealt with in various ways. That made Francis, as a lay-preacher, even more on the edge of society and the Church. Without the Church’s permission and authorization, he could have ended up like Peter Waldo, condemned as a heretic. Instead Francis remained inside the Church, preaching to ordinary people and trying to bring them back to G-d. He was not a rebel. Leppin, tongue slightly in cheek I suspect, apologizes to those who wish to see Francis as a wild rebel challenging the hierarchy of the Church. Nor was he a nature-worshipper and closet pagan [!].

The book is very good about clarifying what we can be 90% certain about Francis of Assisi and his closest followers. Leppin takes seriously medieval beliefs, and doesn’t challenge or attempt to explain every event and possible miracle in Francis’ life. He’s not deconstructing the life of Francis, but clarifying what historians can be sure about, and what has been added on later. I’d like to have had more examples of Francis’ own writings, but there are books dedicated to that, so the material is out there, in many translations. Francis was a mystic, and trying to “get inside the head” of someone like him, especially one from a very different time and place, is not possible. The translator did a wonderful job with making Leppin’s writing flow, even in the technical sections.

I’d recommend the book for people interested in what we can truly know about Francis of Assisi, what his role in the changes in the western Church in the early 1200s was, and how he fits into his place and time. It’s not the easiest read, especially if you are not interested in comparing medieval documents and authors, but for me was well worth the time and effort. I used the material in the class I taught, as well as at Day Job.

FTC Disclaimer: I purchased this book for my own use and received no remuneration or consideration from the author and publisher for this review.

The Oldest Laws

MomRed is listening and watching a series of lectures on The Odyssey. One lecture pointed out the important theme of hospitality in the epic, and how those who violated the laws of hospitality faced bad ends sooner or later. Across large swaths of the planet, there were strict rules for how a host was to treat guests, and the duties guests had to their hosts. Visitors were vital sources of information, might have things for trade, provided entertainment, and could aid in spreading a good reputation. A guest had the task of providing information, not causing trouble, assisting his host or staying out of the way, and moving on after a certain time. Should he stay longer, depending on the culture, he incurred certain duties.

One thing we have to keep in mind is that in much of the world, if you did not have a local connection, or were not well enough armed to defeat all comers, you were fair game for anyone. One book defined a powerful person as someone who had freedom of movement. That was about one percent of the population. Merchants, couriers, other travelers, had to find someone to vouch for them and provide shelter, to serve as a host. In some cases, the host would declare that the guest was “as a son” or other kinship, placing that person on a “do not bother” list of sorts. Certain traders among the Comanche earned that status, for example.

In the opening of the Odyssey, Athena visits Ithaca and observes the suitors acting like boors. They have killed their host’s beasts, are ordering the servants around, and treat the host (Odysseus’ son) badly. Conversely, when he sees Athena at the gate, Telemacus hurries out, welcomes her, offers her the best seat in the hall, makes certain that she is comfortable, places her weapon in a proper rack, and offers her food and drink before inquiring of her travels. He is a good host, and she is a good guest. The suitors will get their due for their bad behavior.

The Torah has rules for how to treat strangers, and the New Testament points out that hospitality is important, but not to be abused. The apostles and others work for a living and don’t sponge off fellow believers if they can help it. Other faiths provide guidance as well, or the culture has traditions about guests and hosts. Most also have stories about what happens if such rules are not followed. See Genesis (Sodom and Gomorrah) and Judges 19 (guess what happens again?) for horrible warnings.

Probably the most infamous historical example of a gross violation of hospitality would be the Glen Coe Massacre. The descendants of those who participated in it are still considered with contempt to thus day, over 200 years later. They stayed with families in Glen Coe, broke bread, shared hearth and home, then turned and murdered everyone they could catch. The land remembers.

In the Familiars books, guest right and host duty are threads that run through some of the stories. Hearth-right, pot-right, leaving things better than one found them, understanding which places are always neutral, as if all were guests there (“Lady’s peace” and sometimes “Defender’s Peace”), those are things drummed into the youngsters of the clan. Not all get the message, or follow the rules, leading to at best a quiet word or a small thump.

In the US and most of Western Europe, we don’t think as much about hospitality, although some of us grew up with certain expectations about how one treats guests, and how one behaves as a guest. It is not as often a matter of survival, but still … I would not want to be rude to a guest and discover that it was “Gray eyed Athena” or an angel in disguise.

