by Odo Hirsch
‘What time is it now?’ asked Bartlett.
‘Ten,’ said the old man, ‘almost lunchtime! But you might be able to catch him. He takes his wagon to a well outside the town, where his horses drink and rest in the shade until it’s cool enough to go home. It’s too hot for them to leave any earlier.’
‘And where is this well?’ asked Bartlett.
‘It’s on the main road. Just outside the north gate. Anyone will tell you how to find it.’
‘And how will we recognise him?’
‘His name is Gozo.’
‘Gozo?’
‘Gozo,’ said the old man. ‘You’ll have to tell him I sent you. He won’t talk to you otherwise, because he doesn’t want to sell his melidrops to anyone in the bazaar but me. And another thing: don’t ask him too many questions. He’s very excitable.’
Chapter 6
‘Nine weeks? Nine weeks, on a ship?’ Gozo gave a high-pitched yelp.
Jacques le Grand rolled his eyes. The old man at the bazaar was right, Gozo really was excitable.
‘You’re crazy, Mr Bartlett! Listen, each day we load the melidrops on the wagon at four in the morning. By seven o’clock, eight at the latest if there are lots of wagons on the road, I deliver them to the old man at the bazaar. He sells them all day and closes his stall in the evening. And the next morning, before I get there, do you know what he does? He spends an hour throwing out all the ones that are left over from the day before! They’re already starting to rot. And you want to take them for nine weeks! Nine weeks, that’s … sixty … sixty …’
‘Sixty-three days.’
‘Sixty-three days! Right. I would have worked it out if you’d given me another minute.’ Gozo shook his head, muttering to himself about ships and weeks and sixty-three days, and crazy men called Bartlett. ‘Mr Bartlett, you should stop wasting your time. I’m sure there’s a ship that can take you home. You’ve probably got little children who are missing you.’
Bartlett laughed. ‘Gozo,’ he said, ‘I like you.’
Gozo waved an arm. ‘Doesn’t matter whether you like me, Mr Bartlett. Doesn’t matter at all. You’re still wasting your time.’ And with that Gozo flicked the reins that he was holding, as if to tell his horses what a ridiculous request these two strangers were making.
They had found him at the well outside the north gate, just as the old man at the bazaar had told them. He was lying fast asleep on his wagon in the shade of a tree. A straw hat covered his face. There were at least ten other wagons there as well, each with a sleeping driver. Gozo was the smallest one, no more than a boy. When he woke up and took the hat off his face he didn’t look old enough to be driving a wagon. His black hair stood up in spikes, and he had a little upturned nose which made him look even younger.
His uncle, Mordi, had a melidrop farm, and during the melidrop season it was Gozo’s job to bring the fruit to the bazaar each morning, except Tuesdays, when the bazaar was closed. On Tuesdays he went home to visit his mother. The wagon he drove was big and creaky, with two shaggy horses to pull it. That was the way to transport melidrops, he said. They could come and see for themselves, if they liked. Gozo put on his hat and picked up the reins. Normally he slept for another couple of hours, but he was already awake, and the day wasn’t too hot, and the horses had rested. So Bartlett and Jacques climbed up, dwarfing the little driver between them, and they set off.
They left the well behind. Soon there were rice fields on either side of the road. The bright green of the rice stalks shimmered in pools of water. The road was a narrow track of dazzling white dust. When two wagons crossed, they had to pull to the side and scrape past one another, teetering over the ditches on either side of the road. But Gozo was a skillful driver, and the wagon was always safe.
He drove with his eyes on the road, shoulders hunched, which made him look even smaller than he was. Gradually, remembering the warning of the old man in the bazaar, Bartlett began to question him about transporting melidrops. A wagon could take a melidrop eighteen miles, a rider on a fast horse could take it sixty, maybe eighty miles in a day. And how could you take it for nine weeks on a ship? That was when Gozo’s head jerked up and he yelped excitedly.
