Prompted Fiction

#13 - Sequanna (Week 5 No. 2)

Everyone has a story about where they were when they heard about The Return – it's just one of those things. Our grandparents had the Kennedy assassination; our parents, 9/11. Us? We each have a story about The Return. Most people's stories are all "I was in gym class when the principal came in", or "I was giving a presentation at work", blah, blah, blah. Boring. My story isn't like that. My story's a little more, well, personal.

Unlike most everyone else, the first time I heard about Them was when I met one. No, no, I wasn't at that Philology conference in Rome, though I admit that conference turned out to be a stroke of luck for pretty much the entire population of Earth. No, I was on vacation, travelling through France. In fact, I was in Burgundy. I was about forty minutes outside of Dijon, at this park called "Parc Les Sources de la Seine". It's a cute spot; lots of trees, lots of grass, a little stream that forms from the water that seeps out of the ground. There's also a statue of a reclining naked lady, that represents the river. There used to be a couple of Roman temples there, too, but you probably already guessed that.

Anyhow, I was walking down the concrete footpath under the trees when I saw a lady, sitting with the ducks on the bank of the not-yet-a-river. She was oddly dressed for checking out a park. She was wearing a long, flowing dress, dark blue, with a pale green mantle over top of it, and leather sandals. The mantle was pinned at the shoulder with a jewelled pin in the shape of a duck. The weirdest thing, though, is that the honey-coloured hair that waved over her shoulders was kept back from her face by a crown. An actual, real, gold crown. The other weird thing was that her head was buried in her hands; she was crying.

"Um, Miss?" I asked. My French is pretty awful; I hoped that she'd understand my English.

She scrubbed at her eyes, and got to her feet. As she stood, the ducks, all mallards, did the weirdest thing. They arranged themselves in four straight lines, two lines on either side of the woman, and eyed me, kind of suspicious-like.

Then she said something to me in a language I didn't even recognize. It sounded kind of like Welsh, I guess, or Irish, but only about as much as Spanish sounds like Romanian, that is, not a lot. I must have gaped at her like a beached fish, because she tried again, in another language.

I didn't catch all of this one, either. I don't think it was French. I mean, I'm pretty sure it wasn't French, but like I said, my French stinks, and it sort of sounded kind of French-ish. Sort of. The only word I really caught was 'fanum'.

"Fanum?" I repeated.

Apparently thinking that only that word needed explanation, she said, "Templum. Templum meum," and looked at me patiently.

"Er, I'm not sure if there are any temple ruins. I mean, there was a temple here once, I guess. Maybe someone at the entrance would know? I think they give guided tours or something," I blathered.

The woman looked at me impatiently, then reached out with both her hands and grasped mine. The ducks quacked uneasily. I felt a bolt of energy, like incredibly intense static, flow through my fingers. I stared at her, and she laughed. Then she let go of my hands. I let them fall to my sides, still staring.

"So," she asked, in English this time, "do you understand me, now?"

"I – I think so?" I replied.

"Good. Funny language, this. Not what I expected, especially not around here."

She eyed me carefully, and I got the feeling she needed an explanation. "I'm not from here. I'm on holiday," I said, as though that made any sense.

"Well, I can't fault you for that; I've had the most marvellous trip myself. I don't suppose you know what they did to my temple? The nerve of these people, letting it fall down and get buried! I was only gone gone for – oh, it can't have been two millennia, not quite."

My mouth fell open again. "I'm sorry, what? Is this some kind of a joke? We're on camera right now, aren't we?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Don't you know who I am?" She sighed and put her hand to her forehead for a moment. "What do they teach you young humans these days? I'm Sequanna."

The name meant nothing to me. "Sequanna?"

"Yes, like the river!" She gestured to the little stream.

"It's called the Seine," I said, though I probably butchered the name.

"Only because you're ignorant. Its real name is Sequanna, just like mine. It's called that because it is my river."

"Lady, this is a public park."

"Yes, but the Sequanna is my river," she repeated, and this time her voice was . . . it was powerful, like the sun, or the snow, or a thunderstorm, and it rolled and echoed through the little glen. All the ducks started quacking, their calls momentarily deafening.

I took three steps back.

"If you must grovel, at least include a proper prayer," the woman sighed. "I so miss being worshipped."

"Look, do you actually need any help?" I asked, "Because you were crying and all that, so -"

"I suppose not," she said, "I think you've clarified a few things. I'd like to show my appreciation for your attempt at assistance, though, if you'd accompany me to my vehicle."

I nodded, silently. Though the lady was crazy – and so were the ducks – she didn't seem threatening. And you'd better believe that I was curious to see her car.

"I do prefer boats, of course, when I'm on the river," she said as we walked. "But for interstellar travel, a chariot really is the only option."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at that patently ridiculous statement, but then we walked behind a little copse of trees. There, in front of me, was the most remarkable thing I'd ever seen – a full on flying-saucer, all shiny chrome except for the tiny chariot-and-horses motif engraved on one side.

I have no idea what Sequanna did to make a door open up on the thing, but open one did, and one of the ducks marched in like it owned the place. Then the duck marched back out, a golden ball in its bill. Sequanna took the ball, smiled at her reflection in the shiny surface, then handed it to me.

"Thank you, human," she said.

Years of my mother's insistence that I learn to be polite allowed me to stutter out, "You're welcome," but that was all I could say. Even then, I knew that everything had changed.

Prompt: Gold-fingered gods arrive in chariot-emblazoned space crafts claiming to be the Roman Pantheon back from vacation.

Source: http://mandywallace.com/58-science-fiction-writing-prompts/

Originally I was going to do the major gods and have them arrive in Rome and all that, but I figured doing someone smaller and more obscure would be more interesting.

I ignored the gold-fingered part of the prompt because, well, who can imagine a personification of a river with gold fingers? I mean, really, not everyone can be rosy-fingered dawn, and not every girl who lives in a river is a gold-obsessed Rhine maiden.