Hannah and the Magic Eye

by Tyler Enfield

  Hannah glanced at Clooney. As usual, he shrugged.

  “Seriously, you two are great,” the woman said. “I love you two. You’re a Palestinian kid with an Aeropostale T-shirt, sitting beside a Jewish girl with a cross around her neck... you guys are just awesome.”

  And everyone chimed in. “We love you Hannah and Clooney!”

  And then the guitarist tossed a small stick into the fire and said, “War sucks, man.”

  And then Cara, who still had a child in her lap, she said, “You got that right. War sucks.”

  Caught up in the moment, a third man threw his arms in the air and shook his head like a dog and howled, “Waaaar suuuucks!”

  A chant started up, and everyone pounded the earth like a drum, singing, “War sucks! War sucks! War sucks!”

  Gumbo ripped off his tank top and cried, “To the sea!” And everyone, Hannah and Clooney included, began shouting like banshees as they sprinted down to the water and jumped in with all their clothes on.

  As their excitement died down, and they all lay floating on their backs in the dark cool of the Dead Sea, someone suggested they form a single line and all hold hands, each person to the next, and that nobody speak, and in the silence of the desert they all drifted and hovered, and sometimes someone would pretend to snore or whisper, “War sucks, man,” and a bit of laughter would flare up, and then it would subside, all of them together, floating quietly beneath the soft smooth light of the moon.

  r

  Cara had given Hannah and Clooney dry clothes to sleep in. They spent the night in the tent beside six squirming kids, but they had little to complain about. It was safe and cozy, and when they woke, several of the adults were already preparing breakfast over campstoves. Nothing was discussed, it was just assumed Hannah and Clooney would be joining the meal and were given bowls of oatmeal along with the other children. Hannah wondered if anyone would even bother to comment if she were to hop on a bicycle and join

  their tour.

  When she finished, Hannah helped with the wash up.

  “Where are you going?” asked Clooney, spooning up a second bowl of oatmeal.

  “I will be back in a minute. I just want to see something,” said Hannah.

  She took her camera and journal down to the shore. She sat crosslegged on the salt beach and began to think. She looked at the journal in her lap. Then the camera. She still felt Henri had been directing her to use her camera, and the “magic eye” was his clue. But how did it all fit together?

  She opened the journal to the first illustration, the one of the Dead Sea. Beneath it were the numbers her grandfather had written.

  f.4 125 400

  Hannah recalled her first photography lesson. She and Henri were sitting on a stone wall overlooking the hills east of Jerusalem. He passed her the camera. “This is now yours,” he said. “I am giving it to you. On one condition…”

  Hannah accepted the camera, turning it over in her hands. “What’s the condition?”

  “You must learn how to use it. Every dial. Every button. Every setting. A camera is like an enchanted box. With it, you can capture the world,” and then he added with meaning, “Or even recreate it...”

  Henri pointed to the various settings on the camera. He explained that she could control the exposure, or how much light entered the camera, by making three adjustments. The first adjustment was called the ‘aperture.’ The second was called the ‘shutter speed.’ And the last was called ‘ISO.’ It took some practice to work out what each setting did, but in the end, she found the camera was indeed like an enchanted box and entirely under her control. All she had to do was adjust the three settings.

  The three numbers that affected the camera’s exposure…

  Could it be that simple?

  She looked at the numbers in the journal again.

  f.4 125 400

  What if she were to insert each of those three numbers into each of the camera’s three settings? At the very least, it was worth a try.

  She started with the aperture. She set it to four. Easy.

  Next was shutter speed, which she set to 1/125 of a second.

  Last, she set the ISO to 400. She looked through the viewfinder, composing it to match the illustration in the journal. She snapped the shutter.

  She pushed the button to review the photograph and nearly dropped the camera.

  “Clooney!” she yelled from the shore, her eyes riveted on the photograph. “Clooney, come quick!”

  He sprinted over, sliding to halt beside her. He glanced over her shoulder, staring in awe at the photograph displayed on her camera.

  “How did you do that?”

  She smiled.

  The image on the camera was identical to the illustration in the journal and also the photograph she took last night. Except for one detail. Rising up from the Dead Sea, one of the saltiest bodies of water on earth, there appeared the ghostly image of a pillar. As though an ancient marble column had once existed in that place and was now slowly returning

  to view.

  As Hannah marveled at the image, she actually felt the hairs rise on her neck. Her pulse quickened. This was her first real glimpse of Julien’s sorcery in action—or any magic for that matter—and it was beautiful.

  “I can’t believe it’s this easy,” she said. “Each of these numbers beneath the illustrations. They are camera settings for the exposure. A particular exposure that deciphers Julien’s illustrations. Like a code.”

  “What do you mean deciphers?” asked Clooney. “Are you saying you understand what the image means?”

  “Of course. I see a pillar rising from the salty sea. A Pillar of Salt…”

  “You mean the Pillar of Salt? The tourist site? We saw signs for that place all along the highway.”