It took most of the afternoon to reach Gozo’s uncle’s farm. The horses walked slowly, having pulled a huge load in the morning, and Gozo didn’t hurry them. Jacques le Grand fell asleep and his chin bounced on his chest in time with the wagon’s motion. After a while the road left the flat plain and passed between rolling hills, and there were rows of trees instead of rice fields around them. The trees were low, with spreading branches and bright fruit peeping out amongst dark leaves: melidrop orchards. Eventually Gozo turned off the road and took the wagon down an even narrower track, deep into the trees. Branches scraped against the sides of the wagon. They drew up into a yard. There was a farmhouse, a stable, a barn, and on every side there were the dark leaves and bright fruit of melidrop trees.
The yard was empty. The farmhouse was long and low, and all the shutters were closed. Gozo jumped down and began to unharness one of the horses from the wagon. Jacques le Grand went over to a well near the corner of the farmhouse. He pulled up a bucket of water and drank thirstily. Then he gave the bucket to Bartlett, who tossed it into the well and drew it up again. The door of the farmhouse opened.
A tall man appeared. He had a big bushy beard frizzled with grey. His hair was standing in all directions, as if he had just woken up. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and the pockets on his old trousers were peeling off.
‘Uncle Mordi!’ cried Gozo, looking up from the harness.
‘What’s this, have you brought help for the harvesting?’ said the man, walking to the well. He glanced at Bartlett and Jacques. Then he picked up a drinking mug that was on the ground beside the well, rinsed it, and filled it with water. He held the mug out to Bartlett.
‘Do you need help with the harvesting?’ asked Bartlett, taking the mug.
‘We always need help.’
‘They don’t want to help with the harvesting. You won’t believe what they want!’ shouted Gozo, leading one of the horses into the stable.
‘I won’t believe it?’ said the man, as much to himself as to Bartlett.
Bartlett drained the mug. The water was cool, pure and refreshing. He drank a second mugful.
In the meantime, the man had picked up the bucket and tipped it over his head. ‘Aah!’ he cried, as the cold water splashed his hair and ran down his back. He skipped and danced on the spot. He shook his head and waved his arms and sprayed water in all directions. ‘I love it. Cold water. I love it!’ he cried, skipping and slapping his chest with his fists.
‘They want to transport melidrops,’ shouted Gozo, coming out of the stable to get the second horse.
The man gave one last shiver and peered at Bartlett again. He glanced at Jacques le Grand. Drops of water stuck in his beard like glistening berries in a bush.
‘You need a wagon,’ he said.
‘No,’ shouted Gozo, ‘they don’t want a wagon.’
‘Then what do they want?’ the man shouted back.
‘Ask Bartlett,’ shouted Gozo, taking the second horse away.
‘Bartlett?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartlett. ‘That’s me. And this is my friend, Jacques le Grand.’
Jacques nodded.
‘Well, I’m Mordi,’ said the man with the bushy beard. ‘Welcome to my farm. You know, if you want to transport melidrops the best way really is a wagon. It’s very safe, and there’s hardly ever—’
‘They don’t want a wagon! ’ shouted Gozo, tearing out of the stable, ‘I’ve told you already.’
‘Nonsense, Gozo!’
‘No,’ said Bartlett, ‘he’s right.’
‘See, Uncle Mo, you never believe me!’ Gozo glared at his uncle with his hands on his hips. He barely came up to Mordi’s chest.
Mordi looked down at him. ‘What do they want, Gozo?’
‘You’ll never believe it, Uncle Mo.’
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‘What?’ whispered Mordi.
‘Tell him, Mr Bartlett,’ said Gozo.
‘We want to transport a melidrop—’
‘For nine weeks, on a ship!’ Gozo blurted out.
‘No!’ said Mordi.
‘Yes!’ said Gozo, jumping up and down on the spot. ‘Yes yes yes yes yes!’
Mordi gazed doubtfully at Bartlett. ‘Do you? Really?’ Bartlett nodded.
Mordi glanced at Jacques le Grand to see if it was a joke, but Jacques nodded as well. Mordi frowned for a second. Then his face creased and he began to laugh. The laughter boomed out of his beard, big rolling waves of it, to spread between the melidrop trees in his orchard.
Chapter 7
AFTER SUPPER EVERYONE picked up a lantern to take into the orchard. There was Mordi, his wife, Vara, their five sons and daughters, and three other men who worked with the family during the harvest season. All the melidrops were picked at night. It was the only way to make sure they were still fresh when Gozo delivered them to the bazaar in the morning.
