An Oblique Approach

Impossible to catalog the emotions which that incredible message produced in the panther's soul. Hope, again, in the main, like the sky behind a rainbow. Hope, produced by the body of the message. The rainbow, by the final words.

Half-dazed, he slowly raised his head and stared at the hunter in the shadows.

"Is it true?" he whispered.

"Which part?" came the voice. "The beginning, yes. You have seen yourself. We have cleared the way for you. The middle? Possibly. It remains still to be done, and what man can know the future?"

A rustle, very faint. The hunter arose and stepped into the small clearing. The panther gazed up at the tall man. He had never seen his like before, but did not gape. The panther had long known creation to be a thing of wonder. So why should it not contain wonderful men?

The panther examined the man's weapon, briefly. Then—not so briefly—examined the light, sure grip which held that enormous spear. The panther recognized that grip, knew it perfectly, and knew, as well, that he would be a dead man now, had he—

"How fortunate it is," remarked the panther, "that I am a man who cannot resist the pleasure of reading."

"Is it not so?" agreed the hunter, grinning cheerfully. "I myself am a great lover of the written word. A trait which, I am certain, has much prolonged my life."

The tall hunter suddenly squatted. He and the panther stared at each other, their eyes almost level. The grin never left the hunter's face.

"Which brings us, back, oddly enough, to your very question. Is the last part of the message true? That, I think, is what you would most like to know."

The panther nodded.

The hunter shrugged. "Difficult to say. I am not well acquainted with the—fellow, let us call him. He is very closely attached to the one who sent you this message."

"You have met—"

"Oh, yes. Briefly, mind you, only briefly. But it was quite an experience."

The hunter paused, staring for a moment into the forest. Then said, slowly:

"I do not know. I think—yes. But it is a difficult question to answer for a certainty. Because, you see, it involves the nature of the soul."

The panther considered these words. Then, looked back down and read again the final part of the message. And then, laughed gaily.

"Indeed I think you are right!"

He rolled the sheets of papyrus back into the leather and tucked it into his loincloth.

"It seems, once again," he remarked lightly, "that I shall be forced to act in this world of sensation based on faith alone." The panther shrugged. "So be it."

"Nonsense," stated the hunter. "Faith alone? Nonsense!" He waved his hand, majestically dispelling all uncertainty.

"We have philosophy, man, philosophy!"

A great grin erupted on the hunter's face, blazing in the gloom of the forest like a beacon.

"I have heard that you are a student of philosophy yourself."

The panther nodded.

The grin was almost blinding.

"Well, then! This matter of the soul is not so difficult, after all. Not, at least, if we begin with the simple truth that the ever-changing flux of apparent reality is nothing but the shadow cast upon our consciousness by deep, underlying, unchanging, and eternal Forms."

The panther's eyes narrowed to slits. The treasure of his soul in captivity—bound for the lust of the beast—a furious battle ahead, a desperate flight from pursuit, a stratagem born of myth, and this—this—this half-naked outlandish barbarian—this—this—

"I've never encountered such blather in my life!" roared the panther. "Childish prattle!" The tail lashed. "Outright cretinism!"

Furiously, he stirred the fire to life.

"No, no, my good man, you're utterly befuddled on this matter. Maya—the veil of illusion which you so inelegantly call the ever-changing flux of apparent reality—is nothing. Not a shadow—nothing. To call such a void by the name of shadow would imply—"

The panther broke off.

"But I am being rude. I have not inquired your name."

"Ousanas." The black man spread his hand in a questioning gesture. "Perhaps I introduced the topic at an inappropriate time. There is a princess to be rescued, assassinations to commit, a pursuit to be misled, subterfuges to be deepened, ruses developed, stratagems unfolded—all of this, based on nothing more substantial than a vision. Perhaps—"

"Nonsense!"

Raghunath Rao settled himself more comfortably on his haunches, much as a panther settles down to devour an impala.

"Shakuntala will keep," he pronounced, waving his hand imperiously. "As I never tire of explaining to that beloved if headstrong girl: only the soul matters, in the end. Now, as to that, it should be obvious at first glance—even to you—that the existence of the soul itself presupposes the One. And the One, by its very nature, must be indivisible. That said—"

"Ridiculous!" growled Ousanas. "Such a One—silly term, that; treacherous, even, from the standpoint of logic, for it presupposes the very thing which must be proved—can itself only be—"