3

The journey was quite uneventful. The Blue Pacific Rocket was two and a half minutes early at New Orleans, lost four minutes in a tornado over Texas, but was able to land at Santa Fe less than forty seconds behind schedule time.

“Not so bad,” Lenina conceded.

They slept that night at Santa Fe. The hotel was excellent—incomparably better, for example, than that horrible Aurora Bora Palace in which Lenina had suffered so much the previous summer. Liquid air, television, vibro-vacuum massage, radio, boiling caffeine solution, hot contraceptives, and eight different kinds of scent were laid on in every bedroom. The synthetic music plant was working as they entered the hall and left nothing to be desired. A notice in the lift announced that there were sixty Escalator-Squash-Racket Courts in the hotel, and that Obstacle and Electro-magnetic Golf could both be played in the park.

“But it sounds simply too lovely,” cried Lenina. “I almost wish we could stay here. Sixty Escalator-Squash Courts…”

“There won’t be any in the Reservation,” Bernard warned her. “And no scent, no television, no hot water even. If you feel you can’t stand it, stay here till I come back. You mustn’t come to the Reservation unless you really want to.”

“But I do want to.”

“Very well, then,” said Bernard; and it was almost a threat.

Their permit required the signature of the Warden of the Reservation, at whose office next morning they duly presented themselves. They were admitted almost immediately.

The Warden was a blond Alpha-Minus, short, red, moon-faced, and broad-shouldered, with a loud booming voice. Once started, he went on and on—boomingly.

“… five hundred and sixty thousand square kilometres, divided into four distinct Sub-Reservations, each surrounded by a high-tension wire fence.”

At this moment, and for no apparent reason, Bernard suddenly remembered that he had left the Eau de Cologne tap in his bathroom wide open and running.

“… supplied with current from the Grand Canyon hydro-electric station.”

“Cost me a fortune by the time I get back. Quickly telephone to Helmholtz Watson.”

“… upwards of five thousand kilometres of fencing at sixty thousand volts.”

“You don’t say so,” said Lenina politely, not knowing in the least what the Warden had said, but taking her cue from his dramatic pause. When the Warden started booming, she had swallowed half a gramme of soma, and now could sit serenely, not listening, thinking of nothing at all.

“To touch the fence is instant death,” pronounced the Warden solemnly. “There is no escape from a Savage Reservation.”

“Perhaps,” said Bernard, “we ought to think of going.” The little black needle on the tap was nibbling through time, eating into his money.

“No escape,” repeated the Warden, waving him back into his chair; and as the permit was not yet countersigned, Bernard had no choice but to obey. “Those who are born in the Reservation are destined to die there.”

“Perhaps,” Bernard tried again, “we ought…”

Leaning forward, the Warden tapped the table with his forefinger. “You ask me how many people live in the Reservation. And I reply”—triumphantly—“I reply that we do not know. We can only guess.”

“You don’t say so.”

“My dear young lady, I do say so.”

Bernard was pale and trembling with impatience. But the booming continued.

“… about sixty thousand Indians and half-breeds … absolute savages … our inspectors occasionally visit … otherwise, no communication whatever with the civilized world … still preserve their repulsive habits and customs … marriage, if you know what that is, my dear young lady; families … no conditioning … monstrous superstitions … Christianity and totemism and ancestor worship … extinct languages, such as Zuni and Spanish and Athapascan … pumas, porcupines and other ferocious animals … infectious diseases … priests … venomous lizards…”

They got away at last. Bernard dashed to the telephone. Quick, quick; but it took him nearly three minutes to get on to Helmholtz Watson. At last, thank Ford, he was through and, yes, it was Helmholtz, who promised to go round at once and turn off the tap, yes, at once, but took this opportunity to tell him what the D.H.C. had said, in public, yesterday evening…

“What? He’s looking out for someone to take my place?” Bernard’s voice was agonized. “So it’s actually decided? Did he mention Iceland?”

