By the time he was fourteen, Enoch was shooting upwards. He stood quite tall for his age, his shoulders, though skinny, were strong from carrying corpses and coffins so frequently. His hair was growing out and dark curls tickled the back of his neck. Physically, he seemed like any of the other boys around the town, most of whom looked older than they were from factory and apprenticeships at young ages. There was nothing distinctive in Enoch's appearance to outwardly display his difference from the rest. At least, at first there hadn't been. He had had over a year to hone and practice his new found talent, as he liked to think of it, but the extent of what was slowly changing in him had far from been reached.

For over a year, he had kept his peculiar habit of collecting dead animals and manufacturing little clay soldiers with their hearts, a closely hidden secret. Inanimate and still, the clay figures lived beneath his floorboard until he saw fit to bring them to life. He found, quite accidentally, that he did not have to remove the heart to send them back into a lifeless pile of clay. With a little press to the chest, the figure would go limp and, if it hadn't been too long, with another press life was restored to the heart.

Any time he was not working as an apprentice to his father, and Uncle Uriah, he devoted to determining which animal's hearts were the strongest for his use. After much experimentation by candlelight in the undertaker's parlour, he found mouse hearts the most useful for smaller 'homunculi'.
The homunculi he made were, albeit a little strangely, the closest things Enoch had ever had to friends. They kept him company and amused him running around his room and trying to climb things, he could make them do whatever he wanted them to. Once one of the stupider ones had toppled right out of his open bedroom window in the middle of the night and shattered in pieces on the ground below.
Sometimes Enoch scratched simple faces into their clay heads, and even named the more useful ones. Chester had been his favourite. Once, when he'd had four at a time after managing to catch and kill several mice running around the house, he'd lined them up two against two and watched them wrestle and fight each other. By the end of the strange brawl, only one was left with all four of his limbs. So he had graced the clay man with a name, Chester.

Faith O'Connor was one of the few living souls that brought a genuine smile to Enoch's face, when she wasn't screaming and crying at least. Approaching two years old she was not yet talking but the light in her bright blue eyes and the happiness in her smile when she laughed could not help but touch his heart. He loved his sister and, despite his generally cold and dismissive manner, did not always mind having to watch her in the house on infrequent occasions.

xxxXxxx

Enoch kicked a stray pebble as he wandered down the street, barely paying attention to where he was walking. It was a pleasantly nice day, the sun having cracked its way through the clouds at last and all around him families were taking advantage of the good weather. Girls in white dresses and boys in fine shirts and flat straw hats ran about the streets, tugging at the hands of parents or nannies. Enoch had unbuttoned the top of his own shirt and stuffed his cap into his pocket to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his head, so infrequent it was. In his other pocket a little clay figure the size of his palm kept trying to pull itself out of its cloth confinement. Blindly, he felt for it and pushed it back down with his thumb. He cut left at a crossroads and turned into a narrow back alley between two rows of buildings.
The smell hit him before the sight. Cast in shadow, up against the western wall were the bodies of two very limp and lifeless cats. Both were so skinny that even from a distance Enoch could see their ribs protruding from mangy tabby fur. He took a few steps towards them and as he did, the few rats picking at the corpses scattered. They had clearly been dead for some time, Enoch actually gagged at the smell and lifted the collar of his shirt to cover his nose. Despite the obvious deterrence, he crouched down and prodded one with the tip of his boot. He'd never tried to use cat hearts before...maybe he could make larger homunculus with them. At the very least, he could experiment.
The clay man wriggled in his pocket again but this time Enoch ignored it even as it managed to struggle free and fell with a soft thunk onto the pavement.
He might not have been so curious had they been alive. Killing a cat out of cold blood seemed much different to killing pests like mice and pigeons. But as they were already dead and half the job was done...
The fabric slipped from his face as the boy lifted his head and glanced over his shoulder quickly. He was just in time to see his homunculus beginning to totter away from him and lunged to catch it. He just managed to seize it but lost his balance and landed awkwardly on his knees and elbow. His palm closed tightly around the clay doll and it squirmed and writhed trying to get away before the clay cracked and the heart within was squashed. Enoch tossed it aside as it went limp and lifeless in his hand and turned back to the dead animals. He had made his mind up and in seconds produced from the same pocket that had held the homunculus a short knife. It wasn't as precise and manageable as scalpel but it would do in a pinch.

With his nose wrinkled against the stench, Enoch opened up the first of the cats and, for once, was less inclined to watch his fingers as he began to navigate between flesh and bone to find what he was after. In practice, really there was nothing different in dissecting this cat as there was in dissecting a bird or rodent and yet Enoch felt very much different.