  “It is where we are supposed to go. Hidden in each illustration will be a clue to the next. All we have to do is locate the place each illustration was drawn, decipher it with the proper exposure on this camera, and follow the clues like bread crumbs back to King Solomon’s treasure.”

  “But this is amazing! How did your grandfather ever figure this out? And how did Julien even create the clues in the first place?”

  “I have no idea. But I’m not surprised. Julien Dubuisson was supposedly a sorcerer. And Henri is a master at cracking codes. He has spent years on this. And fortunately for us, he left the key to decoding each illustration right here in this journal.”

  Hannah wondered, was this why Henri had given her the camera so long ago? Had he always intended to include her on this strange, dangerous journey?

  “The Pillar of Salt should be just down the highway,” said Clooney. “Let’s get started!”

  Hannah and Clooney changed out of their borrowed clothing, even though Hannah’s dress from last night’s swim was still a little damp. They said goodbye to Gumbo and Cara and the wonderful people they had met and hiked up to the highway.

  The Pillar of Salt wasn’t far away. Cara figured twenty kilometers at most. She suggested they just hitchhike it and would probably arrive within the hour.

  Hannah and Clooney stood on the side of the highway, the mountains of Jordan at their back, and waited for a car to come by. The sun was already hot on their skin. A car approached, and Clooney put out his thumb. The car zipped past without a glance.

  “Here comes another,” said Hannah. “Try again.”

  Clooney stuck out his thumb, and this time the driver looked in their direction, but still roared by.

  “Is there a trick to it?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. I have never hitchhiked before.”

  The third and the fourth cars actually sped up when they saw Clooney’s thumb jutting in the air.

  “Perhaps we should dance,” he suggested.

  Hannah gave him a look.

  “I am serious. Let’s
give it try it.” Clooney pushed his giant sunglasses higher on his nose and began to clap a rhythm above his head, wagging his hips side to side and singing in his loudest voice, “Hannah loves to dance! Oh yes, she dances all day long! Hannah loves to—”

  “I will not dance on the road.”

  “Hannah, Hannah, Hannah, she does not look like a banana! She dances like a—”

  “You are wasting your time.”

  “Here comes a car! Quickly! Join me!”

  She saw the approaching car. Before she could say another word, Clooney grabbed both her hands and pulled her into a dance step, and Hannah gave in, and found herself grooving on the side of the highway to the stupidest song she had ever heard.

  “Hannah, Hannah, Hannah, she comes from Indiana!”

  As the car drew nearer they heard the beat of loud music. The whole car was rattling with it. Without breaking rhythm, Clooney waved his arms and the car immediately slowed and then veered across the highway, pulling to a halt beside them. It was a Palestinian family packed to the gills inside a battered little sedan. Hannah peeked inside and counted seven people stuffed in there. The driver was a young man, and an elderly man sat in the passenger seat beside him. In the back seat were three women in burkas, which were like black gowns that covered them from head to toe, with only a small screen to view out. Squished between them were two small children. A boy and a girl.

  Clooney leaned into the driver’s-side window and spoke in brisk Arabic, and seconds later they were piling into the backseat of the sedan, everyone greeting them with a lively, “As-salam alaykum!”

  Clooney was shoved up against the door, his shoulder pressed to the window. Hannah was literally sitting on one woman’s lap. The woman casually wrapped her arms around Hannah’s waist like a seatbelt, as though they did this all the time, and asked Clooney in Arabic if Hannah was comfortable.

  “Very. Thank you,” she said.

  The young driver cranked the music back on—Arabic pop music, inexplicably loud—and happily sped onto the highway. Above the blaring of music, the inquisitive passengers fired questions at Clooney. Hannah had no idea what they discussed.

  At one point, he explained, “They’re going on a family picnic. And they’ve invited us along.”

  “Will they be passing the Pillar of Salt?”

  He asked.

  “They said they can even stop and picnic there if we wish.”

  The car vibrated and pounded to the beat of the music, and the woman behind Hannah tapped both feet, and Hannah went up and down. Up and down. It was difficult to describe how much Hannah enjoyed this family. She didn’t understand a word they said and hadn’t even seen all their faces, but their joy was infectious, much like the American campers of last night, and when the woman’s arms squeezed Hannah tight and began rocking side-to-side, Hannah leaned with her, feeling the music. The beat of different lives, moving as one.

  They passed a road sign for the Pillar of Salt. Four kilometers further. Moments later the sedan pulled into a parking lot with signs for restrooms and gift shops. Tour buses idled on the searing hot asphalt and red-faced Europeans purchased sunhats and bottled water.

  Their Palestinian hosts spread a blanket on the grass near the parking lot. Out came the food, boxes of juice, napkins, dishes, wooden utensils. Apart from the bread and olives, Hannah didn’t recognize much of what they ate. One of the women in burkas, who sounded quite old by her voice, kept pressing bits of dried mango at Hannah, and she gratefully accepted.

  The young driver was speaking with Clooney. Hannah learned she had been sitting in the lap of the driver’s wife. Also in the car were their two children, the driver’s sister, and both their parents.

  “What is he saying now?” asked Hannah.

  “He is talking about the Pillar of Salt,” said Clooney.

  The young man pointed to the ridge on the mountain high above them, and Clooney translated. “He says it’s that rock, right there. That huge orange stone that appears to have split off from the rest.”

  Hannah opened her journal to the second illustration, and there it was. The Pillar of Salt. Julien’s illustration was upside down, of course, but there was no mistaking the same giant stone, splintering off from the ridge. They had found the second of the map’s locations.

  Clooney continued to translate while the young man told the story of this site and why it was called the Pillar of Salt, even though the rock was neither a pillar, nor made of salt. It originated from the story of Lot. According to the story, Lot was a man who supposedly lived long ago. And despite being a good man, he lived in an evil city, which was about to be destroyed by angels. So the angels gave Lot fair warning, instructing him to leave with his family at once. And no matter what, said the angels, Lot should never look back at the city.

  As Lot and his family fled into the desert and the city was destroyed, Lot’s wife turned back with a look of longing for her old home. She was instantly transformed into a pillar of salt.

  Of course, this natural rock formation had no real connection to the story, but it nevertheless became a place for tourists to pose for photos, purchase water and postcards, and read a bit of history.

  “I know that story,” said Hannah.

  “But it is from the Koran. The holy book of Islam,” said Clooney. “How do you know the story of Lot?”

  “Because it also comes from a Jewish book called the Tanakh. Christians told the same story in the Old Testament of the bible.”

  “You mean Islam and Judaism and Christianity share the same stories?” he asked in surprise.

  “I guess so,” she said, shrugging. “And why not? Islam, Christianity, and Judaism all share the same patriarch.”

  Hannah knew that all three religions traced their origins to one man, a man named Abraham. Still, it was fun discovering that she and Clooney had more in common than she first assumed.

  Hannah opened the journal again, studying the illustration. She was trying to figure out where exactly Julien would have stood when he traced it with the camera obscura.

  She wandered over to a handrail and stopped. Beside her was an interpretive placard for tourists. It was a large photograph of the ridge before her with a little arrow labeling the famed Pillar of Salt.

  Hannah composed the camera and found it lined up with the illustration. This time, she inserted the following three numbers to open the encoded exposure:

  f.16 1200 1200

  She snapped the photo.

  “What do you see?” Clooney asked at her side.

  The photograph showed the Pillar of Salt. It was identical to Julien’s illustration, except this time a single word appeared written across the huge orange stone. The word was:

  Khātim

  Hannah was baffled. Khātim? She had no idea what it meant. How would she ever—

  “Emblem,” said Clooney, peeking over her shoulder.

  “What did you say?”

  “Emblem,” he repeated, as if everyone knew that. “Khātim means emblem. Or symbol. It’s Arabic.”

  “Really? You know this word?”

  He shrugged.

  So Khātim means emblem, or symbol. But Hannah still didn’t know what to do with it. Were they supposed to find an emblem of some kind? Draw an emblem? Julien had clearly put the clue there on purpose, but left no further hint to help find the next location.

  She opened the journal and flipped through the pages until she found the third illustration. The third point on

  the map.

  It was an enormous block of carved stone. Part of a wall, by the look of it. It was rectangular and blockish and, well… it was a block of stone. It gave no hint where it might be. And unless one has been to Israel and hunted about its countless ruins as Hannah had done with her grandfather, it’s hard to appreciate just how many large blocks of carved stone exist in that land. They
are everywhere. The cities are literally built of such blocks. How would they ever find this particular one?

  “Well, we have the word Khātim, or emblem, but no idea what to do next,” she said. “I think we are stuck.”

  Despondent, Hannah rested her camera on the interpretive placard beside her. In addition to pointing out the pillar to curious tourists, the placard told the story of Lot and his wife in eight different languages. Hannah glanced at the English version. The first paragraph began with the following verse from the Christian bible:

  “But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt.”

  The placard then described the history behind this verse and how it led to the naming of this location.

  Hannah paused and read it again. But his wife looked back from behind him…

  Slowly, Hannah turned around, looking behind her. And there was the road, leading back the way she had come.

  “Jerusalem,” she whispered to herself.

  “What’s that?” asked Clooney.

  “That’s where our next clue is hiding,” she said. “Jerusalem.”

  r

  The Palestinian family was from Jerusalem and was happy to drive Hannah and Clooney back with them. Hannah resumed her position on the woman’s lap. Clooney pressed himself against the driver’s-side door, jabbering to any and all.

  The little girl beside Hannah engaged her in a sort of hand game. It involved the two of them intertwining their fingers to make animal shapes, birds and lions, dogs, a two-headed giant, a man with a hat. The girl asked to see the journal lying in Hannah’s lap.

  Hannah opened it. There seemed no harm in sharing the journal here. The girl pointed to the illustrations as Hannah flipped through the pages, asking in English, “What’s this?” and “What’s this?” Hannah had no idea what to say. So she simply turned the pages, letting the girl browse until they came to the third illustration. The carved block of stone. Hannah found herself gazing at it again, wondering if some further clue lay hidden within the illustration.