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 As he gazed at them, he realised that they were in fact sleeping, for their chests rose in a strange, regular motion and he heard their deep, steady breathing. He paid them little attention, for their sleep seemed very sound, and turned his thoughts back to the silver horn. It was a fabulous thing and, by stretching a little more, he was able to seize it and lift it down. Standing in the gloom of the cavern, he imagined it even more valuable than he had at first thought, and wondered who had fashioned it and what it might sound like. It had clearly been designed for a man of larger proportions than an ordinary mortal. He was tempted to raise it to his lips and blow, yet heard a warning voce in the back of his head: `Take care, foolish fellow! Beware!' But MacMahon was a stubborn man and, dismissing the threat, raised the horn to his lips and gave a blow. He could hardly produce a sound. It made but a tiny noise like the faint squawk of a goose. Even so, it seemed enough to trouble one of the sleepers for, with a groan, he stirred in his slumber and stretched himself slightly. `Is it time yet?' he asked, in a voice that was deep and gruff and which clearly had been unused to human speech for a long time. He made to rise and, in the dim light of the wall mosses, armour and with a great horned helmet on his head. With a shudder, the poacher realised that he had stumbled into the resting place of a band of ancient warriors - perhaps even the great Fionn MacCumhaill and his men - who were deep in enchanted slumber. The sound of the horn - low though it had been - had broken that sleep. His heart was fairly stopping within him but, in a trembling voice, he answered: `No, it's not time yet. Go back to sleep!' Now, given the situation, he had displayed a surprising presence of mind. But the ancient warrior was persistent. Hoisting himself up onto one knee, he gripped the shaft of a rusted spear and looked out from under his helmet with red and glittering eyes. `Then why have you disturbed our sleep?' he asked in hollow, ringing tones which reverberated from the rocky walls round about. To his increasing terror, MacMahon noticed that several of the other sleepers were now beginning to stir and he saw an ancient hand reach for a fallen sword lying nearby. Dragging himself up to his full height, the soldier took an awkward step forward. With a cry born out of pure horror, MacMahon dropped the horn and ran back towards the entrance to the cavern. With a throaty roar, all the warriors now began to stir and to stumble unsteadily to their feet. MacMahon ran along the dark rock passage, conscious of the horrid throng which followed him, gasping and leaping until he at last reached the cave entrance through which he had come. Once on the upper earth of the Burren, he fell exhausted to the ground whilst, behind him, the entrance closed with a sound like the clap of thunder. When he looked down at the arm which had held the horn, he found it withered, and it remained so until the day he died. But he had had a lucky escape and never more did he go poaching in the Burren close to Ballynalackin Castle. Who knows but those old soldiers are still sleeping somewhere out there." From Beasts, Banshees and Brides from the Sea by Bob Curran |
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