He hung up the receiver and turned back to Lenina. His face was pale.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“The matter?” He dropped heavily into a chair. “I’m going to be sent to Iceland.”

Often in the past he had wondered what it would be like to be subjected to some great trial, some pain, some persecution. As recently as a week ago, in the Director’s office, he had imagined himself stoically accepting suffering without a word. Now he realized that it was because he had not taken the threats quite seriously, he had not believed that, when it came to the point, the D.H.C. would ever do anything. Now there wasn’t a trace of that imagined stoicism, that theoretical courage.

He raged against himself—what a fool!—against the Director—how unfair not to give him that other chance, that other chance which, he now had no doubt at all, he had always intended to take. And Iceland, Iceland…

Lenina shook her head.

In the end she persuaded him to swallow four tablets of soma. Five minutes later he felt better. A message from the porter announced that a Reservation Guard had come round with a plane and was waiting on the roof of the hotel. They went up at once.

The programme was: a bird’s-eye view of ten or a dozen of the principal pueblos, then a landing for lunch in the valley of Malpais. The rest-house was comfortable there, and up at the pueblo the savages would probably be celebrating their summer festival. It would be the best place to spend the night.

They took their seats in the plane and set off. Ten minutes later they were crossing the frontier that separated civilization from savagery. Uphill and down, across the deserts of salt or sand, through forests, into the violet depth of canyons, over mesas, the fence marched on and on. At its foot, here and there, a mosaic of white bones, a still unrotted carcass marked the place where an animal had come too close to the destroying wires.

“They never learn,” said the green-uniformed pilot. “And they never will learn,” he added and laughed.

Bernard also laughed; after two grammes of soma the joke seemed, for some reason, good. Laughed and then, almost immediately, dropped off to sleep. When he woke, he found their machine standing on the ground, Lenina carrying the suitcases into a small square house, and the Gamma-green pilot talking incomprehensibly with a young Indian.

“Malpais,” explained the pilot, as Bernard stepped out. “This is the rest-house. And there’s a dance this afternoon at the pueblo. He’ll take you there.” He pointed to the young savage. “Funny, I expect.” He grinned. “Everything they do is funny.” And with that he climbed into the plane and started up the engines. “Back tomorrow. And remember,” he added reassuringly to Lenina, “they’re perfectly tame; savages won’t do you any harm. They’ve got enough experience of gas bombs to know that they mustn’t play any tricks.”

Chapter Seven

The mesa was like a ship in a strait of dust. The channel ran between precipitous banks, and slanting from one wall to the other across the valley ran a streak of green—the river and its fields. In the centre of the strait, and seemingly a part of it, stood the pueblo of Malpais. Block above block, each story smaller than the one below, the tall houses rose like stepped pyramids into the blue sky. At their feet lay a straggle of low buildings, a criss-cross of walls. A few columns of smoke mounted perpendicularly into the windless air and were lost.

“Queer,” said Lenina. “Very queer.” It was her ordinary word of condemnation. “I don’t like it. And I don’t like that man.” She pointed to the Indian guide. Her feeling was evidently reciprocated; the very back of the man, as he walked along before them, was hostile.

They walked on.

Suddenly it was as though the whole air had come alive and was pulsing. Up there, in Malpais, the drums were being beaten. Their feet fell in with the rhythm of that mysterious heart; they quickened their pace. Their path led them to the foot of the precipice. The sides of the great mesa ship towered over them.

“I wish we could have brought the plane,” said Lenina. “I hate walking. And you feel so small when you’re on the ground at the bottom of a hill.”

They walked along for some way in the shadow of the mesa, and reached a ladder. They climbed. It was a very steep path that zigzagged from side to side of the gully. Sometimes the pulsing of the drums was all but inaudible, at others they seemed to be beating only just round the corner.

They emerged at last from the ravine into the full sunlight. The top of the mesa was a flat deck of stone.

