“If there aren’t books about it, how did your members find the information?” Bess asked.
“Oh, dear, there were many a way to learn before the internet, you know.”
Bess waited for more, but Winnie seemed to think this was explanation enough.
Bess shrugged. “Well then my main question is, how did the town get its name?”
“Antioch?”
“Er, yes.”
“Antioch used to be Roman. What I mean to say is, it’s the name of a Roman city. But it fell in 1268. Saint Luke was from Antioch.”
“Which one was Luke?”
“Luke. You know: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John? He also wrote Acts,” Winnie said, as if she were imparting a juicy bit of gossip.
“So that’s what the city of Antioch is named after?”
“No, not really. You have to understand, the founders of Antioch had never visited Turkey. They didn’t know one place from the other.”
“I thought you said it was in Rome,” Bess said. Winnie was talking fast and Bess was struggling to keep up.
“Right, well. It’s Turkey now. Back then it was part of the Roman Empire. And later Byzantine, Ottoman… now it’s Turkey. Can I go on?”
“Of course, I’m sorry,” said Bess, not entirely sure why she was sorry.
“So yes, they never travelled to the area. And so they didn’t really know the difference between, say, Antioch and Antioch in Pisidia. Although they are different places. So I suppose the correct answer is that Antioch is fictional. Which is to say, it wasn’t named after a real place so much as an idea of a place.”
“That’s interesting,” Bess lied.
“But it’s not what you want to hear, right?”
“It’s not that. I guess I was hoping there would be some neat story about the name.”
“Well, I didn’t say there wasn’t. I just said it wasn’t named for a specific place. You see, Antioch isn’t really the name of the town at all.”
Bess got the impression Winnie loved an audience. She was building her story with all the flair of a seasoned performer. Bess only smiled and waited for the show to continue. It was clear that audience participation was not required for this part of the act.
“No, no. You see,” Winnie continued, “the name on the books is Margaret of Antioch. Mostly no one knows that, and to be sure, it’s a rather long and awkward name for a town, so over the years the place was shortened to Antioch.”
Bess’s breath caught in her throat.
Margaret.
Winnie was eyeing her, perhaps with concern, but that didn’t seem right; it was more like interest. Maybe amusement. She was watching to see what Bess would do. For the first time since entering the small historical society building, Bess felt her senses go on high alert. This old woman knew more than she was letting on, and if she had tried to distract Bess with fast talk about the Roman Empire and Turkey, it had worked like a charm.
“What are you here after, Bess Jackson?”
“A history lesson.” Her eyes slid over to the locked entrance.
“You know about the dragon, don’t you?”
Bess’s thoughts fled back to the rubber dragon mask she’d found impaled at her doorstep only a few hours before. “I don’t think I understand.”
“Maybe you don’t. But maybe you’re starting to,” Winnie said, a smile spreading out across her face, making some of the creases in her thin flesh deeper and some smoother.
“What’s the dragon?” Bess asked.
“Margaret. Saint Margaret of Antioch. She’s the saint of a great many things, but her greatest feat is, debatably, when she was eaten by a dragon and survived.” Winnie’s eyes were wide and dancing. “You’re sure you’re no reporter?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I keep waiting for those bastards to catch on,” Winnie said, almost to herself. Then to Bess, “Olybrius ordered Margaret killed. She was swallowed whole and yet she lived.”
“And then she was beheaded,” Bess said, filling in with what she’d read at the bookstore.
“Exactly so, Bess Jackson. Jonah lived in a whale. Margaret lived in a dragon. Nobody lives without a head. Not in Antioch. Not anywhere.”
A chill shuddered through Bess. She kept her eyes on Winnie and focused on her breathing—easy, even breaths. “I should probably get back home. I’ve already kept you past closing, and I don’t want to be out after dark. I appreciate your help.” She was afraid of this old woman, or maybe just of what she had to say, but a definite sense of foreboding had claimed the room.
“Of course. I’m only the town historian, dear. Nothing sinister. But when your job is to watch and make a record, you tend to notice things others don’t. Feel free to come back. I’m always here.”
“Thank you.” Bess had already backed most of the way to the doorway and when she turned, the closeness of the entry startled her all over again. She found the deadbolt and let herself out.
Back on the sidewalk she tried to make sense of what she’d been told. There was something off about the building’s dimensions compared to what she’d seen inside. Something about the cottage didn’t sit right with her. Then she realized there didn’t appear to be a second story to the building at all. Walking to the side she craned her neck to try and see if there was an addition in the back, invisible from the front of the structure. Bess couldn’t see anything. The uneasiness that now lived inside of Bess crept up a notch. She needed to get home.
The sky was soft and purple by the time Bess reached her house. She scampered inside and dashed straight to the fridge for a beer. She knew she shouldn’t be drinking. If she was sober it would be harder for people to paint her as a lunatic if she told them what was happening. But damned if that old woman hadn’t made her nervous.
She took a long pull from her drink and returned to the safety of her garage. The radio was still on, static dancing through the empty spaces, reverberating against the walls and back to her. Was there a dragon swimming in all that noise?
Some people believe the Japanese shot down Amelia Earhart’s plane and captured her. The story goes that the Japanese believed she was an American spy and she was imprisoned. Some say Earhart was beheaded at Garapan Prison, others that she simply died of dysentery. Either way, she met her end in a prison.
Bess allowed her mind to linger on images of Amy Eckhardt alone and dying either of dysentery or beheading. She thought about the dragon mask at her doorstep, and Winnie’s story of Saint Margaret being swallowed whole but surviving. Amy could still live, crawl out of the dragon’s throat, being mindful of the teeth around her neck as she went.
Bess pictured Earhart’s head—short hair, empty eyes—rolling across the muddy ground, and then in a flash, she saw it again, not rolling, but spiked.
“Vlad the Impaler,” Bess said. She was certain now.
The radio screeched in response. Bess sat up straight and strained to hear. For an instant, she thought she heard a woman calling. She reached for the radio and coaxed the knobs into giving up the transmission.
This is Amelia Earhart
Only now Bess knew better, not Amelia. It had never been Amelia.
This is Amy Eckhardt
SOS
SOS
Bevington Rising
Bevington
SOS