Hannah and the Magic Eye

by Tyler Enfield

  for her!

  Whomever it was had just entered the living room. There were many of them, and their muffled voices reached Hannah as they roved freely about house, flipping through debris. Now she heard voices in the hall, just beyond the den. Men’s voices, speaking loudly, and coming closer...

  “Looks like the den is down here,” someone was saying, “and look at all those books!”

  Tightening her grip on the cane, Hannah leapt out from her hiding place, prepared to brain the nearest intruder, and then let the cane drop in relief.

  It was the police. Clooney had fetched the police, just like she’d asked, and now three officers stood before her, looking as startled as she felt.

  “Who are you?” they asked, clearly not expecting to find a fierce, cane-wielding Belgian child hiding amongst the ruins of a crime scene.

  “I am Hannah Dubuisson, granddaughter of Henri Dubuisson, who has been kidnapped by the Cancellarii, a very old and dangerous secret society of treasure hunters who will stop at nothing to steal their prize! You must find them at once!”

  The officers shared a look. One of them placed a hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should start at the beginning,” he said.

  r

  While the officer took Hannah aside for questioning, the housed filled up with Israeli police.

  Everywhere Hannah looked, uniformed officers snooped about, snapping photos of the destruction that was once Henri’s home.

  “And you say a secret organization of treasure hunters called the…” the officer checked his notes, “…called the Cancellarii, did all this?”

  Hannah nodded.

  The officer shut his notebook and gave her a dubious look. “I don’t know how to tell you this Ms. Dubuisson. Jerusalem has a lot people who don’t get along. A lot of problems. But kidnappings by ancient secret societies just isn’t one of them. Did your grandfather ever discuss any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to do him harm?”

  “Yes!” Hannah shouted with exasperation. “I already told you! He warned me to look out for—”

  “Ah! The inspector is here,” the officer interrupted. “Perhaps he can sort this out.”

  Hannah turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man enter the living room and glance about at the mess. He wore a grey linen suit with a black turtleneck. He had piercing dark eyes that took in the apartment at a glance, assessed it, and concluded it was bad, very bad. The inspector was clearly not a happy man.

  Hannah’s officer raised a hand, waving the inspector over. “Inspector Andrepont!” he called. “Over here sir. Perhaps you can help. This young lady is the granddaughter of the missing man and has some interesting ideas about the culprit.”

  Andrepont! The inspector was the man Henri had warned her about! But then, Hannah reminded herself, Henri had also taught her not to jump to conclusions. She knew nothing about this Andrepont. Perhaps he had nothing to do with the Cancellarii.

  Inspector Andrepont moved with calm authority, his gaze locked on Hannah as he crossed the room.

  “Mademoiselle Dubuisson, how do you do?” he said in flawless French. How did he know Hannah spoke French?

  Don’t jump to conclusions… Don’t jump to conclusions…

  “This must be distressing,” he said. “To discover your grandfather is missing and find his home in disarray. You have my sympathy. However, it is very important I ask you some questions, as I am sure you understand. May I proceed?”

  Hannah nodded, her gut clenching into a knot.

  “If you do not mind,” Inspector Andrepont said to the other officer. “I would like to speak with the Mademoiselle alone.”

  He gave Hannah a meaningful glance, and once the officer departed, the inspector simply looked at her. She waited for him to speak. After some moments he leaned forward, nearly hissing in her ear, “I know all about you. Your grandfather too.”

  Hannah froze, her breath caught in her throat.

  The inspector continued, “I believe you have something of your grandfather’s. Something of great importance,” he whispered. “There are dangerous people about. More dangerous than you can imagine. Perhaps the item in your care would be safer with me.”

  It was a barely veiled threat, and Hannah was now trembling head to toe. There could now be no doubt: Andrepont was Cancellarii, and he wanted the map. She needed a way out.

  Inspector Andrepont was about to speak again when the photo team entered and began snapping pictures of the crime scene. Andrepont acted as though nothing were unusual. “As I was saying,” he said to Hannah. “We will do our utmost to find whoever kidnapped your grandfather. Our best detectives have already—”

  “I must pee,” she said.

  Andrepont gave her a curious look. “Your pardon?”

  “I must use the washroom.”

  The inspector frowned. “I see. Of course. Nature calls, as they say. But please return at once, as we still have much

  to discuss.”

  Hannah nodded and made a beeline across the living room, heading straight for the stairs, which would take her outside.

  “Uh… Mademoiselle Dubuisson?” the inspector called.

  Reluctantly, Hannah turned around.

  “I believe the nearest washroom is over here. Is it not?” He pointed down the hall toward the bedroom.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. She smiled, doing her best to disguise her disappointment as she retraced her steps and headed down the hall. Once inside the washroom, she immediately locked the door behind her and heaved a deep breath to

  calm herself.

  Now what? How would she ever sneak past the inspector to reach the stairs?

  Someone knocked on the door. “Mademoiselle?” came the inspector’s voice.

  “A moment please!” she called. Without a second to lose, she flushed the toilet and turned on the faucet, using the noise of each to hide the squeaking of the window as she slid it open.

