http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/parade-zapotec-teotitlan-mexico/

He’d searched the palace kitchens and come up empty.

He’d searched the walls, the guard posts, the corner fortifications and come up empty.

The dungeons, servant’s quarters, surprisingly organized storerooms and public receiving rooms – all duds.

He had even compelled a royal footman to show him the king’s own chambers which had not turned up the traditional secret passage or hiding place. What sort of king did not have a backdoor out of his chambers? What if there was a coup in the dead of night? Did he intend to die in his bed like a fool?

In the courtyard, the players and paraders, courtiers and commoners, gathered beneath the Longfinger Trees. To the east, the sun lurched up from the horizon and washed the mountaintop palace in a warm, comforting light. The king’s birthday had seen rain five years running, and the parade-goers felt a great sense of relief that they would not have to march through rain and wind and cold yet again.

In the courtyard’s far reaches, by little-used gates and seldom-worshiped shrines, the children mulled about with minimal supervision. As they did every year, the children would precede the King out of the palace. Ahead of them, the very long train of humanity would wind its way down the narrow, switchback streets of the surrounding town. From the back of courtyard staging ground, watching hundreds of people throng before the celebration of the King’s 34th year of life, a quiet man in a red shirt sighed and frowned.

He was One of the Men in Red.

He awaited his last chance, though he did not wait with much hope. He’d devoted the last eleven years of his life to this task, ever since he’d almost drowned in a valley river in his former life as a fisherman. It was laborious work – studying histories, royal lineages, tracking palace guard shift changes, engaging the staff to find any likely allies in his quest. In the process, one king had died, his son had been crowned and the first of the next generation had been born. All while he worked toward the ultimate failure of the last two days.

Not a failure yet. There was one more person with whom he would speak. Grimly, he shook his head knowing it was only a matter of time. The search would need to continue on other continents, on other worlds, once he sent his report.

A man approached, older but not old, in glorious vestments. The priest bowed, and One of the Men in Red bowed back.

“I have to admit, I didn’t think you were real,” the priest said.

“You heard about us before I contacted you?”

“Just rumors.”

One of the Men in Red shook his head. “Still, that’s a mark against me.”

“I heard it at the Cathedral school nine thousand miles away, if that helps.” The priest didn’t want to offend, and priests are, by nature, skilled at offering solace.

One of the Men in Red laughed, and nodded. “It does.”

“How much of the rumors are true?”

“Depends on which rumors you heard, I suppose.”

The priest paused and fiddled with a piece of his elaborate garment. Despite his station, he seemed actually nervous to relay unbelievable information.

“I heard that there are many universes, each an inch apart, separated by something other than time and space,” he said eventually.

“Ok.”

“And I heard that a Man in Red-”

“One of the Men in Red,” corrected One of the Men in Red.

“Is there a difference?”

The man shrugged. “We’re only supposed to go by the long form.”

“Fair enough.”

“That is all you heard?”

“I heard that you can communicate through whatever godly veil separates the universes.”

One of the Men in Red chuckled. “What sort of communication would I even send?”

“About the missing color. The one not in our spectrum.”

For a long time, One of the Men in Red let that hang between them. He wondered how the Cathedral knew so much. Maybe it was harder to keep a secret in a big city. Then he wondered if there were other worlds where no one knew, where the Men in Red were airtight. But then how would there be Men in Red at all if none let on about their involvement?

Nearby, a few low horns sounded. The children began to muster, their parental advisors barking orders at them to organize into some predetermined, ultimately hopeless attempt at formation.

“Sounds pretty far-fetched,” he said finally.

“It does.” The priest smiled and nodded. “Why red, if I may ask?”

“It’s the gateway color.” One of the Men in Red lifted his shirt, looked down at it and felt a wave of bitter disappointment. “The last color before The Color.” He emphasized the capitalized letters.

“What will you do now?” the priest asked.

For a long time, One of the Men in Red did not immediately answer. There was a reason he’d done it, perhaps one of faith with which the priest might even sympathize. But it seemed unimportant now that he was a single question away from failure.

“With all the infinite options in all the worlds, it’s never likely that any one of us will come across it, you know? It’s one color hidden by one royal family somewhere in creation.” One of the Men in Red spilled freely, eleven years of patience and faith and silence slipping just enough as the chasm of defeat yawned before him. “But of course, if it’s going to be found at all, it’ll be by one of us. I had held out the hope…” he trailed off.

“When I was a boy,” the priest said, “I wanted to play basketball in the NBA in faraway America. I played every day at the neighborhood court, because I knew that only one person from our town might make it, and I wanted it to be me.”

“And it felt like this when you realized it wasn’t going to be you?”

The priest shook his head and smiled. “I imagine, when that day comes, it will.” This brought a little laugh from the distraught man.

“The Cathedral, you know, is a type of royal family,” One of the Men in Red prompted.

“Thinking of joining the priesthood?”

“Depends on the reward.”

The priest laid a hand on the man’s shoulders. He whispered a short prayer and shook his head. “We do not have it.”

“Would a provincial priest in a small kingdom be told if you did?”

“If we had it and kept it a secret? I suppose not,” the priest admitted. “But given our history of scandal, does the Cathedral seem like the place where a secret that big could hide, unsought and unfound, for millennia?”

One of the Men in Red nodded and chuckled. “Eleven years. I don’t know what I’ll do now.”

“I wasn’t kidding about the priesthood.”

“Praising the one God, the one Devil, the sole Savior when I, among anyone, know for a fact there are infinite of each?” The man shook his head and let out a deep sigh. “Seems disingenuous.”

“Does it?” the priest asked. “You spent eleven years in search of something with no evidence of its existence beyond faith alone. Something inhuman, unknowable, perceivable to the human soul but not the human eye. What is that if it is not God?”

The priest left it at that. He walked forward and fell into line as the children began to walk toward the main palace gate. From the corner, One of the Men in Red watched as he disappeared out of the courtyard. The King’s litter was hoisted and carried out as the parade’s royal caboose. And then the courtyard was empty but for One of the Men in Red.

Left alone with his disappointment, the man fiddled with his red shirt for a time. He walked to a mostly forgotten shrine to one of the lesser known saints, and he considered the priest’s words. Perhaps they had merit. He couldn’t be sure. There was no making a decision today, regardless of the validity of the dissent. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a small notepad. On the pad’s green paper, he scrawled a quick message. Then he tore out the paper and folded it into a triangular shape.

He lifted his right hand, fingers pressed together, palm facing left. From the tip of his pinky to the base of his palm, he had a tattoo on the edge of his hand. Predictably, it was done in red ink, all swirly lines and elegant whirls and strange angles. He slowly dragged his hand down, and a little tear appeared in the air before him. A rainbow tear.

Gently, he put his tattoo hand into the torn strip of the universe’s fabric, and he pushed the colors of the rainbow out of the way until only a ragged piece of red air remained.

He tossed the note through, made a fist, and dragged it from the tail upward. Beneath the touch of his tattooed hand, the fabric of the air zipped back up. In moments, it was mended.

Without so much as a look back at the palace, he slipped out one of the rarely used back gates to begin the long walk downhill and into the next part of his life. Whatever it would be.

 +++

In a different time in a much different place, slender fingers unfolded the note. There was an identification code for One of the Men in Red, and the bad news that he’d enacted his search without success. Another royal family would be crossed off the list. But there were more. Many more. The Color must be out there. It must be found.