Chapter 1: The Vow

On the thirteenth day of the winter of 2007, Sybil Summerly died for the 10th time. In the arms of a woman she barely knew. During the two weeks they spent together as mother and daughter, she came to love the woman with all her heart. So much that it broke her spirit knowing that on the morning of their last day, she would have to part ways with this woman forever. And not in the most peaceful of means. See, most of her clients preferred that the end happened, calmly. Without any pain, without any tears, and often not in the manner similar to how the original had happened. But this woman; she wanted to relive the same very end in every detail that it had occurred. And even though it didn’t make her pain any less excruciating, she was convinced that it would help her heal better. At least, that’s what she told Sybil. And Sybil agreed to it, accepted the terms because she had to. For the sake of the woman and for the sake of the daughter she once had.

But after that fateful winter night of 2007, Sybil, alive for the 11th time, vowed to herself, that as long as she lived as a Mortivus, she will never accept an offer from another mother. This woman was going to be her last. And not because she wanted to cherish the memories she made with her, but because she didn’t want to feel such agony ever again in her life.

And so she lived, many years after, loving, and dying, for husbands, for fathers, for friends, for brothers and sisters, for exes and lovers, even for strangers. But never for a mother. And the moments she shared with these people, some lasted weeks, some merely hours, but none over 31 days.

“Why” she once asked Octavia Bailey, her seer. “Why are we limited to 31 days?”

“Because a soul only wanders for that long” Octavia answered. “After which you’re only left with embers and remnants. And a Mortivus shouldn’t feed on the remains of departed souls. It’s basic principle, Sybil, and it’s the rule by which you should live.”

…And die

Sybil didn’t understand. But she trusted the knowledge and experience of an accomplished Mortivus such as Octavia. She’s heard from many of her peers how lucky she was to have her as a seer. According to legend, Octavia was not just one of the few First-Class Mortivia to have ever been born, but she has also lived and died for some of the most prominent people to have ever existed in the past century. In fact, was Octavia not so down to earth, she’s been told, then a Third-Class Mortivus such as Sybil wouldn’t even have the audacity to stand in her presence let alone sit at her feet and learn from her ways. And for this Sybil was grateful. She will forever be. And will do anything Octavia asks. Anything.

And so on the last day of the spring of 2017, when Sybil received a red-leafed letter, stained blue at the corners with scorpion blood, and sealed with the golden antler insignia of the Bailey family, she knew that for the first time in her life, Octavia needed her help, and for something which she, Octavia, could not fulfill herself.

So carefully, slitting the letter open with her pocket knife, Sybil sat down on the floor across the threshold of her Boston apartment, her brown boots dangling on the stairs below, a cup of black coffee next to her feet. She sniffed the soft spring morning breeze, leaving a smile on her face as she began to read Octavia’s words to her, written in black italic ink.

Dearest,

Good tidings to you.

Today I bring sad news. Ruby, my grandniece, passed away a few hours ago. Paul and Helena both asked me to help them find a Mortivus. They can’t seem to process the loss and are hoping for some time with her to prepare better for it. Two weeks to be precise.

Of course, you don’t have to do it, but I’ll be grateful if you accept this offer. She was also your friend after all.

Thank you,

Octavia S Bailey

The tears. She didn’t know when they escaped, but the first fell onto the letter before she realized what was happening. She wiped them off with her left hand, shaking her head to regain her composure. She’d known Ruby. They weren’t best friends, but they were extremely close. So close that she was the one who introduced her to Paul, the man who now weeps Ruby’s absence. A musician from Brooklyn’s upper side, Paul had asked Sybil for her phone number one evening after watching her all night from across the stage of one of the open bars he usually played with his band. And she had obliged because he was a nice looking gentleman and many wouldn’t say no to such creatures. Of course, for courtesy sake, Paul didn’t call until a few days later, and when he did, he was greeted with the sanguine voice of a very ecstatic woman.

“Hello?” He said, “Sybil?”

“Is this Paul? Paul Gliviani”

“Yes, it’s Paul. Am I speaking to Sybil?”

“No, you’re not speaking to Sybil, Mr. Paul” she replied in a mischievous voice. “You’re speaking to Ruby and I’m not sorry to say, but you’ve been played! Hahahaha.”

See, the two women, they had a game. More of a pact. For a couple months, they’d agreed that any gentleman each met will be passed on to the other. Just for the mere reason of giving these men an unexpected surprise. And also because the two were just peculiar like that. They were never to take these men seriously, and often they didn’t. Except for Paul, according to Ruby, “played his cards too well that it was extremely hard to write him off” she’d explained. “He was too good, too charming, too irresistible. I’m sorry, Sybil.”

For breaking their pact, she was sorry. Sincerely. But for loving him, she wasn’t. Ruby truly loved Paul. And Paul, well, he’s one in a few million, most will say. The type some deem doesn’t exist. He cares and cherishes more than he loves. Or perhaps, he loves through these things. Something most men couldn’t do.

And for Helena. She was Ruby’s mother and Octavia’s favorite niece. She reminded Sybil a lot of her own mum. Often in the way that they baked their lemon cake. They both always added too many eggs, and there was often that tint of lime that lingers after you finish a bite. Ruby thought it was because of their shared German heritage, which Sybil agrees, since Germans are perpetual in their habit of adding their own twist to everyday things.

But as she sat there, reading the letter for the fifth time, Sybil wasn’t so much grieving the death of her dear friend, or for the loss of those fondest of her; she’s shed enough tears in the hour that’d passed since she’d first sat down to read. Right now, there wasn’t much sorrow left in her. Instead, a tepid sense of dread that was brewing out of proportion with every second. If she was to honor Octavia, and grant perhaps the only request her seer will ever ask of her, then she will have to confront one thing; her vow. And not just confront it, but break it. For Octavia. For Helena. For a mother.