  She peeked outside. It was a long drop. And no canopy to catch her this time.

  Craning her head, she looked up, toward the roof. It was only a couple feet overhead. She saw no other choice. Biting her lip, she hauled herself out the window, balanced herself upon the sill, and reached up for the roof. A moment later she was standing safely atop her grandfather’s building, her red backpack with the journal cinched tightly to her shoulders, and the whole of the Old City spreading below her. In the light of the rising moon, the countless domes and spires of the city’s ancient temples left her spellbound, and she half expected Aladdin to arrive on his magic carpet and carry

  her away.

  But this was not a fairytale, she quickly reminded herself. Henri was kidnapped, and Hannah was now on the run from both the Cancellarii and the Israeli police. And she didn’t even have her suitcase! That scoundrel Clooney had probably sold half its contents by now, figuring she would never be able to locate it again.

  Glowing with fury, and no small mixture of fear, Hannah hurried across the roof to the opposite side where the limbs of a great walnut tree brushed the building’s side. Hannah worked her way onto the nearest limb, eventually shimmying her way down the trunk.

  With both feet on the ground, she brushed her palms and turned around to find Clooney standing there, as though they had agreed to meet at this very spot.

  “You!” she said, jabbing her finger into his chest. “What are you still doing here?”

  “I did not get my kiss.”

  “For good reason! You swindler! How much did you earn for the sale of my suitcase?”

  Clooney appeared hurt. He looked at her. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to find it on your own. I waited here for you, so we could find it together.”

  Hannah stopped. She took a deep breath, recognizing the sincerity in his eyes. The truth was, Clooney was the only person who had done her a speck of kindness, and s
he was being unfair.

  “You are right,” she said. “I am sorry. Will you forgive me?”

  Clooney’s face lit up. “Done! Am I still your brave rescuer?”

  A voice called down from the window above. “Made­moiselle Dubuisson? Is that you?”

  Hannah and Clooney both looked up to find Inspector Andrepont leaning out the window. Hannah gulped. There was a moment of silence as they sized up the situation, and then the inspector held something before him, pointing it at her—a gun?

  There was a flash of light, and Hannah was momentarily blinded. When her vision cleared she saw the inspector holding a phone. He had just taken a photo of both Clooney

  and herself.

  Clooney took her hand, and they sprinted into the night.

  r

  After retrieving Hannah’s suitcase as promised, Clooney led her back to the rooftop above his uncle’s coffee stall. He brought her a blanket and a pillow. He assured her, “No one comes up here. You will be safe.”

  “But what if the police come looking?”

  Clooney chuckled. “We are Palestinians. No one here tells the Israeli police anything.”

  “I mean you,” she said. “They have your picture too. I am afraid we are now in this together.”

  Clooney shrugged, unconcerned. But the reality was, the Israeli police—one of whom was clearly a member of the Cancellarii—now had their photos, which would likely be broadcast across the whole of Israel. Come morning, both forces would be searching for Hannah and Clooney.

  Clooney’s uncle called from below.

  “I must go. I would invite you in, but…”

  Hannah nodded. “I understand. I am a Jewish girl, and you are a Palestinian boy, and your family might object. Clooney, don’t worry. I will be comfortable here.”

  His uncle called again, and Clooney waved before departing.

  Hannah lay upon her back, looking up at the stars, the sounds of the city all around. She tried to piece together everything that had happened today, and what she must do tomorrow. She came up with a list of five questions she should answer if she was to solve this mystery and find her grandfather.

  1.What does the map lead to?

  2.Why are the illustrations drawn upside down?

  3.Why did Henri write three numbers beneath

  each illustration?

  4.What is the magic eye?

  5.Who was Julien Dubuisson?

  She realized the last question should be the first, as it all started with Julien, and the answer was likely no farther away than her backpack.

  She sat up and removed the journal. By moonlight, she opened the leather cover and chose a page at random. She began reading and was immediately enthralled. According to Henri’s notes, Julien Dubuisson was Hannah’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, and was a true Renaissance man in the court of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte and about the most interesting person Hannah had ever heard of. Julien spoke eleven languages. He was an accomplished painter, sculptor, and violinist. He was a mathematician and a scholar of the kabbalah, which was the most mystical of the Jewish texts. He was also a documented explorer and, according to this journal, a powerful sorcier, or sorcerer, with unusual talents—making him the prize of Napoleon’s court.

  It was around the year 1790 that Julien Dubuisson first approached Emperor Napoleon and requested permission and funds to hunt for a lost treasure in Jerusalem. A treasure so vast, he said, that it boggled the mind. Once Julien recovered this treasure, he promised to return it to Napoleon for the glory of France.

  Emperor Napoleon was one of the few rulers who openly supported the Jews of Europe at that time. As a token of the confidence and respect he held for his sorcerer, Napoleon gave Julien Dubuisson the blessing of France, a large bag of coins, and sent him on his way.

  But Julien Dubuisson never returned to France. Nor did he ever send gold or jewels or any evidence of the famed treasure. The only thing he sent back to France was a solitary journal, which he insisted was a ‘map’.