His fingers twitched suddenly as they closed around what he was now sure was the heart he was looking for and with a few careful, albeit stupidly blind cuts and twists, he pulled it free. His hands were coated in blood as he let out a long breath through his mouth and pulled the second cat closer by its tail. His left hand, which loosely held the heart, shuddered involuntarily and he reflexively tightened his fist just a little. Taking a steadying breath, Enoch looked over his shoulder once more to find the coast clear and dragged the knife through the matted tabby fur.
A feeling like none he'd ever experienced washed over him suddenly. A strange, almost overpowering compulsion in his hands caused him to drop the knife with a clatter onto the pavement as they almost throbbed with an unseen pressure. It was different even to the tugging in his gut and the tingling in his feet the first times he'd used a rat's heart to bring the old doll to life.

He grumbled to himself and tried to shake it off. He had to hurry before someone caught what he was doing. It might be a perfectly normal habit to Enoch himself but he doubted that many of London's citizens would agree. Without another moment of hesitation, he plunged his fingers into the opening he'd made.
The moment his fingers closed around the heart, he gasped and his entire body jerked suddenly once leaving him slightly winded and bemused. That had never happened before, but he was becoming quite accustomed to unusual things happening to him.
He did not let go, if anything he tightened his hold on the cat just a little and turned wide eyes onto the heart in his left palm. Slowly, guided more by an unfamiliar instinct than anything else, he rolled it to the tips of his fingers and pressed. It was like a wave of energy had crashed over him as the small, formally dead heart in his hand surged and beat once more. Only this time, it didn't stop so quickly. Instead of a small burst that left him winded and the heart beating, it continued right through his arms and chest, which trembled in response, and exited through the fingers of his right hand, still wrapped around the heart of the second cat.

The whole experience lasted less than ten seconds before the tremors stopped and Enoch dropped both arms, trembling, and fell backwards hard onto the pavement again where he stared in shock at what was happening in front of him. The cat, that had a moment ago been deader than a doornail was slowly stirring. First, it's small, matted chest began to rise and fall slowly, followed by a tiny twitch in its tail and one paw. In a matter of seconds the animal was rolling forward onto its paws and, despite the gaping gash in its stomach, stood up on trembling legs. It tilted its head curiously at Enoch, whose face wouldn't have looked out of place in a mausoleum so much colour had drained from it, and meowed once before turning and bounding away on four, very functional, paws.

It took almost a full minute for Enoch to snap out of his daze and turn his stare onto the shrivelled and greying organ in his hand. He dropped it, useless now, to the ground and slowly picked himself up. He was still struggling to comprehend what had just occurred and lifted both bloody hands in front of his face, examining each finger as they tingled slightly. He had really done that. He had not only made the heart beat again but...somehow had transferred that life into another one. He, Enoch O'Connor, could not only animate toys and clay but could apparently restore life to the dead in much the same way.

How long would it last? He didn't know. Perhaps the cat had already dropped dead again around the corner but for now, Enoch didn't care about that. It had happened, and that was enough to know for now.

"You alright, mate?"

Enoch jumped. He hadn't heard footsteps behind him or anything to indicate anyone had seen what he'd done. Then again, he didn't know they had seen. He spun on the spot, forgetting the carnage on the ground behind him.

Before him was a young man, probably in his twenties, with a mop of ginger hair that poked out from his cap at all angles. He was tall, and freckled and was looking at Enoch with an expression somewhere between concern and bemusement.

"Fine." Enoch snapped curtly but the damage had been done. The youth's eyes went to the knife and cut up cat on the ground and then down to Enoch's bloodied hands. He whisked them behind his back too late but there was little he could do to improve the situation.

"Bloody 'ell!" The man shouted, quite applicably, and immediately began to back away from Enoch who just swallowed and stayed silent. "What's wrong wiv you?!"

As he ran back the way he came from, Enoch cursed and bent to pick up his knife which he wiped on the inside of his trouser leg and tucked away. He looked down at his hands. It wouldn't have been hard to come to the conclusion he'd killed the cat himself and butchered it out of some sick pleasure. He had nothing to clean the blood up with, not even a filthy pool of gutter water on such a fine day. With nothing else to do, he tucked his hands as deep as he could into his pockets, forcing him to hunch forward slightly, and ran.

What's wrong with you? The words echoed in his head and he couldn't answer them. He had accepted quite willingly at first the strange talents manifesting themselves, had thought it was almost fun. They were something different that made him feel important, even if no one knew. Enoch O'Connor: Life Giver...and Life Taker. Something at the back of his mind ate at him and nagged to understand why it was happening to him, it wasn't as if he could tell or ask for help. Of course, it would be easy enough to avoid attention; he simply needed to stop collecting dead animals. But now he knew he could do so much more than make a clay man walk...he felt almost compelled to try it again.