“Like the Charing-T Tower,” was Lenina’s comment. A sound of footsteps made them turn round. Naked from throat to navel, their dark brown bodies painted with white lines, two Indians came running along the path. Their black hair was braided with fox fur and red flannel. Cloaks of turkey feathers fluttered from their shoulders; huge feather diadems exploded gaudily round their heads. With every step they took came the clink and rattle of their silver bracelets, their heavy necklaces of bone and turquoise beads. They came on without a word, running quietly. One of them was holding a feather brush; the other carried, in either hand, what looked at a distance like three or four pieces of thick rope. One of the ropes writhed, and suddenly Lenina saw that they were snakes.

The men came nearer and nearer; their dark eyes looked at her, but only showed the smallest sign that they had seen her or were aware of her existence. The writhing snake hung limp again with the rest. The men passed.

“I don’t like it,” said Lenina. “I don’t like it.”

She liked even less what awaited her at the entrance to the pueblo. The dirt, the piles of rubbish, the dust, the dogs, the flies. She held her handkerchief to her nose, disgusted.

“How can they live like this?” she broke out.

“They’ve been doing it for the last five or six thousand years. So I suppose they must be used to it by now.”

“Oh!” She gripped his arm. “Look.”

An almost naked Indian was very slowly climbing down the ladder from the first-floor terrace of a neighboring house. His face was wrinkled and black, like a mask of obsidian. The toothless mouth had fallen in. At the corners of the lips, and on each side of the chin, a few long bristles gleamed almost white against the dark skin. The long hair hung down in grey wisps. His body was bent and emaciated.

“What’s the matter with him?” whispered Lenina. Her eyes were wide with horror and amazement.

“He’s old, that’s all,” Bernard answered as carelessly as he could.

“Old?” she repeated. “But lots of people are old; they’re not like that.”

“That’s because we don’t allow them to be like that. We preserve them.”

“But it’s terrible,” Lenina whispered. “It’s awful. We ought not to have come here.” She felt in her pocket for her soma—only to discover that she had left the bottle down at the rest-house.

Lenina was left to face the horrors of Malpais by herself. They came crowding in on her thick and fast. She saw two young women giving breast to their babies made her blush and turn away. She had never seen anything so indecent in her life. And what made it worse was that, instead of ignoring it, Bernard proceeded to make comments on this scene.

“What a wonderfully intimate relationship,” he said. “And what an intensity of feeling it must generate! I often think one may have missed something in not having had a mother. And perhaps you’ve missed something in not being a mother, Lenina. Imagine yourself sitting there with a little baby of your own.…”

“Bernard! How can you? Let’s go away, I don’t like it.”

At this moment their guide came back and beckoned them to follow. He led the way down the narrow street. They rounded a corner. Their guide stopped at the foot of a ladder, raised his hand, then darted it horizontally forward. They did what he commanded—climbed the ladder and walked through the doorway, to which it gave access, into a long narrow room, rather dark and smelling of smoke and cooked grease and dirty clothes. At the further end of the room was another doorway, through which came a ray of sunlight and the noise of the drums.

They stepped across the threshold and found themselves on a wide terrace. Below them was the village square, crowded with Indians. Bright blankets, and feathers in black hair, and the glint of turquoise, and dark skins shining with heat. Lenina put her handkerchief to her nose again. In the open space at the centre of the square were two circular platforms of masonry and trampled clay—the roofs of underground chambers; for in the centre of each platform was an open hatchway.

Lenina liked the drums. Shutting her eyes she allowed the sound to invade her consciousness more and more, till at last there was nothing left in the world but that one deep pulse of sound. It reminded her of the synthetic noises made at Solidarity Services and Ford’s Day celebrations. “Orgy-porgy,” she whispered to herself.

“It reminds me of a lower-caste Community Sing,” she told Bernard.

