A Peculiar String of Bizarre Dreams

Chapter 11: Bijoux Maven

Red-orange flames crackle in the fireplace.

Mamma and I sit in the living room, sipping from our mugs of hot chocolate. We're sitting on the same blue couch that Dad and I sat in just a while ago. The card deck royalty patterns and the blue of the couch has not yet faded, it is clean and crisp in colour.

From the windows, I can see bare trees outside, their branches weighed down by snowy mounds.

It was summery and sunny last night. Today, it is cold and gray. But I am warm, from the comfort of being in Mamma's presence, and from the nostalgia of reliving my childhood.

I notice how my house looks different in subtle ways. I can pinpoint the changes if I observe all the nooks and crannies carefully. Like the picture frames around the house, they're the same except these pictures were taken in recent time. Their newness still demands to be appreciated.

As the fire quietens down to dying embers, the temporariness of this imagined realm dawns on me.

"What now?" I wonder out loud.

I put my head down in Mamma's lap and she runs her fingers through my hair.

"It's up to you, Jemmalyn," she begins and then offers me the following options, "You could use this ability to help the ill-fated around you. Or, you could live an ordinary life pretending you've never been acquainted with this wondrous ability."

I nod, my head still lying sideways.

"How can I help anyone though? Am I now suppose to solve mysteries and prevent crime? I don't think I'll have time for that, once I start university." My mother laughs at this, perhaps at my primitive notion of time.

"Has your father ever told you about the Bijoux Maven?"

"The who?" I sit up.

"The Bijoux Maven. They're individuals in every realm, who know everything there is to know about certain gemstones. They're powerful because of their knowledge. They mostly use gemstones for good. But there are a few inclined towards corruption. Regardless, most of them are actually quite helpful. Each Bijou Maven possesses a unique collection of gemstones that he/she may give you as a souvenir if you like. Some of them award gems for doing specific tasks."

Mamma speaks almost fondly about these people, with unrestrained enthusiasm but also reverence.

"Is Dad a bee-joo thingamajig? I've seen volumes of books on gemstones in his library," I ask.

Mamma laughs and it sounds like a stir in the soil after rain.

"No. Your father has no such abilities. He's a simple businessman. I like that about him. He's an easily solved riddle."

She pauses and then adds, "You know, how some people collect coins, but that doesn't make them an expert in economics or on currency exchange rates. Your father's like that. But every Bijou Maven is an expert on a certain gemstone, they possess them, but also know about them."

I nod at her, trying my darnedest to wrap my head around one more detail, among the countless others she shared with me today.

"How can I use sapphire for good?" I ask the most practical question I can muster.

"Well, they say sapphire is a gem of good sense. It imparts wisdom, and guides you to the wise. You'll gradually learn for yourself how it can be used."

The necklace is not with me, I left it behind in my "present" realm. I make a mental note to myself: when I go back, I'll wear the necklace with the embedded sapphire. I could use wisdom, especially now, with my 'concept of self' going up in ashes and having to start at the beginning, to learn about myself.

"How can I find these experts?" I continue querying.

"They are few in numbers, only a handful in every realm. You can sense them when you're in a realm. The instincts of a voyageur de temps are good at locating them. You'll know what I mean when you're near one."

"Have you met one?"

"I have, yes. I've met many of these kindred beings." She tells me with a wistful smile.

I nod, although not relating to her sentiment.

"Why did you leave, Mamma?" I finally ask the question I was avoiding inadvertently.

The look in my mother's eyes shifts rapidly between states — from lively to weary, and then firing up again — as if she forgot where she kept something but suddenly, remembered where it was all along.

"I am always here for you, sweet Jemma. You are a voyageur de temps, you can visit me whenever you wish."

She does not answer my question. But I feel an uncanny tranquility blanket around me.

And then for a second, I consider asking my mother another question: If I want to go back to being eighteen, what do I have to do?

But this question is left unasked, because I have merely considered it and thus, willed it.