Tuesday Tidbit: The Thing in the Garden

At least something likes cheap cat kibble.

The faint sound of water dancing in a small basin welcomed him into the garden. Vladimir lapped from the lower basin, then waited as his mage removed the paw covers and harness. He sniffed a knee-high lump of basalt and rubbed against it before meandering among the plants on his way to the door. The air in the small garden smelled of desert rose, pine, and rain-washed stones. A few purple cone flowers nodded in a corner among a spray of gray-purple Pirofskia. Desert rose bloomed in a different corner, yellow flowers bright against the dark green foliage and branches. 

Simeon unlocked the heavy blue wooden door and let Vladimir in, then found the sack of cheap cat food and added some to the outside dish. Vladimir wouldn’t touch that brand, but the … presence … in the garden loved it.

Vladimir stared at him, unblinking, until the microwave chimed. “Yes, today is tuna-chicken blend,” he assured his Familiar. He set the gently curved pottery platter in the Familiar’s corner of the dining area. As the sound of a cat devouring meat filled the air, his mage poured himself a glass of iced tea and added two squirts of agave nectar. He returned to the garden and sat on the small bench. Damp summer evenings deserved to be savored. 

He sipped, breathed deeply, then lowered his shields as he exhaled. All remained quiet around him. None of the neighbors had magic, something that further relaxed him. The piñon-flower-clean scent washed the last of the nasty customer’s prickles out of his mind. The tea’s flavors matched the air. Birds called, and cottonwood leaves clattered from the stand out of sight on the arroyo bank. He caught a whiff of fresh bread from an oven. His stomach growled. He had more tea. 

Crunch, crunch, crunch. He glanced over to the dishes by the door. A small shape like a European-inspired fantasy dragon helped herself to the cat kibble. Her desert colors matched the land, tans, cream, a bit of rose shading on her tail. Simeon saluted the small presence with his tea glass, then returned to contemplating the gentle trickle of water dancing from the two-pot fountain. Vladimir and the birds drank from it. The earth spirit ignored the water, as best he could tell. She had never touched it in his presence, at least. 

After a few more minutes of watery contemplation, Simeon got up and retreated indoors. What for supper? Something meaty and hearty would be very good. He dug around in the freezer until he found one of the stew bowls he’d made and frozen. “Perfect.” It was Hungarian, according to what he’d written on the wrapper. Goulash sounded delightful. As it heated, he considered the stack of books beside his reading chair. 

Vladimir leaned against his leg until he reached down and scratched his back, and behind his ears. “Podcast tonight?”

“Da. Another chapter of Space Cats. Then the American Revolution alphabet book for the second session.” That would get him through to the weekend. 

“Good.” The cat rubbed around him once more, then hopped onto the couch and settled in for another nap. 

The microwave chimed. Simeon pulled the goulash out with great care, using tongs to open the wrapper this time. Getting another steam burn ranked down with charm breaking on his list of pleasant tasks. Once the dish cooled enough, he set it on the table, logged into the booksellers’ news site, and read between bites. “All of Pootoo Brothers’ books are going out of print,” he told Vladimir. “The last attempt at finding a buyer for the intellectual properties has failed, and all the creditors agreed to quit trying.”

“Thanks be to the Lord Most High,” the cat intoned. “And to someone in the legal department with a clue.”

“Agreed.” He read a little farther. “Ursula Guess-Who will be releasing a new series, urban fantasy again.” The hairball sound that greeted the news matched his own feelings precisely. At least the magic in the books had not worked yet, unlike the woman who had been sued into a new career. He’d cheered that, albeit privately. In his opinion, it was not censorship to demand that malicious content intentionally designed to bring harm to Sensitive or magic-working readers be removed. “The big British distributor is raising prices on pocket paperbacks. Again.” 

“No surprise.” Vladimir rolled over, stretched the full length of the couch, then sat, tail curled around his toes. “Paper costs or shipping?”

“Officially the rising cost of materials.” He skimmed down to the last paragraph. “Unofficially to protect the value of their brand, so that’s the real reason.” Too bad price did not guarantee quality in some of their non-fiction imprints. 

