Upon the first moments of wakefulness, I quiet the whispering voices that speak against my skin and I arise from the myrrh scented sheets of my bed, dropping my white silk sleeping gown to the floor. I have kept the habit of dressing for sleep because it is practical rather than from any attachment to the life I have lived before. Even though my body no longer soaks the sheets with sweat in the hot humid hours of the day or tosses with restless nightmares, it is still a thing of solid matter and as I lie unmoving on the feathered mattress it crushes the stiff velvet dresses that are the fashion of these days. Crossing the wood floor barefoot, I feel the grain and rings of the dead trees through the wax and varnish. They echo softly with footsteps long gone, the crack of an ax as it felled the trees, the sweet hum of the sap as it ebbed and flowed with the days and seasons, the heavy creaking sigh as snow laden branches shivered in the wind. The memories of the cedars that cover my home are sharp and vibrant with years of patient observation and experience. After so many years, I have grown weary of the whispered tales, and I shut my mind from the sound of their murmurings.  

Opening the double doors to my closet, I pull out a plain cotton blouse and skirt both dyed black and slip them on. Yes, the story of weavers and spinners and hungry biting bugs and bright sunlight and sticky air could have chattered in my mind, but does not. I mastered the way of silencing them long ago.  

In the beginning, I listened to everything anxiously and greedily. It was for such knowledge that I sought the change. Only fools seek knowledge, the wise are content. But I was born a fool, as hungry for secrets and the truth behind the mysteries as the sweet thin milk that I sucked from my mother's breast. I outgrew that lusty thirst by the time I was six moons old, but the other plagued me like the dark hunger in my belly now.  

I step across the floor and open the shutters that keep my chambers in shadowy darkness through the daylight hours. The sun sighs with a golden shimmer as it disappears in the west and the twilight sky is deepening to a dark smokey blue. Greeting me with a sly silver wink, the evening star dances alone in the heavens. It the season of her glory when she rules the sky for a brief shimmering moment before the moon and stars appear to outshine her. Tonight is the dark of the moon and the evening star will reign as the brightest light in the night surrounded by a twinkling court of sparkling jewels.  

Unlatching the windows, I push them open and the cool tang of the ocean breeze filled with the unsettled rustling of leaves and branches caresses my face and hair. These too have a story to tell, a song to sing but I deafen myself to it all. I seek only the sound of the wandering tribe of the elarphane in the camp they have made in the midst of the forest.  

As the first warm and tender sign of them washes over my senses, the ravenous craving in my belly grows. These are not only are ripe and swollen with life, but there is a sweet seasoning of ancient magic and wisdom in the spicy bite of their scent, the warm pulse of their hearts, the faint melody of their breath. I grip the window sill and my sharp pointed tongue licks the full pale lips of my mouth. Spinning across my vision are round firm breasts, hard arms and thighs, muscle round calves, soft swelling bellies, taunt buttocks, bulging chests smooth and slick with sweat, the moist dark blossom of womanhood, the throbbing push of masculinity. A rich treasure of youth and vitality.  

I force myself to ignore them. I could feast upon them with ecstasy, but it would soon diminish into disappointment as all such temporal pleasures do.  

No, the one I seek will not flash so gaudily or boldly with passion and strength. It is a subtler energy honed and fired in the power the old ones which promises the fulfillment of my desire.  Oh, she is a clever one and is not easily discovered across the distance. I still my thoughts to focus on the familiar pattern of her existence. She wraps herself in a cloak of earth wisdom, sometimes seeming like a stone, a tree, a stream, or a forest creature. But she has been a part of my life for many years now, and we know each other well. I feel her now and she is waiting knowing I will come.  

Quickly, I wrap a tinkling belt of silver bells about my waist and twist silver bangles over my hands to jangle around my wrists. I stop for a moment to gaze at my image in the mirror. My coarse black curls lie thick and heavy on my shoulders and down my back, a startling contrast to the milk white smoothness of my skin. Two thin black brows arch across my high square forehead. Long straight lashes the color of coal frame large tilted eyes more silver than gray. My nose is long, narrow, and straight. But my lips are full and wide, but pale, a mere blush staining the pure lily coolness of my face.  

Am I beautiful? Yes, very beautiful. That was always the case. But now there is no texture or warmth. I am a polished stone, cold and brilliant. Carelessly, I apply a dark red paint to my lips and a rosy powder to my cheeks. I will weave the darkness to provide the rest of my disguise until I am ready to face the elarphane wise woman.