Out of This World by Charles De Lint

There’s nothing else around.
    I look up—way up—to where the broad fronds stick out like the tree’s got bad bed hair.
    â€œDude,” I say. “What are you thinking?”
    She gives her hands an impatient shake. “Step in—and be ready to grab yourself a perch.”
    â€œDude, you can’t be serious.”
    â€œNow!”
    The word jumps out with such an authoritarian crack that I’m putting my foot in her hands before I even realize what I’m doing.
    â€œKeep your body straight,” she says.
    â€œSeriously, I don’t think this is such a good—”
    I don’t get to finish. She snaps me up like a kid playing with an action figure. And I mean up . Like fifteen, twenty feet. I think I’m going to shoot right over the top of the palm, but I manage to grab hold of a spray of fronds and haul myself to relative safety in the branches, with only a few cuts on my hands from the sharp edges of the leaves. I hardly get there before a coatimundi pushes through the crest of big fronds to join me.
    â€œAre you out of your freaking mind?” I yell at her. “You almost sent me to the moon!”
    The coati shifts into Donalita’s familiar features.
    â€œDon’t be such a baby,” she says.
    â€œIt’s not being a baby when—”
    â€œLook,” she breaks in. “We might have stood a chance against one of them. But two? Not as much. And three …”
    â€œWhat three?”
    â€œThere’s another one across the street.”
    I hold on tight and lean over to have a look, trying to ignore the vertigo fluttering in my stomach. Sure enough, there’s a third dog crossing the street. By the time I get settled again, all three are at the base of the palm.
    â€œIf they’re cousins,” I say, “can’t they just shift into human shape and climb up?”
    She nods. “But here, we have the advantage. We can knock them down before they ever get close.”
    â€œWhat do they want with us?”
    â€œI don’t know. And as long as we’re stuck up here, we’re not going to find out, either.”
    I sigh. “So now what do we do?”
    Donalita pulls a phone out of her pocket.
    â€œNow, dude,” she says with a smile. “We call for help.”

“My pardon, sir,” the rabbit man says, standing stock-still with his partner. “We meant no offence.”
    I smell their fright. They’re about to take off. It’s like coming suddenly upon an animal. First they freeze, then they bolt.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I say. “You didn’t offend me.”
    â€œIf you say so, sir. We just came for a picnic. We didn’t know you’d already claimed this place for your own. If we had, we would never have intruded on your privacy.”
    â€œYou can stop calling me ‘sir.’ I’m probably half your age.”
    â€œYes, sir. But you’re Mountain Lion Clan, though, pardon me, I don’t know which one.”
    â€œSo?”
    He looks at the ground, to the side, anywhere but at me.
    Then the woman nudges him. “It’s him ,” she whispers. Her voice is soft as a breath, but I hear her clearly with the mountain lion’s ears.
    The man raises his gaze to my face. He doesn’t seem as scared or even nervous anymore. He looks at me with awe.
    â€œIt is,” he murmurs as though I’m not standing right there in front of him.
    Then he catches himself.
    He lets go of his companion’s hand and sets his bag on the ground before giving me a formal bow. The woman bows as well. Then he stands ramrod straight and meets my gaze with steady eyes.
    â€œYoung lord,” he says, “I am Manuel de Padilla of the Long Mountain Hare Clan and this is my mate, Lara.”
    I’m not sure what to do, so I say, “And I’m, um, Josh Saunders from Southern California.”
    â€œYou do us a great honour in