The prismatic scale arranges the spectrum of heaven according to the seven constituent colors of saints and angels, each a specific intermediary above or below another. In the located afterlife or other equal-tempered eternities, a continuum of color is formed when a person of divinity is dispersed (as by passage from one world to the next) so that their component elements remain in order.
Typically, a saint figure consists of a superposition of shades separated by holiness, sanctity, and virtue. On the prismatic scale the six colors of sainthood include (red: an exemplary model, orange: an extraordinary teacher, yellow: a source of benevolent power, green: an intercessor, blue: one who has refused material attachments or comforts, and purple: one who possesses a special and revelatory relation to the celestial prism). When perceived with these primary colors revealed a saint may be seen as "a chromatic measuring stick."
The seventh color of the prismatic scale is specifically recognized as a holy calling and is often called an angel (though alternative names exist, including messenger, spirit and guardian). It is composed of a near transparent element with flat polished surfaces that refracts the will of the infinite and invisible. At least two of the angel's surfaces must have skin between them. This creates the illusion of a being that continually ascends or descends in spectral divinity, yet which ultimately seems no higher or lower than the observer.
Everyone was devoted for a while, even Jillison and me. One foot in front of the other, and then the surface would follow, we added color and subtracted color and that's how Jillison said it would go. When our palette was crooked or corrupted we acted like a chase was close.
We worshiped in the morning, our hands were together or hovering toward holes in the sky, our legs were always moving. We read from the scale and it showed us how to warn the suns away. It told us all light was false light, a figure of want or need. If we could empty the spectrum, it would be impossible to see what our skin could hold.
The scale said that was what it took. It said everything we left would be a measure of luminance, the long way to what can't be seen, a test of our willingness. I tried to believe it, but my body kept telling me the difference was in the shades. When the colors darkened, I could feel my stomach turning over, and when they lightened I was almost collapsing. It started on the outside and then it worked through oppositional colors next. I was solid gray half of the day and faintly there the next.
Still, I kept walking and spreading the scale, I kept asking for a transparency to come and take me. I tried to hold on to whatever color came next and prayed it would be clear enough to clean or capture or complete me. I tried to have faith in a final spectrum, a piece of invisibility shaped exactly like me. Somewhere under my skin, though, I knew it was hopeless, I knew closure wasn't an unseen color or contrast or covering, it was a collection of organs and anatomy, it was a compromise no one ever intended to keep.
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