There were harvesting baskets stacked against the wall outside. Mordi bent down and picked up a melidrop that had been left behind in one of them.
‘Gozo,’ he said. ‘Hold up the lantern. Now, Bartlett, this is a melidrop we picked last night.’
Mordi cupped the red—purple fruit in his palm. His fingers were thick and strong, with roughened skin, but he gripped the fruit surprisingly gently, as if it were an egg that might crack in his grasp. Then he pulled out his harvesting knife and quickly slit it down the middle. The two halves fell open on his palm and the yellow flesh glistened in the light.
‘You see,’ he said, ‘it’s already going off.’
Everyone peered closely, as if they had never seen a cut melidrop before. Mordi showed the fruit around. Then he pointed with the tip of his knife to the places where the flesh had already changed from yellow to brown. Just under the skin, in tiny spots, the flesh had darkened.
‘You could still eat it now,’ he said to Bartlett, ‘although an expert could easily tell it was too old. In another six hours, no one would be able to eat it.’ He tossed a half of it to his dogs, who sniffed at the fruit and pushed it away. ‘Spoiled!’ he said, laughing.
Bartlett took the other half of the melidrop. He examined it closely, and handed it to Jacques le Grand. Jacques gave it a quick glance and bit into it.
The other harvesters began to walk away, carrying lanterns and baskets into the orchard.
‘Of course, you could take the Queen a pickled melidrop,’ said Mordi. ‘That would keep. We could give you a whole case of pickled melidrops.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mordi,’ said Vara. ‘Who wants pickled melidrops when they haven’t even tasted fresh ones? What a ridiculous idea!’
Jacques le Grand didn’t think it was so ridiculous. A pickled melidrop in exchange for an expedition to the Margoulis Caverns! It seemed an excellent deal.
Bartlett shook his head. ‘No, Jacques. I don’t think that’s what the Queen meant. Vara’s right. Pickled won’t do.’
‘Well,’ said Vara, looking around the yard, ‘the others have all started. Come on, Mordi, we’d better get going as well. It’s a shame we can’t help you, Bartlett. It would be nice to do something for the Queen. Anyway, you’ll stay here tonight. Gozo will show you where to sleep, and in the morning he’ll take you back to town.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartlett.
Vara nodded. She and Mordi each picked up a basket and crossed the yard.
Bartlett, Jacques and Gozo were left by themselves in the darkness. Far off, in the shadow of the orchard, they could see the glow of the lanterns between the trees. They heard the shouts of the harvesters calling to one another. And between the shouts, there was only the silence of the warm night, and the chirping of crickets hiding beneath the house.
Jacques and Gozo went into the farmhouse. Bartlett gazed at the distant lights under the trees. How was it possible to transport the melidrop? No one could tell him. The people who sold melidrops, the people who ate melidrops, and now the people who grew melidrops: none of them knew. If there was a way, Bartlett himself would have to invent it.
Gozo woke them at four in the morning. He had already been up for an hour. They followed his candle down the staircase and out into the yard, blinking and yawning. It was still dark. Now the lanterns hung on the wall of the farmhouse. The wagon was piled high with wicker baskets crammed with melidrops, and the horses were already harnessed. The whole family was there, sitting on the ground or leaning against the stable wall, tired out after the night’s work.
‘All right, Uncle Mo?’ shouted Gozo.
‘Not yet. We haven’t sprayed them.’
Mordi’s voice echoed. Bartlett looked for him. Mordi was leaning over the well, hoisting the bucket. When it came to the top he emptied it into a huge brass tin with a spout like a watering can. There was a second watering can next to him, already brimming with water.
Bartlett and Jacques stared at Mordi, wondering what he was doing. They watched as Mordi climbed onto the front of the wagon and raised the weight of the full can with straining arms. He lifted it to the height of his shoulders. Then he tilted it. Bartlett and Jacques saw the water spray out of the spout. The droplets glinted in the light of the lanterns and a mist rose above the dark mounds of melidrops. A shimmering rainbow appeared in it. When the first can was finished, Mordi raised the second and emptied it as well. The melidrops glistened.
