Short Story: The Zoemancer

#horrorwritingprompt is #zoetic

zoetic: pertaining to life, living

The art of life: bringing it, shaping it, nurturing it. It took a gentle touch and a creative outlook. Anyone could bring a new being into this world; the mechanics weren't difficult, after all, but to be responsible for it was an entirely different matter.

A zoetic calling, the healers, the mothers, the caretakers and the teachers.The training was rigorous, for this responsibility could not be taken lightly. She began with the nurseries and the creches, from the beginning of the journey. If one didn't have the patience for this stage, then how could one continue nurturing a life? Not everyone had the temperament or the inclination for this.

She took her responsibility seriously. The elders showed her what to do, which words to say, how to handle whatever happens. They involved her in every situation, but they were there to hold her hand. Occasionally, death raised its dark head and snuffed a fragile existence, and she cried in their arms.

"Why does this happen? How can the Gods be so cruel, to grant life, then snatch it away?" She sobbed in the wake of such tragedy. It just seemed so unfair, this random roll of the dice.

"We do not know," they answered. "It is a mystery even to us. The body wears out, the world claims our loved ones. It is the cycle of life. Do not question it. It teaches us that everyone is precious and you should treasure them while they are here."

It was the same old platitudes. The words comforted her--at first--but when the elders repeated it, over and over, with each new loss, they lost all meaning. Her tender heart hardened with every gash, the scars refused to heal, and the scabs ripped anew.

Then the elders announced a universal change. They added a new job, the zoemancers, who promoted life at any cost. No one had to die, life was too precious. They extended the living with spells and potions. They crafted magical limbs, eyes, spines and hearts. All bodies were made of organic and mystical parts, so replacing weak ones with stronger and better ones only improved life.

She learned all the spells, studied technical plans and mystical incantations, sought to improve the intangible and the physical and see how one could enhance the other. It was all interconnected, it all made sense. Life became a book that she could read and parse its meaning. 

There was a line: she did not raise the dead. That was a necromancer, and the very thought amounted to an abomination. Once a person was dead, that was the will of the Gods. No one could return from that, not without consequences. Her calling was to preserve life by any means necessary, but when she failed, it wasn't her fault. It was meant to be.

Hundreds of years later,she was the last one of her generation, and her body a jumble of pieces. She smiled and closed her eyes, her soul at peace because she had fulfilled her life's work at last.