  Crafty magician that he was, Julien Dubuisson did not give specific instructions to find the treasure. He instead created seven enchanted illustrations, each one encoded with clues to the next. The map, and the enchanted illustrations it was made of, could only be deciphered with a “magic eye.”

  Hannah stopped reading.

  There it was again: The magic eye. Hannah sensed the magic eye somehow tied it all together. Perhaps Henri had one and had used it to crack the code. Maybe it even explained the three numbers he had written.

  A plan was forming in Hannah’s mind. The Cancellarii had Henri and wanted the map she now held. She in turn wanted Henri and would do anything to get him back. Perhaps they could arrange an exchange. The treasure map for her grandfather. But of course, on further thought, she realized the Cancellarii would never give Henri up. The map was useless without him, for Henri Dubuisson alone could read it.

  Which left only one option.

  To find the treasure herself. With the treasure in hand, Hannah could certainly ransom it back for her grandfather.

  How exactly she would decipher the map’s code, locate the treasure, and trade it for Henri’s freedom, she didn’t yet know. But it was late, and Hannah was more exhausted than she could ever recall. She told herself to let it go for now. To sleep on it.

  She lay back down. She clicked on her cellphone, gazing at the home screen.

  “Just let it go,” she whispered aloud. “Just let it go…”

  Unfortunately, for Hannah Dubuisson, letting things go had never come easy.

  r

  Hannah woke to find the sun shining in her eyes, and Clooney squatting beside her and smiling in his blue T-shirt and giant sunglasses. In his left hand was a small silver pot of coffee and in his right hand a white cup. She sat up, looking about the rooftop, the view of Jerusalem all around her.

  “Sleep well?” he asked, deftly pouring coffee into the cup.

  She shook her head, accepting the coffee. She breathed in the aroma of cardamom and took a sip. “I have an idea though.”

  “Will it get your grandfather back?”

  “Perhaps. If my plan works. My grandfather has a friend at the university. Her name is Professor Weisman. She has known me all my life and may have information about this journal. She might be able to help.”

  Hannah finished the coffee in a single gulp and returned the cup. “Oh yes, I almost forgot. Also, we are going on a treasure hunt.”

  Clooney smacked his hands together. “Fantastic! When do we start?”

  “Right away.” Hannah clicked on her cellphone.

  Clooney peeked over her shoulder. “Who is that?” he asked, noting the picture of Hannah with her father.

  “Me,” she said, dialing Professor Weisman’s number from her contact list.

  “But you are so young in that photo. Why don’t you change it?”

  “Do you see that man? The man I am sitting with?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is my father.”

  “Why is he not here in Jerusalem?”

  “Hang on. Hello? Professor Weisman? This is Hannah Dubuisson. Yes, Henri’s granddaughter. In Jerusalem, yes. Actually, I wonder if I could meet with you this morning. There is something I need to discuss. Oh, thank you, that is very kind. Yes, I will take a bus. I will be right over.”

  Hannah hung up and returned the phone to her backpack.

  “Because he is dead,” she said to Clooney.

  r

  The university was not in the Old City of Jerusalem, but in the new Jerusalem with its glass-windowed skyscrapers and boutiques and taxis honking horns. Coming from the Muslim Quarter of the Old City, it was like being catapulted a thousand years into the future.

  Clooney and Hannah purchased two bus tickets, and along the way
to the university she explained everything she knew about Julien Dubuisson, his mysterious journal, and the Cancellarii who were now after the both of them. She also described her plan to find the treasure and exchange it for Henri’s freedom.

  “This is perfect!” said Clooney. “Just like the movies!”

  “It is not a movie,” she assured him. “This is real. And if we make mistakes, people might get hurt. Try to be serious.”

  Hannah and Clooney hopped out at the university bus stop. They crossed the wide lawn and entered the huge building devoted entirely to archaeology. They went straight up to Professor Weisman’s office on the fifth floor.

  “So good to see you Hannah! My, how you have grown!”

  Professor Weisman was an older woman, gracious and polite, with short grey hair, bright blue eyes, and a rather strong chin. Her office looked like the entire archaeological wing of a museum had been crammed into a single room. The desk was completely lost beneath boxes with mysterious labels and maps of ongoing digs. Various artifacts, statuary, and primitive stone tools filled the shelves and every available space on the floor. The bookshelves were packed, and even the wall was crowded with Professor Weisman’s many certificates and awards in archaeology.

  Hannah loved Weisman’s office. She would have liked nothing more than to spend the rest of the day exploring the bookshelves and boxes with their treasure-trove of artifacts. Once, Weisman had invited Hannah to help her for an afternoon, and they spent three hours sitting cross-legged on the floor, recording and labeling rusty coins from a shoebox the professor had filled at a dig site near

  Bethlehem.

  Professor Weisman poured tea and invited Hannah and Clooney to sit. “So what brings you here, Hannah? Everything going well?”

  Where to start? Best to get straight to the point. “Henri has been kidnapped.”