Mercifully, Enoch managed to reach the banks of the river Thames without drawing much attention and washed the blood from his hands. He almost wished he hadn't, even with the blood he had certainly been cleaner before washing in the filthy, stinking sewer that was the river.

xxxXxxx

Enoch awoke with a start to someone shaking him. He groaned and rolled over in his bed, his eyes snapping open to stare into his father's face. He was dressed in his undertaker's blacks as he almost always was and stepped back as soon as he saw Enoch was finally awake.
"You better 'urry, Enoch, if you wanna eat 'fore the service. Up now, lad."

Enoch sighed as he father turned away and left the room. Sitting upright, he glanced out his window. The sun was barely starting to rise, the sky a soft grey with a faint pink tinge on the horizon. He'd completely forgotten the dawn service. Uriah would shortly arrive with the wagon to load and transport the heavy laden coffin that was ready in the funeral parlour.
With a sigh, Enoch swung his legs out of bed and dressed hurriedly, pulling on his coat as he left the room and lumbered out onto the landing. A loud, happy squeal from the bottom of the stairs told Enoch that he was the last to rise, even this early and he looked down to find little Faith, her blonde curls bouncing around ears, smiling up at him and clapping her chubby little hands.
"Up!" She called clearly, reaching her hands up to him and wiggling her fingers.

He smiled a sleepy sort of smile in return and stifled a yawn as he descended the stairs. As he reached the bottom, he bent down to seize Faith under her arms and swung her up onto his shoulders where she laughed happily and immediately tugged on his hair.
"Ouch..." He grimaced slightly as his head was jerked to the side like she was trying to steer him herself.

"Enoch!"

"I'm comin'..."

With another yawn he followed his parent's joint voices towards the kitchen, stooping a little to avoid knocking Faith's head against the top of the doorframe. There was only one place left at the table, inevitably Enoch was the last to eat as well as rise. A bowl of lumpy porridge, sweetened with brown sugar and a trickle of milk poured over the top sat at his place which he had long since learned to hide his disgust about. Lifting his sister from his shoulders he dropped into his chair and unceremoniously began to shovel a spoonful into his mouth.

Valentine glanced over from the basin where her arms were buried elbow deep in soapy suds and exchanged a look with her husband who was seated at the head of the table near their son.
Shaking her hands before drying them on her apron she shifted her gaze onto Enoch who kept his head down as he tried to eat as quickly as he dared. Immediately she frowned and looked over at her husband again, moving closer to the table.
"Owen, ye shouldn't make 'im go if 'e's ill."

This comment made Enoch lift his head and raise both eyebrows first at his mother and then his father in turn before speaking rudely through a mouthful of porridge. "What? I ain't ill."

Owen barely glanced at Enoch before shrugging his shoulders and turning his attention back to the morning newspaper while his daughter tugged insistently at his trousers. "If the boy says 'e ain't ill...'e's gonna come wiv us."

Valentine sighed and moved around the table to stand right beside Enoch who was still staring at her confused. She pressed a hand to his head and with a gentle tap against his cheek, turned his face to look at his father.
"E's paler than snow, look at 'im."

"I'm right 'ere and I'm fine." Enoch mumbled, annoyed that they were speaking as if he wasn't there at all. He screwed up his face as his father finally looked up at him and performed a double take that would have been amusing if it wasn't at his expense.
"Blimey, so you are."

Was he? Enoch had no idea what his face looked like, but he felt just the same as he always did. But the way his parents were both looking at him now made his ears grow hot.
"I'm fine. I ain't ill." He repeated, glancing between his mother and his father and dropping his spoon with a clatter onto his plate.

"Are ye sure? Enoch, ye look-"

"I'm fine, I wanna go." He snapped again, pushing his chair back from the table, scraping it along the floorboards and standing up. He turned an imploring gaze to his father who suddenly looked concerned.
After a moment Owen cleared his throat and got to his feet, prompted by the clip clopping of hooves and the whinny of a horse outside the house. Gently prying Faith off his leg, who was still trying to climb up him, he grabbed his hat from the table and motioned for his son to come.
"'E says 'e feels fine. Enoch's gonna come, it's only a funeral."

Enoch relaxed a little, and slowly reached up to touch his face self-consciously. He didn't feel feverish, and his skin was neither cold nor particularly warm to touch, he didn't understand what they were talking about. But it didn't matter now, they had to leave.
He hastened after his father as they left the house and moved to the next building down where Uriah was already unlocking the door to the parlour.

Much to Enoch's distaste, his uncle performed the same double take his father had when he saw him.
"Blimey, lad, you look soused!"