(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved

Caring for Tools

So, there I was, plunging the loppers up and down in oily sand. Then I did two pocket knives, along with some other implements of mayhem, ahem, daily tools, that looked as if they could use a bit of care. I’d been pruning and weeding, and had already wiped the blades clean of residue and sap. The oil protects them, lubricates the joints, and helps extend the life of the tools. I need to find a place that can sharpen them. Curved blades like that are something I do not know how to sharpen well, and I don’t want to ruin $$$ tools. Spades I can sharpen, plain knives as well, but I know what I can’t do.

How well do people care for their tools? There are some things, like hammers, that don’t require much work. Others (paint brushes and rollers, certain garden tools, edged tools, firearms, food processors) need a lot of TLC. I observed a household repair man with peg-boards in is pickup, and outlines for every tool. As soon as he finished with one and no longer needed it, it went onto the board. All of them were worn but in very good shape. That suggests that his work is also good, if not fancy. Well-kept tools last, and work when you need them. A little care now means far less worry and hassle (or hazard) later.

Every so often I go through all the tools and check them. Is the nut on the rake coming loose, allowing the tines to start to come off? Has the outdoor broom served its day, shedding more than it sweeps? How is the fit of the garbage can lid? What about the trowels, loppers, clippers, hand-rakes, shovel, and other things? When was the last time I cleaned the threads on the sprinklers and hoses? Last week, if you are curious. It also lets me catch rust before it gets out of control.

In one story, Jude goes through all of Aunt Martha’s kitchen knives. He cannot abide dull blades, and for good reason. His life depends on his tools. Safety also demands that knives be sharp. Dull slips and becomes unpredictable, requiring more force, with bad results. DadRed was adamant about sharpening shovels and spades, something I hadn’t really thought about until I tried to cut tree roots and dig a hole with a “dull” shovel. Not again if I can avoid it.

A good workman makes certain his tools are ready for the job. Work goes faster if all is ready. Yes, it takes time to sharpen all your chisels, scrapers, planes, and so on. It takes more time to yell for help because you forgot to get all the clamps together in one place, or to do the work over, or replace wood after something gouges or skips. Ask me how I know … [Looks at little scar on thumb]

Measure twice, cut once with a sharp, clean saw. Life is better that way.

Gardening in Survival Mode

High pressure has dominated the region for almost a solid month now. Sinking air in summer brings high temperatures and light winds. We’ve been very, very fortunate that we have not had the bone dry, water-sucking winds out of the southwest as often this year. However, week after week of highs in the upper 90s – low 100s [36-40C] takes a toll on the plants and animals, two footed and otherwise. Water restrictions have been put in place, although here in town it’s not as strict as in a few other places. Two small communities are having to draw on emergency funds to drill new water wells, and they have stringent water limits in place.

Compared to some gardens, RedQuarters is in very good shape. We have always used deep watering, meaning that we won’t water as often, but do so for longer. This means that plants tend to grow deeper, more sturdy root systems, including the yard grass. We also mow longer, so the roots are shaded, and use mulching mowers. The roses are almost all mature, giving them a leg up for survival. The other plants are natives bred for heat and drought tolerance, although even those have limits. The white salvia outside my office, however, thinks it is a desert plant, and is threatening to take over the rose bed. Or it could be a salvia thing. They tend to be enthusiastic once they settle in.

Mulching to cover the roots and keep water in the ground also helps. Drip irrigation does for some of the beds, while the lawn sprinklers also cover parts of other beds. We have some shade trees, one of which is dying and will have to be removed this fall, alas. However, I don’t want it falling on the house.

The pecan seedlings love the heat, as do the columbine. I keep lopping, pulling, digging up, and otherwise doing battle with pecan seedlings, a few oak saplings, and more columbine than Carter has liver pills.* However, this has to be done before 0900, because of the heat. I am NOT trying to do yard stuff at 104 F. Just no. That’s how I get heat stress, to which I am very prone. I don’t shed heat well, never have. I’m designed for a cold, wet climate (Scotland, the Low Countries), not the high semi-desert. I can adapt, but not well, and not after working all day in a comparatively cool place.

This is the time of year to hunker down, hang in there, and work early in the morning if you can. Produce is now in full flow, so fresh locally grown tomatoes, peppers, potatoes, melons and cantaloupe, a little sweet corn, and onions are on the market. Okra too, if you can get there before the die-hard okra fans find it. I missed the last basket by thirty seconds this morning.

