The Book Of Invasions.
Author's Note: The Lebor Gabála Érenn, or The Book of Invasions,is a written account of the history of Ireland which has since passed into legend. The album 'The Book of Invasions: A Celtic Symphony' by Horslips tells the story of the Tuatha Dé Danann, an ancient tribe of kings and queens who reigned over a golden age in Eire. "After their defeat at the Battle of Tailteann the Tuatha simply vanished from these islands. Tradition and popular belief has it that the Tuatha, through their esoteric powers, became the Sluagh Sidhe (The Fairy Host) and, taking their secrets and mysterious arts with them, entered an occult realm where they remain to this day."
Character names credited to Victor Hugo.
Title and chapter names credited to the band Horslips.
Part I: Daybreak
"I am a traveller. A wayfarer. I am one who began a journey long ago, yet failed to reach its end. I was upon this earth before, though never in this place. We live and die and are born to live again. And across the reach of time we live still, in so many other lives that truly we are all but one. One life in many forms. I am here to finish the journey that I once began, and to that same early purpose: To bring my fellow travellers home." (Steve Augarde, Winter Wood).
"We are made of the stars and the sea", Azelma had told her once in a sing-song voice. "The stardust of the sky itself fell to the ocean and when it settled on the seabed it rose back up in human form."
But as Éponine gazes up at the boy who is weaving fiery words through the air, she thinks he is made of anything but dust and water. The crowd around her cheers and sparks kindle in his steely blue eyes, and the young girl almost believes he could breathe such fire as to set the whole city burning to the ground.
"Perhaps the ones who didn't make it the whole way to the surface became the merfolk, the ones mother told us about, who drown the sailors in their love. They sing to call their dear ones home."
Azelma had always had a longing for the poetic, and their younger days would often find the pair huddled together and poring over old books with strange pictures and gilt letters of little meaning. Unable to read it, Éponine would nestle her younger sister closer to her side and whisper her own tales, of brave knights and fair maidens and battles fought in the days long ago.
"To believe is the most important thing," she would tell her siblings. "Hope is what carries us through the darkness, at least until morning comes."
For many years Éponine subscribed to this mantra wholeheartedly, and she would often see the heroes of her stories repeatedly appear on the street outside her window, where beautifully dressed ladies would ride past in their carriages and gangs of men robbed the rich to feed the poor. Charity begins at home, her father would often declare, as he emptied his pockets of golden rings and leather wallets by the fireside of the tavern, treasures of another world she'd known only in her books. He'd celebrate his good luck by spending the remains of the money on his favourite bottle of liquor, the rent safely paid for another month and the children going barefoot for another two.
Not exactly the same as her fairytale endings, but awfully, terribly close.
Nowadays Éponine has little time for stories, and Azelma's old picture-books have long since served as fuel for the tavern fire in long winter nights.
She gazes curiously up at the podium where the two young students are waving their arms and shouting about things that she doesn't understand.
They are their own fairytale, she thinks wryly. These bourgeois princes think they can save the world one unreadable leaflet at a time, but they are not warriors, they are children.
Don't they know we all turn to sea foam in the end anyway?
She shakes her head, and turns away.
Part II: March Into Trouble
"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green lizard, as he ran past with his tail in the air.
"Why indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.
"For a red rose!" they cried; "how very ridiculous!"
And the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
(Oscar Wilde, The Nightingale and the Rose).
She would watch him from a distance in the Luxembourg gardens, her gaze soft and curious as he wrung a small white handkerchief between his fingers, glancing here and there across the flowerbeds at the early morning strollers and late night ramblers. In those early days of spring, when the heat of the sun seeped through the air to warm the ground beneath their feet and call the flowers to attention, he wore a near constant expression of misery, and it hurt the young gamine to see the distress painted so coarsely across his sweet features. The one he awaited seemed to slip through his fingertips like the handkerchief itself; the initials stamped upon the lace whispered over and over on his lips like a prayer.
They had met before, on a fateful day several months ago. It was his gentle demeanour and rosy cheeks that had startled her into dropping the wallet she had pulled lightly from his pocket. With a good natured laugh, he had emptied its entire contents into her hand. After that Éponine followed him wherever he went, listening to his naive bargaining with the merchants on the street as he tried to sell his belongings; books and pocket watches no longer of use but for reaping a modest living.
