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. These stories provided inspiration for the band 'Horslips' whose album 'The Book of Invasions: A Celtic Symphony' 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 Horslips.
The Book of Invasions
Chapter One: 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 fathom the lines and squiggles on the page, Éponine would instead 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 disappeared; fuel for the tavern fire in long winter nights. (The childrens' tears didn't last too long, for the past few years have been harsh on the family income, and their father's temper has quickened with their descent into miserable poverty).
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.
Such big words.
She's here for Marius, of course, and yet as Éponine stands in the midst of the gathering crowd her eye is drawn back always to the boy at his side; a flag held tightly in his hand and flames flickering in his eyes. He looks so very young in the early morning sunlight, the rays catching in his hair like glints of gold and sapphire, and she recalls the crude whoops of her father in the dwindling light of the inn, the last few flames flickering on the surface of the jewels and casting dancing shadows upon the stained sofa where her mother sat brushing the soft blonde curls on the baby's head. A faded vignette of family life.
(The street rats bite off more than they can chew, and foundations quiver beneath unsteady feet.)
Gavroche has long since skipped off into the crowd. Her mother will have her life if she loses him again, but Éponine cannot tear herself away from the scene in the square. The people have been gathering since dawn to listen to this strange pair of bourgeois students shout, and warn, and inspire. They make all sorts of promises, empty promises, all pretty words and prettier faces.
She clutches the leaflet they had thrust into her hands, useless for she cannot read it, and drags her eye back to Marius, who is brandishing a handful of papers in the air. Unlike his friend, who is immaculately dressed, down to the polished spurs on his boots, Marius has patches on his jacket and fatigue in his eyes. Still, the grace in his movements and the elegance in his speech tell a different story. His family is bourgeois; and despite his haggard appearance, Éponine has long since learnt the difference between riches and rags. Here was a young boy straight out of Azelma's stories, standing upon the brink of a wave; a fish patiently awaiting the day to walk along the shore beside men.
Or perhaps to be drowned in love.
"Lemarque is fading fast, and they say he won't last the week! It is for us, then, the citizens of Paris, to respond to his call and take back our city!"
Éponine frowns as a sudden bolt of anger shoots through her.
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.
To Be Continued.