Trail of Feathers (2 page)

Deiches handed me a mug of steaming tea, and swept an arm across the coffee table to clear it.

‘The Valley of the Kings wasn’t that at all,’ he said, settling into a rocking-chair, ‘it was really the Valley of the Dead Pilots.’

‘Egypt?’ I said.

Of course,’ he replied. ‘Who d’you think taught the Incas to fly?’

I frowned politely.

‘Tutankhamen was their best pilot,’ he went on, ‘but he crashed, poor chap, and died of multiple fractures’ Deiches paused to sip his tea. ‘The Egyptians based everything on watching birds’ he said. ‘You only ever got a single-seater in Ancient Egypt, because they’d never seen a bird with two heads. Haven’t you ever heard of the Saqqara glider?’ I shook my head.

‘In 1898’ said Deiches, ‘a model of a plane was discovered in a tomb there. No one knew what it was, because the Wright brothers hadn’t done their stuff yet, so it got tossed into a box. Then in the ‘70s someone fished it out and realised it was a prototype of a high-wing monoplane.’

‘What about the Americas?’ I asked.

Deiches’ eyes glazed over. I sensed that it had been a long time since the last visitor had graced his living-room.

‘I’m the only man alive who can translate Mayan’ he announced proudly. ‘It’s a bloody nightmare of a language.’

The expert took a gulp of tea.

‘They all had aircraft,’ he said, ‘the Maya, the Aztecs, and the Incas. What d’you think Mexico’s Pyramid of the Moon was for?’ Again, I looked blank-faced. ‘For launching gliders, of course!’

A self-schooled authority on ancient flight, Deiches was having a whale of a time. Like a theoretical physicist, he could come out with the wildest ideas and get away with it. Despite my reservations, some of his facts did check out. The Saqqara glider, for instance, well-known to Egyptologists, is on display at the Cairo Museum.

‘I’m quite famous in my own little way’ he said, ‘everyone knows me in Brentwood. Some people think I’m a crank but I’m not half as cranky as the lunatic who’s been calling me with death threats.’

Mr Deiches tugged a tattered folder from an upper shelf and rifled through it. Then he handed me a photocopy. The piece, from a 1934 edition of the
New York Times
, was headed ‘Aztec Gliders Flew in Mexico’. I ran my eyes over the article. It reported that an obscure Polish archaeologist, Professor M J Tenenbaum, was claiming he’d found stone etchings of Aztec gliders, which they had called
crirs
. Not unlike King Solomon’s fleet of aircraft (known as
rasheds)
the
crirs
had been made of stork feathers. Tenenbaum, the clipping went on, said that the primitive craft had been mentioned in Friar Clausijiro’s 18th century book
History of Mexico
, where it said the Aztecs

‘could fly like birds’. The similarity with the Frenchman’s quote about the Incas caught my attention.

Had ancient American cultures managed to construct a crude form of hang-glider? Surely it wasn’t so impossible for a mountain people to have designed a basic flying canopy? I wondered why such an obvious question was ranked as being on the lunatic fringe. Looking over at Deiches, his face pressed into the tattered file, I began to remember why. But even so, I found it strange that no mainstream scientists had considered the idea of gliding in ancient times.

‘I know how they made flying carpets,’ winced Deiches, eager to regain his audience.

‘How?’

‘The designs of Persian carpets … they hold the secret blueprints,’ he lisped. ‘Decode the patterns, and you can make a carpet fly.’

Deiches smiled the smile of a man who had solved this, and many other riddles.

‘Your Incas flew all right,’ he said. ‘How d’you think they built the gigantic lines in Peru’s Nazca Desert? Beware of the crackpots - like the ones who say the symbols were landing strips for aliens. That’s nonsense! They were no such thing … they were landing strips for gliders, Incan gliders.’

With a deep sigh, I looked over at William Isadore Deiches, as he bobbed back and forth in his chair. Condemning him as a psychopath would have been too easy. Most of his expertise was beyond me, but he was the one man prepared to accept the idea of American flight in ancient times.

I drained my tea and thanked Mr Deiches for his time.

‘You can’t go yet,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to show you this…’

The retired cash register repairman, turned aviation specialist, ripped a fragment of paper from his file. He passed it over. My head jerked back as I focused on the sketch. It depicted a glowering figure with outstretched wings, taloned feet, and a crown covering his scalp. Writhing sea-snakes and trophy heads decorated the motif, which was labelled at the bottom. The label read ‘Peruvian Birdman’.

Deiches squinted, and wiped his nose with a grubby handkerchief.

