Màrrach Mór is silent but for deep, rhythmic breathing and crackling flames. A snapping twig stirs us from our dreams. At the edge of Coill Mhór stands an arboreal herald singing sweetly of roots that run deep. Can it be Bili Búada come to claim the triumph of the trees? Or Dearg Corra, Guardian of Knowledge? I see his fitheach perched in the branches above, but no sign of the damh that never leaves his side.

"That is easy to say! Loin Loich shines on your brow. You are a hero," I say.

"True, but what is my name?"

Though his features are outlandish, his voice has a familiar ring. Peering closer, I notice his forest finery is not natural growth, but a montage of wood elements stuck to a thick sheen of resin that coats his entire body. Even his head is sticky with amber yew sap. Enjoying the game, he twirls and leaps and snorts through his nose with glee.

"Ha! Easy to say. You are An Gun Ainm! I'd recognise that snort anywhere," I say above the peels of laughter and loud victory cries of my deirfiúracha sgáith.

Now that we know our gun ainm ábhar has survived his final ordeal, we lower our shields and hail his triumphant return. Ciannait runs her fingers lightly along the raw lines of the crann tattooed on his chest, while I read the veins of the gigantic alder leaf stuck to his back.

"It is easy to see that you have chosen the Clan of the Fire Lord, sovereign of birth and death, generation and destruction, and sexual and spiritual power - powers that can both liberate and destroy. Why is not so readily apparent. By weave of leaf I will tell you.

"You share the same noble traits. You both fight in the front lines and show great courage and enthusiasm. Because of his fierce flame, he is known as the warrior tree. Strength, tenacity and determination are his qualities. His spiral buds signify resurrection; his early bloom, new beginnings and the year's true start. Those of Clan Fearn promote bravery, boldness and vitality.

"The key utterance to unlock the wisdom of your Bile is Foras. His kenning is Airenach Fían air is di na sgeith. May you ever be swift of spear!

"And now fair cathfili, it is time to ken your new name from Beithe-luis-nuin."

Starting at the south-west side of the wheel, we slowly work our way north and east, taking time to study with great care the nin in the carved bark of the Ogham sticks that lay undisturbed on the ground where they had fallen during the Rite of Dichetal Do Chennaibh.

"I see seven Fs - a warning: You will be carried away seven times to the Otherworld unless Fearn names you before moonset. This you must ken for yourself," I say, and take my seat on the Triskele of Treochair.