She saw the girl a few weeks after her first meeting with Marius, for that was his name according to Gavroche, who knew most comings and goings of the low society in Paris ("ain't sure what he's doing here mind, with those shiny buckles on his boots!").
She was beautiful.
Golden curls fell in waves over a cloak of blue velvet and a warm sheepskin muff; face soft, lips red as a rose, her glance so very familiar.
No, it couldn't be.
Cosette traversed the street slowly, arm in arm with an older gentleman who was handing money to the poor who huddled in doorways, their hands clutching at his own in thanks.
Digging in her pockets, Éponine had pulled out the handful of small coins that Marius had given her upon their last meeting. "For essentials," he had whispered solemnly, his eyes kind.
She stared at her outstretched palm, the coins glinting in the sunlight, then back at the girl handing money to the poor.
What has become of me?
Her heart leaps as a familiar wave of brown hair comes sweeping up the stairs.
"Marius, you're late!" "Enjolras reprimands sharply.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, Marius!"
Marius weaves his way to where the grim-faced leader now stands at a table in the centre of the room, surrounded by papers and plans.
Joly eyes his friend anxiously, exclaiming in a hushed voice, "You are rather pale, Marius. Are you unwell?"
"Perhaps."
Marius' eyes glaze over with a look that causes an uneasy stir in Éponine's heart and a fresh wave of frown-lines in Enjolras' forehead.
"What are you talking about?" he says sharply.
Sitting down in an empty seat, Marius heaves a sigh and rubs his eyes with tired hands.
"Nothing."
"You're sure you're not unwell?" Combeferre asks kindly.
"No, I've never felt anything like this before."
Rolling his eyes, Enjolras turns back to his papers; a callous gesture unmissed by Éponine, who represses a tug of annoyance.
"Wait - is Marius in love at last?" Grantaire cackles with glee as Marius blushes crimson and hangs his head. "How sweet!"
With a dramatic flourish, Grantaire pretends to swoon and loses his balance, stumbling backwards and knocking piles of paper from the table, earning an irritated glare from Enjolras.
"'Taire..." sighs Combeferre, scooping up handfuls of leftover leaflets. "Careful."
"It's almost midnight, time we stop all this nonsense and crack open a bottle of wine-"
"You've been drinking since noon," Enjolras growls through clenched teeth. "Either pay attention or go home –"
Grantaire pulls a face and jumps to a mock salute. "Yes sir – oh!"
Combeferre lunges to catch the candle knocked flying by Grantaire's hand, and the room erupts with angry voices.
"For goodness sake, Grantaire, I told you to be careful –"
"- never listen to me –"
" – waste of space –"
"- Listen! -"
"- feel a bit dizzy, I hope I haven't got Marius' complaint – "
" – drink elsewhere or get out –"
"Listen everybody!"
Courfeyrac's voice cuts sharply through the bickering students, and Éponine is surprised to see her brother at his side, solemn eyes shining in the light of the remaining candles.
"Go on," Courfeyrac urges, nudging the child forward.
Gavroche takes a deep breath, puffing out his chest with pride and importance, before delivering his fatal message. (Because for these kinds of things, you have to do it just so).
"General Lemarque is dead."
Part III: Trouble (With a Capital T)
"Enjolras!"
He jerks his hand at the sudden reprimand and the pyramid of playing cards collapses onto the table.
The schoolmaster towers above him, cane in hand and glowering over half-moon spectacles which have now slid to a rest on the sharp ridge of his nose.
"Were you listening to me?"
"Oui, Monsieur."
"Then where are your notes?" he scolds, pointing at the blank page lying on the desk in front of the young boy.
Enjolras winces as the schoolmaster gives him a sharp rap on the knuckles with his cane.
"You must learn to focus, young man," he says sternly, shaking his head. "Dedicate yourself to your studies, or you'll end up on the streets like a pauper. The dishonour would destroy the family, and they've known enough shame in their time. Didn't your mother warn you? Didn't your father teach you right? When a traitor comes begging, the people turn their backs. Your mother is adamant you shall not share in her brother's fate. Now. We shall proceed."
The schoolmaster turns back to the blackboard and continues to spell out an extensive list of Latin verbs.
Looking wistfully out of the window, Enjolras silently curses his estranged uncle for obliging him to endure such a lecture; not to mention his mother for causing him to miss out on this glorious summer's day in the first place.
With a scowl, he reluctantly picks up his long-forgotten pen and underlines the date.
June 6th, 1823.
To Be Continued.