Róisín Dubh

Although Bram Stoker’s Dracula is patterned after Vlad “The Impaler” Tsepes, a 15th century prince of Wallachia, it is likely that the vampire legends upon which the story is based are actually Irish–just like Stoker himself.

The story of Róisín Dubh, written by Maura McHugh and illustrated by Stephen Byrne, is built around those earlier folk tales.

Róisín Sheridan, the protagonist of the book, is a headstrong young woman who wants to be an actress, to the distress of her wealthy family. It’s not easy to be an independent woman anywhere in the world at the turn of the 19th century, and Ireland is no exception.

While on the road to Co. Derry, the Sheridan family is beset by a the Abhartach–an ancient monster resurrected by a mysterious sorcerer–and it becomes clear that Róisín’s life may have a different shape than any of them have imagined.

The Abhartach was once local chieftain, a demigod who has become an immortal, blood-drinking monster. The gods Donn and Badb provide Róisín with a magical cloak and a brooch with which to fight him  and his thralls, although it remains questionable whether these two patrons–the gods of death and war, respectively–are actually a benevolent force or not.

For all that this book is steeped in Gaelic myth, I know you’re thinking that it sounds a little like Buffy The Vampire Slayer–but you’re wrong. More than anything else, this book made me think of The French Lieutenant’s Woman. Certainly Róisín is feistier and more self-assured than Sarah Woodruff, the eponymous character in John Fowles‘ postmodern masterpiece; but her problems are the same as Sarah’s: both characters are seeking a way out of the lives that society deems proper for them. The rural Ireland at the turn of the century that Róisín inhabits is a lot closer to Sarah Woodruff’s Victorian England than it is to Sunnydale.

The real strength of this story is the way that it stays true to the period. With her new supernatural abilities, Róisín’s standing as a mere female is a bigger impediment to her fulfilling her obligations to the gods than hordes of undead blood-drinkers–something that becomes a lot more apparent in this second issue. There is a conspiracy afoot, and Róisín’s powers are of little help to her in fight against the political and social establishment.

Maura McHugh’ script for this issue is excellent. The characters stay true to character, the plot crackles along, giving us a good look at the supernatural and social turns of the story as well as plenty of action and horror, without ever seeming congested or rushed. McHugh still finds the space to highlight moments of emotional resonance.

Stephen Byrne’s high-contrast art looks great in black-and white. The action is bone-crunching, the period detail looks accurate without making a fetish of it, and the characters–particularly Róisín–turn in convincing ‘performances’ on every page.

Róisín Dubh is something rare: a comic based on myth and legend that remains true to the period in which it is set. It’s refreshing to see a heroine who is both tough and vulnerable, presented without the standard hyper-sexualization we have come to expect from today’s comics and films.  McHugh and Byrne have produced a terrific book that doesn’t pander, doesn’t sugarcoat, and retains its capacity to surprise. Seek it out; it’s well worth your time.

The book is available directly from the Atomic Diner Comics website, or find out more at the Róisín Dubh website.