Suddenly a ghastly troop of monsters had swarmed up from the round chambers underground. Hideously masked or painted out of all semblance of humanity, they danced strangely round the square; round and again round, singing as they went, round and round—each time a little faster. The drums had changed and quickened their rhythm. The crowd had begun to sing with the dancers, louder and louder. Suddenly the leader of the dancers broke out of the line, ran to a big wooden chest which was standing at one end of the square, raised the lid and pulled out a pair of black snakes. A great yell went up from the crowd, and all the other dancers ran towards him with outstretched hands. He tossed the snakes to the first-comers, then dipped back into the chest for more. More and more—he flung them out. The dance began again on a different rhythm. The leader gave a signal, and one after another, all the snakes were flung down in the middle of the square; an old man came up from underground and sprinkled them with corn meal, and from the other hatchway came a woman and sprinkled them with water. Then the old man lifted his hand and, terrifyingly, there was absolute silence. The drums stopped beating. The old man pointed towards the two hatchways. And slowly, from one emerged a painted image of an eagle, from the other that of a man, naked, and nailed to a cross. The old man clapped his hands. A boy of about eighteen, wearing a white cotton cloth, stepped out of the crowd and stood before him. The old man made the sign of the cross over him and turned away. Slowly, the boy began to walk round the writhing heap of snakes. He had completed the first circle when, from among the dancers, a tall man wearing the mask of a coyote and holding in his hand a whip, came out. The boy moved on. The coyote-man raised his whip, there was a whistle of the lash and its loud impact on the flesh. The boy’s body quivered; but he made no sound, he walked on at the same slow, steady pace. The coyote struck again and again. The boy walked. Twice, thrice, four times round he went. The blood was streaming. Five times round, six times round. Suddenly Lenina covered her face with her hands and began to sob. “Oh, stop them, stop them!” she pleaded. Seven times round. Then all at once the boy staggered and, still without a sound, fell forward on his face. Bending over him, the old man touched his back with a long white feather, held it up for a moment, crimson, for the people to see, then shook it thrice over the snakes. A few drops fell, and suddenly the drums broke out again; there was a great shout. The dancers rushed forward, picked up the snakes and ran out of the square. Men, women, children, all the crowd ran after them. A minute later the square was empty, only the boy remained, quite still. Three old women came out of one of the houses, lifted him up and carried him in. The eagle and the man on the cross kept guard over the empty pueblo.

Lenina was still sobbing. “Too awful,” she kept repeating. “Too awful! That blood! Oh, I wish I had my soma.”

There was the sound of feet in the inner room.

Lenina did not move, but sat with her face in her hands. Only Bernard turned round.

The dress of the young man who stepped out on to the terrace was Indian; but his hair was straw-coloured, his eyes were blue, and his skin was white.

“Hullo. Good-morrow,” said the stranger. “You’re civilized, aren’t you? You come from outside the Reservation?”

“Who on earth … ?” Bernard began in astonishment.

The young man sighed and shook his head. “A most unhappy gentleman.” And, pointing to the bloodstains in the centre of the square, “Do you see that spot?” he asked. “I ought to have been there. Why wouldn’t they let me be the sacrifice? I’d have gone round ten times, twelve, fifteen. They could have had twice as much blood from me. But they wouldn’t let me. They dislike me for my complexion. It’s always been like that. Always.”

Astonishment made Lenina uncover her face and, for the first time, look at the stranger. “Do you mean to say that you wanted to be hit with that whip?”

The young man made a sign of affirmation. “For the sake of the pueblo—to make the rain come and the corn grow. And to please Pookong and Jesus. And then to show that I can bear pain without crying out. To show that I’m a man … Oh!” He gave a gasp and was silent. He had seen, for the first time in his life, the face of a girl whose cheeks were not the colour of chocolate or dogskin, whose hair was auburn and permanently waved, and whose expression was one of benevolent interest. Lenina was smiling at him. The blood rushed up into the young man’s face; he dropped his eyes.

Bernard started asking questions. Who? How? When? From where? The young man tried to explain himself. Linda and he—Linda was his mother (the word made Lenina look uncomfortable)—were strangers in the Reservation. Linda had come from the Other Place long ago, before he was born, with a man who was his father. (Bernard pricked up his ears.) She had gone walking alone in those mountains over there to the North, had fallen down a steep place and hurt her head. (“Go on, go on,” said Bernard excitedly.) Some hunters from Malpais had found her and brought her to the pueblo. His father’s name was Tomakin. (Yes, “Thomas” was the D.H.C.’s first name.) He must have flown back to the Other Place without her.