Enoch glowered at him and Owen shook his head at his brother's assumption.
"'m fine. I'm just tired." Enoch muttered, steadily becoming more and more confused with every person who stared at him strangely. As soon as he stepped inside, he bypassed the coffin on the table ready to be moved and went straight towards the large cool box in the corner. Wiping away the condensation from the heavy metal lid, Enoch peered into the reflective surface. Distorted though his reflection was, he immediately understood why his mother assumed he was ill. His skin overnight seemed to have lost three shades of colour, and native Londoners were hardly known for their tan as it was. If he didn't physically feel fine, he might have assumed the same thing. Slowly he reached up and ran his fingertips from his forehead to his chin, strangely entranced.

"Enoch!"

He snapped out of it in a blink and whirled around to see the two men hefting out the coffin between them. He hurried to pick up his father's tall hat where he'd left it to pick up the coffin, followed them out the door and locked it behind them. As Owen and Uriah hefted the coffin into the back of the funeral wagon, Enoch scrambled up onto the seat where he was soon squashed between the two undertakers.

xxxXxxx

As winter came and with it Enoch's 15th birthday, he only grew paler. That in itself wasn't necessarily unusual given that the sun appeared less and less and the days grew colder. But what was unusual were his eyes. The paler his skin became, the more his eyes appeared sunken. Dark circles were developing around his eyes that had nothing to do with a lack of sleep. They ringed his eyes so dark his whole face took on an almost skeletal sort of appearance and his blue eyes stood out violently in contrast.

It had frightened his mother at first, and for a whole week she behaved as if Enoch were dying. Much to his great annoyance, they even sent for a doctor to examine him. Enoch had protested so violently to this that when the doctor arrived, his father had to physically restrain him to keep him running from the room. What if somehow they could work out what really was happening to him and why? What if there was something in his hands that would expose his secrets?
But the doctor found nothing he could properly diagnose the boy with and somewhat hesitantly chalked Enoch's appearance up to a perfectly harmless skin abnormality, a condition that could be improved by spending more time outdoors.

The suspicion of his parents only fuelled Enoch to hone his abilities even more. He practiced it on small animals; birds and rats mostly. Once, using the hearts of two birds, he tried to revive a dog that had been trampled in the street by a horse. But it had barely lifted its head and let out a pained whine before the hearts in his hand gave out and it dropped dead again. There were some limitations.

He devoted his working hours to learning as much as he could in the funeral parlour, until finally, his father allowed him to perform an embalming on his own, under supervision.

The cadaver in question was a grisly sight. The man, who couldn't have been older than thirty, had fallen twenty feet from a roof and bashed his head hard on the curb. Needless to say, there was little need for the customary procedures to ensure the body was indeed dead. Overnight, it had been drained of its blood and bodily fluids and kept in near freezing temperatures for preservation. The skin was near translucent it was so pale and half of the head had been so badly crushed it bore little resemblance to the other half.
Completely undeterred, Enoch pulled on a pair of gloves and proceeded quite casually to begin the process. Making an incision in the neck, he inserted into the carotid artery a long needle which was in turn attached to a thin hose to pump embalming fluid through the body to replace the lost blood.
With a loud hum and a whir, the pump kicked into gear and Enoch turned to his father with a raised eyebrow and half a smirk on his face.

Owen nodded slowly before clearing his throat and pointing at the body. "The limbs, Enoch, limbs."

He'd forgotten momentarily, and quickly started to rotate around the body, rolling and massaging each limb in turn and finally the head to ensure an even distribution of the fluid. It was a laborious process, and one which Enoch wanted to finish himself. With two or three pairs of hands it would have taken substantially less time but he was determined to show his father he was already capable of doing it himself.

The full process took hours to complete before the pump was switched off and removed and the face set, at least half of it, into as natural an expression as a dead man could have. Enoch dropped onto a stool and let out a long sigh as he finally snapped off his gloves and prodded his father, who had been starting to doze, in the side.
" 'e's done."

Owen jerked back into consciousness and blinked rapidly in an effort to pretend he hadn't been falling asleep and really he'd been watching his son the entire time. Enoch was hardly convinced but sat up straighter on his stool and watched eagerly as his father started to examine his efforts.
After a full two minutes of bending the limbs and checking incisions, Owen looked over at his son with a broad smile and nodded.
"Yeh'll make a fine undertaker yet."

It was the praise he'd wanted to hear, and Enoch's lips twitched upwards into a proud smile as he looked back at his handiwork. As he did, something twitched inside him, a strange burst of the energy he'd grown used to harnessing mixed with a morbid curiosity. Was it possible to do? He'd done a lot of the impossible of late. Surely he could at least try it.