Floating in a state of soilsiú, I sing the Song of Bile to the rhythmic pace of the bodhráns and lead two times nine Deirfiúracha in a flowing spiral dance toward the centre of the chariot wheel. Each carries in her right hand a craobh from our eighteen Bile and cuts the air with the Ogham symbol that represents her chosen crann.

When I reach the cuairt coimhgí, I sit crosslegged on the Triskele of Treochair. As the Deirfiúracha pass, they arrange their wooden sticks in two rows of nine on the ground in front of me. I close my eyes and continue chanting as I choose seven ogham correspondences that "feel" right, drop them in a fiolar bag and wait for seven breaths and seven bodhrán beats before I stand.

My nameless pupil is now beside me on the triskele at the centre of the world. Naked and blindfolded with a strip of soft indigo bog cotton, he has spiraled to the centre of the world and shivers in anticipation of the Third Illumination. His Urra removes the cloth from his eyes and falls back to her place on the wheel, a signal for silence. A hush fills the hall as audible as leaves rustling in the wind.

Softly I bid my pupil to join me in sacred song. Our two voices mingle and become one, the sweet invocation of the fili with the husky call of the wild. Shadows swirl and slowly spiral skyward, revealing a great ring of ancient trees with knobbled branches woven together in intricate knotwork patterns high above our heads. Night fowl twitter in the lush green canopy, showering an abundance of fruits and nuts the waiting bracken below.

Our song resonates with the deep wood frequencies of the surrounding forest, waking the noble guardians of Màrrach Mór. An enchantment of glorious choral melodies burst forth from white blossoming Birch and Silver Firs and merge and flow with the protective harmonies of Aspens, Gorse and Heather. A bright green clump of Holly sopranos join chorus with the twining Vines in a joyous geantrai of praises, while Ivy and Elder croon a gentle suantrai and the stately Willows weep a woeful goltrai, enhanced by the sonorous Reeds.

Nine Bile Ratha, venerated branchy Hazels of Buan, chime a cheerful greeting and several bolg imbas bubble forth. Beside them, three beloved Nuin, Tortu, Dathi and the trembling Ash of Craeb Usnech, ring with crystal clarity. From the highest boughs of Bran's fair Alder can be heard a chanting of oracular riddles. Fey old white-petaled Hawthorns creak an eerie beguiling tune that beckons us to approach. Eó Mugna, hallowed king of oaks, whose roots extend to the Otherworld, drones the sweet, haunting sound of the Uillean pipes as he opens the door for us enter. Regal Eó Rossa, vanguard of our school, rasps a challenging throaty aria and all pause to hear our response.

"Who approaches and to what purpose?"

"Scathach, Ríán of Dunscaith, approaches with her gun ainm ábhar; he who wishes to wrap himself in an Cliatha Fis and meet his Bile," I sing and spread my arms like sapling branches above my head.

"Where is the Center of the World?" Eó Rossa barks with a menacing wave of gnarly boughs.

"Gorm a cli, Cleithe agus Crann Beithadh."

"How will your ábhar find the Centre?"

"By Tine Choisricthe, the Ninefold Elements of Dúile and Cliatha Fis.

"He may enter alone and unarmed."

I lead my protégé in a spiral dance toward Eó Mugna, shaking the apple branch I hold in mo deas and the fiolar bag with the seven carved Ogham sticks in mo clé, which scatter where they may. Later we will read them together and learn his new name. Now I must release him to his fate among the trees. His Urra-deirfiúrach has prepared him and taken him as far as she can, and I have taken him as far as I dare. I have already battled with the trees and found mine. Rarely does the silver branch unlock for filidh the magic casements of Crann Beithadh, the tree that interconnects the three Worlds of Earth, Sea and Sky. Through crainnchaint, Beithadh will help him crack open the nuts of wisdom that he may know his own bile.

Following Eó Mugna's every instruction, he touches the oaken féige with the tips of his fingers and the old tree in turn chants a blessing on all who enter. Under Luisiu, mighty De Danann Rowan of Tir Tairnagire, the Wattles of Knowledge await him. Still singing sweetly, he sits cross-legged on the round rowan and hazel wattles spread with newly-flayed bull hides, paints his body with red rowanberry juice and wraps himself in the divination bag. He is now ready to face the battle which is his alone to fight. If he succeeds in communicating with the trees, he will be granted a sacred tree. If he fails, he will remain forever in the wood.

Moving sunwise in a spiral, I return to the hub where the Deirfiúrachas prepare the tine choisricthe. They wait for me to smoor the old fire and chant the fiodhrádh. While our champion does his part, we will do ours. The sacred fire we build will bind Crann Beithadh to him and grant him safe passage through the manifestations of trees he will battle in the three realms. Through two nines of ritual lighting of Ogham kindling we sing:

Fearn: Shield of Bran!
Coll: Wattles of Wonder!
Quert: The Silver Bough!
Muin: The Tie that Binds!
Ur: The Mantle of the Earth! ..."

until we have sung the names of all eighteen trees, then sit in silence and feed the flames until we know the outcome.

Time ceases to exist. For a moment or an eternity, I hover above the abyss, a swirling vortex that spirals into depths of my soul. Transfixed, I become disoriented and the force of its energy pulls me into a roaring sea of darkness. At the centre is a serene pond shimmering with hazy tourmaline light, reflecting the overhanging trees. Nuts fall with a splash and are eaten by the speckled salmon gliding shadowlike beneath the surface. I cup my hands and take a sip, but light, not water, passes my lips and a deep sense of peace spreads through me as it washes away old wounds and cleanses heart and mind. I am at ease. As seeds fall to earth and grow, so will mo ábhar. As the roots of Crann Beithadh penetrate the soil of my soul, so will they his. Stems and branches twine around crumbling ideals and burst through the flimsy constructs of self with green leaf and white blossom.

Tongues of fire lick the looming shadows that once again hide our fortress walls of Bile guardians from sight. Along with them the final words of my song fade on the sighing night wind:

"Bíodh sé amhlaidh!"

_______