EVERYONE WAS STILL asleep at Mordi’s farm when they arrived. There was no rush to get up. It was Monday, and the bazaar would be closed tomorrow, so they would not be harvesting that night.
Gozo unharnessed the horses and took them into the stable. Bartlett walked over to the well. He looked down into its dark depths. Then he tossed the bucket in and heard it land with a splash. He hauled it up and tasted the pure, icy water that kept Mordi’s melidrops fresh and made them the best in the bazaar.
‘Good and cold, eh?’ said Mordi, who must have been woken up by the sound of the wagon, and was now standing in the doorway of the house, wearing only his trousers. He laughed his big, booming laugh and scratched his belly. ‘So you’re back, Bartlett?’
Bartlett nodded, grinning.
‘They’ve got the ice-rock, Uncle Mo!’ shouted Gozo, poking his head round the stable doorway.
‘The ice-rock! Have you seen it, Gozo?’
‘No, but I will.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Bartlett.
‘Tomorrow!’ shouted Gozo, disappearing into the stable again.
Mordi came over to the well. He hauled up a bucket and emptied it over his head, doing his cold water dance and shouting ‘I love it, I love it!’ as the water ran down his back. Bartlett watched him with a grin.
‘That boy,’ said Mordi eventually, giving one last shiver and shake, ‘hasn’t stopped talking about the ice-rock since you left. Not a day goes by when he doesn’t say: ‘Do you think Mr Bartlett will be back today with the ice-rock?’ Every day he says it, before he goes to the bazaar.’
‘Iceberg, Mordi. It’s called an iceberg.’
Mordi shrugged. ‘Is there really such a thing? I know what you explorers are like, Bartlett, always telling stories. Each mountain you climb is bigger than the last. The boy will be disappointed if you’ve been making fun of him. He won’t just be disappointed, he’ll be crushed. I don’t know what I’ll say to him.’
‘I haven’t been making fun of him,’ said Bartlett. ‘The iceberg’s there all right, floating in the harbour. Gozo will see it tomorrow.’
‘He wants to be a traveller now. He wants to be an explorer. Every day, before he goes to the bazaar, he says: “I wish I was an explorer like Mr Bartlett.” ’
‘I thought he asks about the iceberg.’
‘After he asks about the iceberg.’ Mordi smiled. ‘So, Bartlett, it’s nice to see you back safe again. But what can we do for you here on the farm? Shouldn’t you be off to see the Queen.’
‘He’s come for a melidrop, Uncle Mo,’ shouted Gozo, tearing out of the stable.
‘Couldn’t you get one at the bazaar?’
Bartlett shook his head. Nothing but the freshest melidrop from Mordi’s orchard would do.
Before sunset, Bartlett, Gozo and Mordi went into the orchard. It was the end of the season, but there were still some remarkable fruit, splashes of red and gold, hanging amongst the dark leaves of the melidrop trees. Mordi glanced left and right as they walked, pointing out melidrops that looked especially promising and making a note in his mind of the trees on which they hung. He knew each tree in his orchard as if it were a person.
‘What does the Queen want?’ he inquired. ‘Taste, perfume, texture, colour?’ He stopped and pointed to a plump orange melidrop hanging high in a tree. ‘Now, that’s a melidrop you would want for its perfume. Its taste would have medium sweetness, but its scent would be powerful and long-lasting.’
Bartlett stared at the orange melidrop. It was like a spot of bright, flaming paint dabbed on the dark leaves.
‘Now, what is it that you want?’ said Mordi.
Bartlett considered. Perfume? Colour? Taste? He had never thought about it before. A melidrop was a melidrop.
Mordi glanced at Gozo. ‘They just don’t understand melidrops over there’ he murmured, shaking his head, and Gozo shook his head as well.
‘Taste,’ said Bartlett. ‘If it has to be something, it’s taste.’
‘Are you sure?’
Bartlett nodded.
‘All right,’ said Mordi, ‘taste it is.’
Now Mordi began to walk faster, with a frown of concentration as he peered from side to side. ‘Taste … taste,’ he muttered. ‘Strong and spicy or creamy and sweet? Sweetly spiced? Strongly creamed?’ Half an hour later he was still leading them through the orchard, peering around and muttering, occasionally stroking his beard in thought.
Bartlett was beginning to wonder if it really were so important. After all, the Queen had never eaten a melidrop before. She wasn’t an expert. How would she know if she were eating a special one or an ordinary one?
Suddenly Mordi stopped. ‘We’ve seen enough.’
Bartlett agreed. They were deep in the orchard. He had lost track of where they were.
‘It’s that yellow one, isn’t it, Uncle Mo?’ demanded Gozo, pointing excitedly to a large melidrop hanging on a tree not far from where they had stopped.
‘Not bad, Gozo,’ said Mordi. ‘That would have been my second choice. But my first choice is back at the place where Grandma Zole broke her leg.’
Gozo wrinkled his nose. ‘I can’t remember a good one there.’
‘You weren’t looking hard enough,’ said Mordi, and he set off back through the trees, with Bartlett and Gozo following.
Now Mordi did not look around, as if he did not want to be distracted once he had made his decision. He led them rapidly through the orchard. Five minutes later he stopped.
‘Is this the place where Grandma Zole broke her leg?’ asked Bartlett.
‘Just over there, she tripped over that root,’ said Mordi.
Bartlett felt sorry for Grandma Zole.
‘She’s dead now,’ said Gozo. ‘Where’s the melidrop, Uncle Mo?’
‘Can’t you see it?’
Gozo looked around. Mordi watched him keenly. Gozo’s face was growing more and more perplexed.
‘I don’t know,’ Gozo said eventually.
‘Can’t guess?’
Gozo shook his head.
Mordi took a step towards the tree closest to Bartlett. Triumphantly, he swept aside a branch. There, just three feet off the ground, hung a red melidrop. Mordi must have caught no more than a glimpse of it when they walked past earlier.
Gozo frowned. ‘I didn’t see it, Uncle Mo.’
Bartlett took a step closer and peered at the melidrop. It wasn’t the biggest one he had seen. There were narrow yellow streaks on its red skin, and a tiny wrinkle as well. Bartlett wasn’t impressed. After all the melidrops they had seen, was this the one that was fit for a Queen?
Mordi saw the look on Bartlett’s face and he threw his head back, filling the orchard with his booming laughter. ‘Taste, Bartlett. That’s what you wanted. If it’s looks you want, we’ll get you another. But if it’s taste—if it’s flavour—this is the one. It will taste … like spiced currants dipped in sweet wine and rolled in date powder…’
‘And creamy,’ added Gozo.
‘Yes … as if it were mixed with honey and made into a custard with a touch of vanilla and a hint of rosewater.’
Bartlett stared at the melidrop doubtfully. How could one little fruit have so many flavours?
‘This is the one, Bartlett. Trust me. I wouldn’t even send it to the bazaar. This one, I would give to Vara.’
Bartlett glanced at Mordi. Then he reached out for the melidrop.
Mordi grabbed Bartlett’s arm before he could touch it.
‘Not now,’ he said. ‘At dawn, when the air is coolest, when the water is coldest. That’s the time to pick it.’