Eventually, the high pressure ridge will break apart. Temperatures will decline to local average, we will get moisture, and people will stop twitching. The long-term forecast is for a damp and cool winter. I hope so, although I am not a fan of very deep or wind-driven snow. I am in charge of the shovel. However, for now, careful water use, prayer, and letting things rest is the rule. It is August, the dog days, and the hottest part of the summer. The garden abides, as do people.

*Ask your Southern grandparents, if you have them.

Caturday: Rub-n-Sniff

I have mentioned that Jase T. Cat is a very “nosy” feline, in that he sniffs things and is more scent-curious than any other cat I’ve met to date. It’s fun to watch him investigate new-to-the-house things.

Earlier this week, I went to the v-e-t’s office to get a sack of his special cat chow. They had restocked the chow corner with 20 lb sacks of dog foods, so the vet tech had to get one of the smaller cat food bags. She thought it might still be in “the shed” the storage building adjacent to the exam rooms and office. No, it was closer at hand, in an inside storage area. She made certain that this was indeed the proper chow, and I paid and brought it home.

As soon as he noticed it, Jase went nuts. He cheek rubbed it, then put his paws on the top and folded the top over so he could rub more of it, sniffing all the while. “Thump,” the sack tumped over and he rolled on it, ruuuuuuuuubbing his head on the corners and back, then rolling some more. He has no interest in getting at the contents. The external surface is all that interests him. I left him with his new toy.

Eventually he got tired and wandered off in search of petting and company. A few hours later, as I got ready for bed, he rediscovered the sack. Again, purring, rubbing, sniffing, and so on. I suspect the office transfusion dog or other animals, as well as people, had brushed against the bag, adding interesting scents to the standard office smell.

The last time we got a sack straight from “the shed,” I had to lock it away because he was so energetic about sniffing and pawing and rubbing. I couldn’t get any sleep for the sound of his enthusiasm.

Simple pleasures, I suppose.

All We Need is a Monster To Go With It

St. Angus-in-the-Grass School now has a moat. Sort of. Ish. To make a long, complicated story short, a new addition requires water inflow and outgo. The water line was duly dug in order to improve it add the extension. No pipe was found. This led to various calls, hunts, finding of plans, finding of amended corrections to plans, and finally everything short of begging St. Jude to find it.

The prodigal pipe has been found. Additional length and girth is being added. Other things are being relocated. One now gets one’s 10K steps in going from the parking area to the doors. Pleas and petitions to be allowed to park in the (harvested) wheat field have been denied.

And so another quiet year begins. [cue sound of heavy equipment, digging, construction workers trying hard not to use Those Words where kids can hear, and so on]

Sort of Opinion poll

Starting next Tuesday, would you prefer part of the rest of Simeon and Vladimir’s story (two more weeks or so, then I will pull everything prior to book release) or to start the next Bard’s Song book?

I know that Bard’s Song has not been very popular. I have some ideas why, including that it is very, very different from things like the Familiars and even the Merchant stories. Also, the distributor has been changing some advertising systems and categorizing, which may have accidentally given possible readers a wrong impression about the book.

I’m currently 27K words into the next Familiar Generations novel. It will tie up some threads that are loose in the short stories. I might do a Merchant story after that, or perhaps a Shikari. I’m still kicking around ideas.

Start with a pound or so of okra …

That was my problem. I had gotten some lovely, small okra at the farmers’ market and needed to use it. However, the last time I tried fancy okra, the results were so tough and unpleasant to chew (but tasted good) that I’d not messed with the veggie since. Impulse buying is not my friend, even if it was good for me. And deep frying is OUT at RedQuarters. Since it was in the 100sF outside, baking was also a no-go. We had no shrimp or andouille sausage to do Cajun/creole things.

So I looked at curries. Um, far too complicated. So I looked at other options, and settled on the basics of one recipe, details from another, and a lot of “I’ll swap this for that.”

A word about okra. A lot of people do NOT care for okra because it is “slimy.” Batter frying cures that. Stewing unto death also cures that. I don’t mind a little slime, and this recipe almost eliminates it entirely. I suspect if I had a true cast-iron skillet, I could have truly browned the okra and eliminated the mucilage, but this was pretty close.

