A Peculiar String of Bizarre Dreams

Chapter 8: Voyageur de Temps

I am a wink away from falling asleep. It's that moment, when you feel the day in your bones. Your body grows heavy and your eyes say their last prayers. Your breath steadies and gradually, slows down. A slumberous warmth drifts up, starting from your toes to your cheeks.

But then, I hear a soft noise; seemingly, from under my pillow.

SWIIISSH!

A breeze? Under my pillow? This does not make any sense. I jump into a sitting position and fling the pillow off my bed.

A scroll wrapped in a red ribbon, straight from God-knows-what-century, rests elegantly, unflattened. I stare at it in astonishment.

I haven't seen this vintage artifact around the house before. And that's odd because I've seen a number of vintage relics lying about the house.

Maybe Dad put it under my pillow and I didn't realize it. He probably decided to make an even grander gesture in addition to the locket and perhaps left me a cheery message, I conclude.

The scroll isn't striking as such, but the paper looks aged and valuable.

I untie the red ribbon from the scroll. It falls delicately on the bed and the scroll unravels, revealing a message hand-written in black ink.

A few visceral reactions occur at this sight: my heart begins to thump faster, pumping more blood through me than ordinarily necessary. My hands moisten with sweat, and my breath gets caught in my throat.

The handwriting is my mother's.

How do I know this? I wonder, half panicking. I don't think I could read or write when she left. So, how can I recognize the writing as my mother's? My mind denies the existence of what is before me, it is not logically fathomable.

But unwillingly, my eyes glide through the message:

Dearest Jemmalyn,

My dearest dearest Jemma,

I cannot imagine what is going through your mind as you read this. But if you are reading this, it means the time has come, you are ready. An incredibly momentous occasion in your life has finally taken place.

I look away from her writing. My name handwritten like that; it has a peculiar warmth in it, that I can feel somewhere deep within my core. And indisputably, I don't feel a trace of anger towards her for not being in my life and leaving me mysterious scrolls to read.

I resume reading:

You are from the legacy of voyageurs de temps.

Women in our family can travel through time. Time — not just in the past or in the future, but also through time imagined and misimagined.

I stop reading.

Umm...excuse me? What. Is. My. Mother. Talking. About.

Is this even my mother? Is my father messing with me? But I just know this is not him.

Voyageurs de temps. Based off my awful high-school French and the very next line, my mother is definitely referring to time-travel.

Does my mother think I'm still three? Maybe I wanted to time travel back then, and my mother is humouring three year old me.

And the women in our family can travel through time? What.

I barely remember my mother, let alone my grandmother.

Time is a faithful friend. Let it guide you. But most of all, learn from it.

I am always here for you,

Your mother Camira

The note ends there.

I am confused beyond imagination and "misimagination". I haven't heard from her in over a decade and this is the first thing I read from her. Does this mean she is alive and happy?

I let out a sigh.

Okay, I decide, I'll play along. Should I will myself to time-travel? This day can't possibly get any longer, I mentally shrug.

I close my eyes, still sitting upright on my bed.

I think of my mother: I picture her face, her long dark hair, and her dark eyes. I see us sitting together on her bed, as she tells me about her dreams. But I don't hear what she tells me about her unconscious world.

A few seconds later, I open my eyes a peek to check if I'm with my mother in her room.

Nope. I am still absurdly sitting on my bed. Everything looks as it did two seconds before I indulged in this make-believe super power.

I carefully tie the red ribbon back on the scroll. I feel exhausted from the day. I check my phone and it tells me it's almost midnight.

I'll show the scroll to Dad in the morning and ask him what it's all about. Why didn't he give me the scroll when he gave me that locket? I wonder.

Unsatisfied, yet still inexplicably determined, I put my pillow back in place and position myself back to sleep.

Nothing dares to swish beneath it this time.