“And so I was born in Malpais,” he concluded.

The squalor of that little house on the outskirts of the pueblo! Inside, when they entered, it stank and was loud with flies.

“Linda!” the young man called.

From the inner room a rather hoarse female voice said, “Coming.”

The door opened. A stout blonde woman stepped across the threshold and stood looking at the strangers. Lenina noticed with disgust that two of the front teeth were missing. And the colour of the ones that remained … It was worse than the old man. So fat. And all the lines in her face, the wrinkles, and the sagging cheeks, and the red veins on her nose. And that neck—that neck; and the blanket she wore over her head—ragged and filthy. And under the brown sack-shaped tunic those enormous breasts, the bulge of the stomach, the hips. And suddenly the creature burst out in a torrent of speech, rushed at her with outstretched arms and—Ford! Ford! It was too revolting—pressed against her and began to kiss her. She broke away as quickly as she could.

A blubbered and distorted face confronted her; the creature was crying.

“Oh, my dear, my dear.” The torrent of words flowed sobbingly. “If you knew how glad—after all these years! A civilized face. Yes, and civilized clothes.” She touched the sleeve of Lenina’s shirt. The nails were black. “And those adorable viscose velveteen shorts! Do you know, dear, I’ve still got my old clothes, the ones I came in, put away in a box. I’ll show them you afterwards. Though, of course, the acetate has all gone into holes. But such a lovely white bandolier.” Her tears began to flow again. “What I had to suffer—and not a gramme of soma to be had. Only a drink of mescal every now and then. But it makes you feel so bad afterwards, and it always made that awful feeling of being ashamed much worse the next day. And I was so ashamed. Me, a Beta, having a baby: put yourself in my place.” (The mere suggestion made Lenina shudder.) “Though it wasn’t my fault, I swear; because I still don’t know how it happened, seeing that I did all the Malthusian Drill; but all the same it happened, and of course there wasn’t anything like an Abortion Centre here.” She drew a deep breath, shook her head, opened her eyes again, sniffed once or twice, then blew her nose on her fingers and wiped them on the skirt of her tunic. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said in response to Lenina’s involuntary grimace of disgust. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. But what are you to do when there aren’t any handkerchiefs? I remember how it used to upset me, all that dirt. And in the end I suppose I got used to it. And how can you keep things clean when there isn’t hot water? And look at these clothes. This beastly wool isn’t like acetate. It lasts and lasts. And you’re supposed to mend it. But I’m a Beta; I worked in the Fertilizing Room; nobody ever taught me to do anything like that. It’s all different here. It’s like living with lunatics. Everything they do is mad.” She looked round and saw that John and Bernard had left them; but still lowered her voice. “For instance, the way they have one another here. Mad, I tell you, absolutely mad. Everybody belongs to everyone else—don’t they? Well, here nobody’s supposed to belong to more than one person. And if you have people in the ordinary way, the others think you’re wicked. They hate and despise you. Once a lot of women came and made a scene because their men came to see me. And then they rushed at me … No, it was too awful. They’re so hateful, the women here. Mad and cruel. And of course they don’t know anything about Malthusian Drill, or bottles, or decanting, so they’re having children all the time—like dogs. It’s too revolting. And yet John was a great comfort to me. I don’t know what I should have done without him. Even though he did get so upset when I had a man. He seems to have caught it from the Indians. Because, of course, he was with them a lot. Even though they always were so beastly to him. Which was a good thing in a way, because it made it easier for me to condition him a little. Though you’ve no idea how difficult that is. There’s so much one doesn’t know; it wasn’t my business to know. I mean, when a child asks you how a helicopter works or who made the world—well, what are you to answer if you’re a Beta and have always worked in the Fertilizing Room? What are you to answer?”