1 lp small okra, trimmed and cut into rounds.

1 can tomatoes OR fresh tomatoes

1 lb or so sausage, fatty if possible (save your turkey sausage for another recipe) sliced thin. I used a smoked sausage.

1 medium yellow onion sliced fine

3 cloves of garlic minced

paprika, two glugs* of red wine, other spices to taste (marjoram, bay leaf)

Start by getting everything read, and heating oil in a pan until it shimmers. You need a large skillet, even though you start cooking things in stages. Brown the sliced sausage, then remove it from the pan, leaving the drippings. Toss in the okra and cook until browned on the ends, about 10 minutes or so. Add the onions and garlic and cook until translucent. Add the tomatoes and cook uncovered until the tomatoes start to get a little dark. [I poured off some of the liquid before I added the can to the skillet. If you use canned roasted tomatoes, just add and heat]. Return the sausage to the pan, mix, and reduce heat to a low simmer. Add paprika (I used at least 2 Tablespoons because it was old and weak) and other herbs as desired. I wanted a deep, mellow flavor. Then I added two glugs of red wine, and let it simmer. About this time I started a small pot of white rice.

Just before the rice was done, so fifteen minutes or so, I turned up the heat and removed the lid on the skillet. This thickened the okra quite nicely. I corrected the flavors (more paprika) as needed.

This made four generous servings. If you make more rice, it would stretch farther, or if you leave the sauce fairly thin. There was barely any “slime” from the okra, and the flavors blended very well, heavy and rich without being overly filling. If I had used a cast iron pan instead of no-stick, I think the okra would have truly browned and all the “slime” gone away. As it was, this worked beautifully, and has been added to my “make when okra are available” list.

*Open wine bottle, pour with care. After “glug, glug” stop pouring. The wine is not strictly necessary, but adds a nice depth and keeps the fat in suspension so the veggies have a chance to absorb more flavor from the sausage.

Tuesday Tidbit: Problem Solved

The charm-caster attracts the attention of a local Authority.

As the church bells chimed one, the door opened. An older Hispano man with a commanding presence stepped into the shop. Simeon bowed a little to him. Don Paulo Juan de la Cruz de Romero y Gallegos nodded in return. “Something for a young lady who is starting school, please.” 

“Yes, sir. This way, please.” Simeon led him to the children’s section, and considered. His magic pushed him to the third shelf. “I believe these might be appreciated, Señor.” He offered the books, then moved out of the gentleman’s way. 

The patrón of San Martín de Los Pueblos studied the trio of books, then gestured his agreement. “Perfect as always Señor Simeon.” Then he stopped, frowning. “Dark magic was here, was it not.”

“Yes, Don Paulo. A charm to cause fear and physical pain that could be gathered by a left-hand worker.” 

“You broke it. Give the carrier to me, please. I will deal with it, and the caster.” 

Simeon started toward the back. Vladimir raced past, emerging with the silk pouch in his teeth. “Thank you.” Simeon took it and handed it to the sorcerer. 

As he rang up the purchase, Don Paulo glanced in the pouch, frowning deeply as he did. Then he tucked the silk into a jacket pocket and removed a very old-fashioned wallet from another pocket. “I had heard stories about a left-handed worker who has grown overbold. This may be his work.” 

“Ah. Thank you, sir. He carries shields both prickly and uncomfortable, and looks like—” He drew power from Vladimir and cast a small illusion. 

The older sorcerer studied the image then gestured understanding. Simeon unmade it and returned the magic to his Familiar as Don Paulo said, “Gracias. I will make inquiries.” 

“Would you like these gift wrapped?”

Now the sorcerer smiled, a rather indulgent sort of smile. “No, thank you. They will be slipped in with her schoolbooks, to soften the day.”

After the Hispano patrón departed, Vladimir stretched, then asked, “Has anyone crossed him and survived?”

“Not that I know of. Either in the court room or in the circle.” Don Romero y Gallegos … It was one thing to read about the old patróns of the colonial period, and another thing to meet a modern one, especially one who was the strongest sorcerer in this part of the state and a water lawyer. 

The rest of the day alternated mild rushes with quiet. That was normal for a weekday in late summer. Simeon redid one of the windows with mountain and Indian Market-related books, and a different Navajo rug. He liked to rotate them, so they didn’t fade too much. 