‘Well,’ Mordi said to Bartlett and Jacques after he had climbed down from the wagon, ‘it’s been a pleasure having you here. At least you’ve seen a melidrop farm at the height of the harvest. That’s something to tell the Queen, isn’t it?’
Bartlett didn’t answer. He was deep in thought, gazing at the glittering droplets that clung to the melidrops. ‘Mordi, why did you water the melidrops ?’ he asked.
Mordi grinned. ‘That’s our secret. Vara thought of it.’
‘Why, Vara?’
Vara shrugged. ‘To keep them longer,’ she said simply.
‘And does it work?’
‘Does it work?’ shouted Gozo from the wagon seat. ‘Does it work!’
‘Our melidrops are the freshest in the bazaar,’ said Mordi. ‘Ask anyone.’
‘Of course, people have found out,’ added Vara. ‘And everyone does it now. But ours are still the freshest.’
‘Come over here,’ said Mordi. He led Bartlett to the well. ‘Do you remember the freshness of this water? Taste it again.’
Mordi dropped the bucket in the well and hoisted it up. Bartlett dipped the drinking mug and put it to his lips.
The water was pure and cold. Even colder than he remembered.
Bartlett looked down into the well. It was too dark to see the surface of the water.
‘Do you know how deep this well is?’ asked Mordi. ‘Two hundred feet. More. And it goes through rock, Bartlett. Hard rock. Cold rock. Rock that has never seen the sun.’ Mordi grinned with pride. ‘We have the coldest water for miles around. When they’re sprayed like that, those melidrops reach the bazaar as fresh as if they’ve just come off the tree. No one else can beat that!’
Bartlett nodded. He squatted and put his hand in the bucket of water. After a few seconds, his fingers began to go numb.
‘It’s cold,’ said Bartlett.
‘It certainly is,’ said Mordi.
‘Thank you,’ said Bartlett.
‘What for?’
‘You have given me an idea.’
He climbed up onto the wagon beside Gozo, who was ready to go. Jacques climbed up on the other side.
‘Thank you,’ said Bartlett, to Mordi and Vara, ‘for everything.’
‘It was nothing,’ said Vara.
‘No, it was much more than nothing,’ said Bartlett, ‘much, much more.’
Chapter 8
IT WAS THURSDAY. Lord Ronald of Tull was seated, as usual, opposite the Queen at the small table with the crisp white tablecloth. Th
e Queen handed him his cup. Lord Ronald waited until she had poured her own tea. Then he reached out for a butter cake. Every week, at this precise moment, as the Queen raised her cup to take her first sip of tea, Lord Ronald reached out to take the first of the butter cakes that he loved so much.
The Queen glanced at him. There was a frown on her face. Lord Ronald’s hand froze in midair, hovering over the plate.
‘Is something wrong, Madam?’ he asked in alarm.
The Queen sighed. ‘No,’ she said, holding her teacup under her chin.
‘May I have a cake?’ asked Lord Ronald.
‘Of course you may, Lord Ronald. What kind of a question is that? You don’t need to ask.’
‘I just wanted to be sure, Madam.’
Lord Ronald picked up a butter cake. The Queen took a quick sip of her tea and swallowed at once, even though the tea was piping hot. She put her cup down and stared at Lord Ronald. She began tapping her fingers on the tablecloth. The diamond rings on her fingers flashed and sparkled.
It was not possible to enjoy a butter cake with the Queen staring and tapping her fingers like that. The flashing lights from her rings were enough to give one a headache.
‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’ said Lord Ronald, putting down his butter cake.
‘No, there is nothing wrong, Lord Ronald. I do wish you would stop carrying on like a nanny. I think I am old enough to do without that any more.’
Lord Ronald smiled. He raised his napkin and dabbed at his white moustache, gazing thoughtfully at the Queen.
‘Oh, Lord Ronald, don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what, Madam?’
‘Like that, Lord Ronald. You know perfectly well what I mean.’
The Queen looked away impatiently. Lord Ronald sipped his tea. The Queen gazed around the room. She tapped her fingers on the table. She tapped her foot against the leg of the chair.
‘Where are they, Lord Ronald?’ she burst out suddenly. ‘Where are they?’
‘Who? The footmen?’
