My world slowly disappears as I am stripped of my trews and lacquered head to toe with heady oils. Its perfume and the wondrous visions before me stimulate my imagination, the stream of Imbas never more yielding. My Urra, Ciannait Threchíchech, waits on me with four other lasses, all of whom surpass in beauty to every noble maiden of Tara and surpass in martial prowess to every hot-blooded warrior of the Fianna. They seat me in soft furs and hold before me bowls of various mountain berries and a cuach of cool, drinking water. Ciannait makes a motion, reminding me not to speak; my words have no meaning in the world of Màrrach Mór, nor does my name. My tongue's poetry and my family's epithet have blessed me always, wherever my boat has taken me. But here they are profane and irrelevant. All that is expected of me is to observe and perform. I remain seated at An Beith agus Troid ar an bhFarraige, the point at which beginning and end collide and eternity is born. On the dirt floor before me, I notice that this sacred point is marked with an elaborate illustration of a goddess with child. The spiral within her belly is young Síoraíocht, who is born today, tomorrow, and evermore. After the year and a day that I have trained at Dúnscaith's sgoil na healaíonaí an chogaidh, I have finally proven worthy to enter Màrrach Mór, the shrine of the hallowed Deirfiúrachas Sgáith, the sisterhood, the inner circle of the Shadow. It is here where only the sisters speak, where wisdom, skill, strength and grace are woven into the dark art of Cleas. It is this secret art that brings warriors from across the sea. The school's alumni are legend, beginning with the original Scathach and her curadh, Cúchulainn. The Shadowy One's namesake, a distant granddaughter, is now headmistress. In the last week of my training, I brought to death my mentor Laoiseach. I nearly did the same to another tutor, Ciannait. When I spared her life, she became my Urra. Dedicated to seeing me through to the end, Ciannait has been at my side night and day, taking on many tasks. First, she has woven for me my own càdadh, a variant on the tartans of the Sisterhood. This wonderful gift is mine when I pass Scathach's tests. Second, Ciannait will be my voice, speaking on my behalf to the Deirfiúrachas Sgáith. Third, she will continue to tutor me, a constant voice of encouragement and wisdom. And finally, she will wait upon me, seeing to my every need. The Urra's role is one of both great honor and servile humility. Scathach greets me as her opponent, speaking in ancient Sgáith-tongue. I knew this day would come, yet it seems unreal. Perhaps it is the perfume of the oils. Perhaps it is the company of the bevy of undraped warrior maidens. Whatever it is, my senses are heightened and I feel that I am observing myself from beyond my own body. I am attuned to the smell of everything around me: yew leaves and pine wood dust; perspiring female bodies; wind coming down off the Cuillins; liniments and lavender oil; alder smoke. I want to kneel before mighty Scathach of Dúnscaith, but I think better of it, remembering that Gaelic clan protocol means nothing here. I show my respect by simply giving her my eyes and ears. This queen of the Isle of Mists is about to perform for me the feats which I will be doing myself. When the bodhrán chorus begins, she leads her sisters in a threefold dance that Ciannait calls The Chariot Wheel. It includes The Stag Lope, The Dance of Feats, and The Sword Dance. Scathach begins with impressive heel and toe work, her arms loose at her sides, and her steps high, all the while maintaining eye contact with me. I dare not blink for fear of missing something. Her dance upon the targes is breathtaking; she leaps across them, narrowly - and quite deliberately - evading their finely honed pikes. She tosses her dark hair to and fro, revealing various tattoos as well as the womanly graces of her neck, shoulders and back. I am delighted with every flourish of her bosom, hips, knees, and toes, and the fever of manhood wakens within me. Twice more Scathach stands before me at Síoraíocht's birthplace - at the resolution of each dance, before the commencement of the next. Each time she appears even more stunning than the last, for she is more vital with each finale. She has me believing that she could continue all night and only grow more spirited. Just when I think the distant piobair can play no faster, Scathach claps her hands to increase tempo. Over crossed swords, mounted with the heads they've severed, Scathach's supple body soars in Salmon Leaps and great whirls, always landing with cat-like grace upon her black-soled feet. She stands before me one last time, bowing, smiling, and receiving the accolades shouted by the Deirfiúrachas Sgáith through Màrrach Mór. She plants her fists upon her hips, breathing heavily, with drops of perspiration dappling her alluring figure. I grin and nod to the ravishing warrior, as formidable and legendary as her namesake. After Scathach has been refreshed and rested, Ciannait leads me to her table, on the other side of the circle. Following my introduction in Sgáith-tongue, of which I understand most, I return to my seat and prepare for my task at sunset.