“End of the week chaos,” Vladimir warned when he at last emerged from the back. 

“Much chaos.” He tried to avoid the Plaza during the major art and culture events. Since the shop was open for most of them, it wasn’t too hard, as long as he came in early. 

“Juana will have pots.” The blue-gray cat hopped into the window by the counter and stretched out on the Two Grey Hills rug currently on display. 

Would she? He’d need to make space for them. It wasn’t too hard, but good to know in advance. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“Spazibo.” Vladimir dozed off. 

Not long after three that afternoon, the world darkened outside the shop. People hurried to bring in display tables if they had any. Simeon stepped out the front door and helped Mr. Devaca carry mineral samples and a large chunk of petrified wood into the rock shop. “Gracias.”

“De nada.” Thunder rolled down from the mountains, right on time. Simeon ducked back into his own business as cold wind chased papers and dust down the street. People scurried for cover as cold rain poured out of the sky. “Thank You, Lord, for rain and sun, and especially rain,” he whispered, watching the wetting of the world. 

Simeon closed at six. He emptied the cash register and purged the memory in the credit card machine after confirming that everything had gone through. Then he locked away a few antique books that might tempt the weak or addled, turned out the lights, and tidied the back of the store. He closed the heavy wooden door between the stock area and the main shop. By day the curtains sufficed, but not at night. Vladimir had slipped on two of his paw covers already. Simeon helped with the back two, and snugged all four. Next came the cat’s harness and leash. It was all break-away, so the Familiar could shed everything if he needed to. 

“Bureaucrats,” the Familiar hissed as his mage locked the alley door and listened for the alarm’s three chirps. 

“Agree.” City statute had not caught up with magic, and Familiars were not recognized as separate from other animals, unless the Familiar was also a trained and certified service dog. Juana had suggested getting a service-animal vest for Vladimir. The cat had used some choice language in reply. Now, properly harnessed and shod, he trotted beside his mage. 

No one other than tourists blinked twice at seeing a cat on a leash. This was Santa Fé, after all. Eccentricity was encouraged, so long as it fit the carefully cultivated image of the city. Once they got to the bus stop, Simeon lifted Vladimir onto his shoulder. The bus rolled up and the doors sighed open, as tired as the rest of the bus and its passengers. 

Sam was driving. He shook his head, as usual, and ignored the cat, as usual. Simeon swiped his card and found a seat near the middle doors. It wasn’t so far to the house that he couldn’t walk, but Russian Blues were not endurance runners. Too, some people didn’t believe in keeping large dogs at home, or training them properly. 

“… Of course it is going up. When did taxes ever go down?” one of the women in the back grumbled.

“Pueblo Revolt? And no, I wasn’t here for that,” her older companion said in heated tones. Chuckles and grins flowed among the regulars. The young Hispanic woman seated across from Simeon scowled and turned in her seat, as if to scold the speaker, then caught herself and faced forward. The voice in the back continued, “Perhaps after 1821, until Mexico City decided to tax the rural provinces just like Spain had.” 

“Maybe.”

Simeon scratched Vladimir’s ruff and felt pressure on his chest from the cat’s paws. Two stops later, they departed the bus and strolled a quarter mile, then turned onto a dirt lane. He crouched and let the Familiar flow onto the ground. He unclipped the cat’s harness. Eighteen pounds of feline could get heavy, even draped over both shoulders. Vladimir sniffed and checked out the pee-mail as his mage got the mail and glanced at a new notice on the community board beside the road. “Irrigation next week,” he warned his Familiar. 

“Good. Señora Dúran said that the state’s worried about flooding if they don’t release some from the reservoirs.” Vladimir shook all over, then scuffed a bit of dirt at the base of one of the board’s legs. “Dog,” he grumbled. 

The road narrowed into a lane, barely a car and a quarter wide between the old adobe walls and rough wooden “coyote” fences. Simeon trundled his garbage can back from the row and unlocked the blue-painted gate in a pale tan adobe wall. Before he could open it, Vladimir squeezed himself between the bottom of the gate and reddish-brown flagstone pavers. His mage opened the gate, pulled in the garbage bin, and parked it in the enclosure for it. He crouched and removed a bit of sticky creeping weed and tossed it out into the dirt, then closed the gate. 

(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved