THE Fortune Bey towed its captive, dragging it through the dark blue water of the ocean. The turbaned figure at the front of the ship pointed the way, and the iceberg followed silently, like a wild beast of the seas that had been hunted and caught. A swathe of foam trailed behind, marking its journey.
Captain Wrick sailed skillfully, as careful and as cautious as a trainer learning to tame a jungle cat. The iceberg followed with docility. When they arrived, Captain Wrick made anchor outside the harbour. He didn’t dare to sail closer to the quay, where a gust of wind might have sent the iceberg smashing into other ships. But already a crowd was gathering by the dock. People had never seen such a thing. Workers dropped their crates to stand and stare, pens slipped out of merchants’ fingers. What was this huge white rock? Why did it float? Soon every boat in the harbour had taken to the water, oars splashing, crammed to the brim with excited onlookers, and it wasn’t long before the fastest of them had reached the iceberg and were circling it with curiosity.
One of the boats edged right up to the ice. As everyone watched, a man in the boat stood up, raised a leg over the side, and rested his foot on it. He put his other foot on the ice. He stood. For a moment he looked down at his own feet, as if he could not believe what he was doing. Then he straightened up, looked around, and gave a mighty yell. Everyone yelled back. He tried to take a step and fell flat on his face. Five minutes later the iceberg was covered with people crawling, falling, slithering and sliding. Then the first hammers and chisels arrived, and people were chipping pieces of ice to take back to their families as souvenirs.
This was too much! In these warm waters, the iceberg would soon be melting fast. All it needed was a crowd of people knocking blocks off to make it disappear altogether. Together with the five biggest members of Captain Wrick’s crew, Jacques le Grand went to clear everyone off the ice. In the meantime, Bartlett went ashore to look for Gozo. On the way he passed the town’s scholar, who was being rowed out to look at the iceberg. He was wearing his floppy hat and carried three big books under his arm. They must have rushed him straight from the library. The scholar did not look comfortable. He looked nervous and bewildered. He was gripping the sides of his boat with whitened knuckles. The scholar looked as if he preferred to learn about the world from the books in his peaceful library than by sitting in a damp, rocking boat with his feet tangled up in nets that smelled of fish.
But where was Gozo? The quay was still filling up as news of the iceberg spread through the town. Mothers were arriving with their children, old people were waving their walking-sticks to get to the front. Crowds of people jostled and pushed, trying to get onto a boat that would take them to see the dazzling white rock that floated in the distance. Yet Gozo was nowhere to be seen.
Bartlett went to the bazaar. With everyone at the port, the streets of the town were strangely empty and silent. Now and again someone ran past him. Their footsteps echoed.
In the bazaar the traders were still standing by their stalls, wondering what had happened to all the people who should have been milling around. Bartlett found the old melidrop-seller who had told him about Gozo months earlier. He was wearing the same cotton cap, sitting on his backless chair and staring glumly at all the melidrops piled up on his stall, for which there was not a single customer.
Bartlett called out to him.
The old man looked up with a start. He jumped to his feet and began shovelling melidrops into a sack. ‘Two bags, three bags for the gentleman?’ he cried.
‘I don’t want any melidrops,’ said Bartlett.
‘Half price, half price for the gentleman.’
‘None for me.’
‘Quarter price. Quarter price.’
‘No. None.’
‘What do you want me to do, pay you to take them?’ the old man demanded angrily. He held the sack upside down and emptied the melidrops onto his stall.
The old man sat down again. He peered at Bartlett.
‘I remember you,’ he said suddenly, wiggling a finger disapprovingly. ‘You didn’t want any melidrops last time, either. They shouldn’t let people like you into the bazaar. You set a bad example. Look around you. Where is everybody? It’s like a ghost-town. Off they all ran, shouting about some rock floating in the sea. Rocks floating in their heads, if you ask me. And what do we get in return? The man who doesn’t buy anything!’
Bartlett grinned. ‘Where’s Gozo?’
‘How should I know?’ The old man waved a hand in disgust.
‘Was he here today?’
‘Look at my stall. Do you think these melidrops walked here? He’s probably asleep where he always is. Or looking for the floating rock, like everybody else,’ the old man called after him, as Bartlett set off for the well outside the city gate.
Gozo was in the back of his wagon with his hat over his face, exactly as he had been the first time Bartlett found him. Only the wagon drivers, who had already gone to sleep, had not heard about the iceberg. Bartlett quietly lifted the hat off Gozo’s face. Gozo opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. Then he recognised Bartlett and sat bolt upright, grinning from ear to ear.
‘Mr Bartlett, you’ve come back!’
‘Yes.’
‘And have you brought the ice-rock?’
‘Iceberg. Of course, I said I would.’
‘Where is it?’ Gozo looked around excitedly, as if Bartlett was supposed to have brought it to the well.
The drivers in the other wagons were starting to sit up, looking curiously at the man talking to Gozo.
‘We haven’t got time to see it now,’ said Bartlett.
‘When will we see it?’ asked Gozo anxiously.
‘Later.’
‘It might be gone later.’
‘It won’t be gone. Not without me, that’s for sure. Now, come on, get up. We’ve got to get going.’
‘Where?’
‘To Mordi’s farm. We need a melidrop. The freshest and plumpest we can find.’