# Heroes of the dawn/The Slumber of Fionn

illustrator: Beatrice Elvery
THE SLUMBER OF FIONN
In Donegal there is a hill, lifting itself over a bog filled with the bleached grey stumps of trees, the dead remains of a forest that was there thousands of years ago.
It is many, many years now since a man was walking through the valley at the foot of the hill, searching for little rare plants and herbs that grow in boggy places and over lonely mountains. After a time he sat down to rest, and casting his eyes over the hillside saw, quite near to the summit, a small dark cleft in the mountain, which he never remembered to have seen before. As he sat looking at it he remembered the legends his mother had told him, when he was a child, about this mountain: how there were mysterious beings dwelling in vast caves inside it, and that the entrance to the caves ​could never be found, for it was hidden by spells and druidical mists from the eyes of men.
Again and again he looked at the dark spot, half expecting to see it vanish and become green, like the rest of the hillside; but it still remained visible. Then he determined to climb up to it, and, keeping his eyes fixed on the cleft, began the ascent. When he reached it, he found that what appeared to be a small hole from the valley below was really a very wide and lofty entrance to an immense cave, which seemed to penetrate far into the interior of the hill.
He walked some distance into this cave, and then came to a still larger one, shaped like a vast circular chamber, and filled with a faint golden misty light. A great wonder and fear came upon him as he stood on its threshold and looked within, for lying on the sandy ground was a multitude of armed and gigantic men, their right hands clasping unsheathed swords, and their shields covering their breasts, while by the side of each warrior a wolf-hound lay as though asleep. In the midst of ​the floor reposed a more stately warrior than the others, with silver hair flowing over his shoulders; at his head was a silken banner, with a golden sun rising above the horizon, and on either side of him a hound rested.
The man looked at them; he thought they must be warriors who had died long ages ago, but the colour still remained in their cheeks, and the red in their lips, as though they only slept. He walked a few paces into the cave, and stumbled over a long, carved wooden instrument half-buried in the sand. He raised it, and standing it on one end, discovered it to be a trumpet or horn of great antiquity. Placing his lips to the mouth-piece he breathed into it, and a musical humming note filled the chamber. At the sound the hounds raised their heads and bayed, and a clash of swords and shields rose as the warriors sat upright, and from the lips of the silver-haired warrior in the centre came the words: "Is the time yet come?"
But the man turned and fled from the cave in fear. He knew then that these ancient warriors were Fionn and his heroes, who wait
LYING ON THE SANDY GROUND WAS A MULTITUDE OF ARMED AND GIGANTIC MEN
​there, wrapped in an age-long slumber, for the coming of the day when the war-music of the Dord-Fian, the great trumpet of the Fianna, will echo through the cave. When that day comes they will ask again the question, "Is the time yet come?" and it will no longer remain unanswered, for they will hear, "The time is come"; and with sword and shield in hand they will arise and go forth to do battle for Ireland once again.
THE END
NOTE
These stories are founded on legends mainly derived from Silva Gadelica and the Transactions of the Ossianic Society. For some details and one or two legends I am indebted to Mr. Standish O'Grady's Critical and Philosophical History.