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 shadownothing. 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-”
Long into the night, long into the night. A low, murmuring sound in the forest; a faint, flickering light. But there were none to see, except the two predators themselves, quarreling over their prey.
The soul, the great prey, the leviathan prey, the only fit prey for truly great hunters. The greatest hunters in the world, perhaps, those two, except for some tiny people in another forest far away. Who also, in their own way, grappled Creation’s most gigantic beast.
Chapter 23
Three nights later, the Wind of the Great Country swept through the palace of the Vile One.
Eerie wind. Silent as a ghost. Rustling not a curtain, rattling not a cup. But leaving behind, in its passage, the signs of the monsoon. The monsoon, great-grandfather of fury, whose tidal waves strew entire coasts with destruction.
Unnatural wave. Selective in its wreckage, narrow in its havoc, precise in its carnage.
The majordomo was the first to die, in his bed. He expired quickly, for his lungs were already strained by the slabs of fat which sheathed his body. He died silently, purple-faced, his bulging eyes fixed on the multitude of cords and levers for which his plump hand was desperately reaching. Cords and levers which might have saved him, for they were the nerve center of the entire palace. The mechanisms which could have alerted the Ye-tai guards, roused the priests and torturers, summoned the servants.
Wondrous levers, crafted by master metalsmiths. Beautiful cords, made from the finest silk.
The mechanisms, alas, proved quite beyond his reach. They would have been beyond that reach even if the nearest silk cord, the one he most desperately sought, had still been there. That cord rang the bell in the Ye-tai quarters. But it was gone. The majordomo could see the stub of the cord, hanging from the ceiling. It must have been severed by a razor, so clean and sharp was the cut. Or, perhaps, by a truly excellent dagger.
He did not wonder what had happened to the missing length of the cord, however. The beautiful silk had disappeared into the folds of fat which encased his neck and throat, driven there by hands like steel. He struggled against those hands, with the desperation of his feverish will to survive.
But his was a petty will, a puny will, a pitiful will, compared to the will which drove those incredible hands. That will made steel seem soft.
And so, a lackey died, much as he had lived. Swollen beyond his capacity.
The Wind swept out of the majordomo’s suite. As it departed, the Wind eddied briefly, cutting away all of the cords and removing all of the levers. Without-eerie wind-causing a single one of the multitude of bells throughout the palace to so much as tremble.
The levers, the Wind discarded. The cords it kept. Excellent silk, those cords, the Wind fancied them mightily.
The Wind put three of those cords to use within the next few minutes. The Mahaveda high priests who oversaw the contingent of priests and torturers newly assigned to the palace dwelt near the suite of the majordomo. Their own chambers were not as lavish as his, nor were the locks on their doors as elaborate. It would have made no difference if they had been. Door locks, no matter how elaborate, had no more chance of resisting the Wind than dandelions a cyclone.
It made no difference, either, that the priests’ lungs were not slabbed with fat. Nor that their necks were taut