‘Thought you’d like it,’ he said.

‘Is it an Inca? Is there a link between the Birdmen and trophy heads?’

‘I’m not going to give you all the answers,’ he riposted. ‘If you’re so keen, why don’t you go and do your own research?’

‘Where would I go?’ I asked. ‘I’ve already been to the British Library and the Aeronautical Society.’

Deiches wasn’t impressed.

‘You can’t do research sitting here in England,’ he said. ‘But what would I look for?’

The flying carpet expert took another gulp of his tea. ‘You have to look for the Birdmen, of course.’

*

A few days after my encounter with Deiches, I took the train down to Purley to visit Sir Wilfred Thesiger, who was living in a residential home nearby. I would always try to meet the veteran explorer before setting off on a journey. He is a master when it comes to advice on planning an expedition.

While on the train, I scribbled what I knew on the back of an envelope:
(i) Feather dipped in blood. (2) Spanish monk who may have thought the Incas could fly (3) Many references to flight in ancient times. (4) Mystery of the Nazca Lines in Peru. (5) Picture of Birdman, decorated with trophy heads
. It wasn’t much to go on but, as I stared at the notes, I felt a surge of adrenaline. The puzzle was without doubt cryptic, but I was sure there was a trail leading to an answer, a trail leading to a journey.

The late-Georgian building, set in acres of lush grounds, was a far cry from Kenya’s Samburuland, where I had first met Thesiger a decade earlier. Even though in his ninetieth year, Sir Wilfred was still hard as nails, bursting with strength. Bounding up the stairs to the second floor, he led the way to his room. Knick-knacks from Africa and Arabia were dotted about: a curved
jambiyah
dagger from Yemen, an Abyssinian talisman, a Zulu shield and
assagai
.

‘So, tell me,’ Thesiger said, once installed in his favourite chair, ‘where are you off to?’

‘I’ve decided to go to Peru.’

‘Never been to the Americas myself,’ he replied. ‘Peru … was that the Aztecs?’ 

‘Incas.’

‘Ah, yes, the Incas,’ said Thesiger, staring into space, ‘and what’s taking you down there?’

Previous discussions with the great explorer had established his aversion to air travel. Most of his journeys had begun with a sea voyage. So it was with unease that I mentioned my interest in Incan gliders.

I've heard that the Incas could fly’ I said casually.

Thesiger drew in a sharp breath.

‘Aeroplanes!
 Can’t stand the things’ he said. That infernal combustion engine.’

‘A don’t think they were actual planes with engines’ I said weakly, ‘probably more like gliders.’ Sir Wilfred cocked his head back.

‘You’re going to need some good equipment’ he replied. ‘What’re you taking?’

Until that moment, sitting as I was in Sir Wilfred’s study, I hadn’t given much thought to the technicalities of the trip. A trailblazer of the old school, Thesiger judged expeditions on the quality and amount of equipment taken along. He was a man who’d never been hampered by the stringent luggage restrictions of modern air travel.

‘I’ll be taking all the usual stuff’ I said, motioning sideways with my arms.

Thesiger scratched his cheek. He was waiting for an inventory.

‘Ropes’ I mumbled, ‘lots of rope … and some mosquito repellent, a good water-bottle, and of course some tins of corned beef.’

‘Rations … very important’ wheezed Sir Wilfred. ‘But what about transport once you’re there?’

In line with his dislike of aircraft, I was aware of Thesiger’s hatred of all motor vehicles. Stretching in my chair, I announced: ‘Llamas, I’ll be using llamas.’

‘Ah’ he said, slapping his hands together with relish, ‘animal transport. Can’t beat it. Never used llamas myself.’

They’re basically camels’ I said knowledgeably, ‘just with smaller humps.’

‘A camel could take you to the ends of the Earth’ he replied dreamily. As someone who had twice crossed
Rub’ al-Khali
, the Empty Quarter of the Arabian Desert, barefoot, Thesiger was a man who knew his camels.

Satisfied with my transport arrangements, he swivelled in his chair. Another pressing question was concerning him.

‘What if the rations run out, and you’re starving?’ he asked darkly.

My eyes widened at the thought.

Sir Wilfred leaned forward, the shadow of his towering frame looming over me like a storm-cloud.

‘You may have to turn the transport into food’ he said.

*

A large-scale map of Peru was unfurled at Extreme Journey Supplies, a trekking shop in north London. The salesman cast an eye across it and shook his head. ‘Peru’ he said with loathing, ‘it’s a hard one.’

‘Hard?'

‘There’s mountains’ he mumbled, running a thumbnail down the Andes. ‘Then you got desert over ‘ere, jungles down ‘ere, and coastline
… lots
of coastline.’

‘Diverse little country, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘Gonna cost ‘ya’ he replied, fishing a check-list from a draw. ‘What d’you want first?’ ‘I think I’d better start with a knife.’ ‘What sorta knife?’

‘I’m going to need one with a sharp blade.’ 

‘How sharp?’

‘Sharp enough to skin a llama,’ I said.

An hour later I found myself inspecting a mass of gear. The shop’s manager had come to attend to me himself. A major journey called for the best equipment money could buy. I surveyed my purchases and grinned, Thesiger would be proud. Like him, I was becoming preoccupied by inventories.

Realising that I was every salesman’s dream customer, the manager went over the check-list. A team of assistants scrambled to pack the gear into bags.

‘Water purifying pump, Force Ten high altitude tent’ he began in a baritone voice, ‘Omega Synergy sleeping bag, mosquito net, two litres of Deet, jungle hammock, trekking pole with built-in compass, thermometer, signalling mirror and distress whistle, titanium Primus stove with extra fuel, six carabiners, two hundred feet of caving rope, a four-cell Maglite, self-inflating mattress, wire saw, hypothermia blanket, folding spade with combined entrenching tool, fire-lighting flint, lightweight mess tin, more rope, emergency surgery unit with brain drip, mentholated foot powder, ergonomie water bottle with in-built drinking straw, and twenty-two family-sized sachets of Lancashire Hot Pot’ ‘What about the knife?’

The manager tapped the sheet with the end of his pen.

‘And last but not least’ he declared grandly, ‘a sixteen-inch, nickel-coated Alaskan moose knife, with a blade sharp enough to …’ the manager paused to look at me. ‘Sharp enough to skin a llama’ he said.

It was well below freezing as I stumbled out of my tent into the blackness, a torch in one hand, a soggy roll of loo paper in the other. With the night to cloak me, I went in search of a patch of field in which to purge my faltering digestive tract. Within a week I’d ripened from headstrong adventurer with a quest, to incontinent wreck.

I had arrived in Lima with the intention of picking up the trail to the elusive Birdmen, whoever they might be. I had no idea where the path might lead, or the hazards which might line its route. My
modus operandi
was to forge ahead, quizzing anyone and everyone for scraps of information. Looking back, I can only marvel that I embarked on such a long journey with so little in the way of concrete data. But, in hindsight, this lack of research may have been my greatest asset.

Weighted down instead with equipment, I made a beeline to the ancient city of Cusco. From there I signed up for the Inca Trail, the trek across the mountains to Machu Picchu. The Incas’ most sacred city seemed the obvious place to pick up the trail in search for the Birdmen of Peru.

The four-day hike was described by my guide-book as ‘ten times harsher than Everest’. Waving it off as no more than a piffling stroll, I had thrust my trekking pole into the dirt. A man with as much gear as me, I mused, was surely unstoppable.

Since my rendezvous with Deiches, I’d read what little I could find regarding flight in antiquarian times. The line between myth and fact was clouded in uncertainty. Cold hard facts were few and far between. I scrutinised the more reputable ancient texts, hunting for clues.

I read of a man named Ki-Kung-Shi who supposedly built a chariot with wings in the reign of Chinese Emperor Ch’eng T’ang, eighteen centuries before the birth of Christ. The chariot looked rather like a paddle steamer. Another source recorded that two thousand years ago, in the Chinese kingdom of Ki-Kuang, (its people, supposedly, had one arm and three eyes each) flying machines were common. And, in Ancient Greece, Archytas of Tarentum, a friend of Plato, had constructed a wooden dove. When it flew it became one of the wonders of the ancient world.

Dig deep in folklore and you start unearthing examples of primitive flight. Most test the boundaries of belief. Danish legends tell of flying sun chariots over Trundholm two millennia ago; the Indian epics Ramayana and Mahabharata contain references to flight - the most famous being the zeppelin-like
Vimana
aircraft. Zimbabwe had ‘towers of the flight’; the Maoris had a tradition of flying-men, as did the English, beginning with King Bladud.

For some reason the notion of Incan flight shone more brightly for me than all the rest. Perhaps because the empire of the Incas rose at a time when a few scientists and free-thinkers in Europe were working on the idea of flight. Roger Bacon, Leonardo Da Vinci and others, gave serious thought to the problem of sustaining a man’s weight in air. But they were lampooned for using hammers and nails rather than magic, alchemy, and other accepted tools of the time.