Ogam Revisited

Adam Dumphy

Description

To many in Academia Ogam is a dirty word.
When it is pointed out that in the glorious Book of Ballymote there are listed at least sixteen different types of Ogam scripts, the answer is that it is really a sort of tic-tac-toe that twelfth century Irish monks played when they should have been paying attention to Matins.
Still all across the globe there are rocks, utensils and tools with scratchings that experts can decipher as Ogam. From Scandia to middle Europe to the Mediterranean to Spain and Portugal to Mexico to the US and the Orient and back to England they can be found in profusion.
And when compared with the finger sign language of many lands, alphabets like the sign language of the American Indians, they are so similar to Ogam it is hard not believe that they are not related.
In this novel written to amuse but also to promote a belief, an Ogam rock enters the life of a good, little man. Albert, though by nature weak and inoffensive, in his search for Ogam finds there is truth to his belief that the has a ‘Lion’s Heart.’

Sujets

• Thrillers
• Suspense
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse
• Date de parution: 27 février 2007
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781467099943
• Langue: English

Extrait

Ogam Revisited
 
 
With
Albert Coeur de Lion
As
Tour Guide
 
By
Adam Dumphy

 
AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: [phone]
 
 
 
 
© 2006 Adam Dumphy. All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
 
First published by AuthorHouse 7/10/2007
 
ISBN: 978-1-4259-6338-5 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4259-6339-2 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4670-9994-3 (ebk)
 
 
 
Printed in the United States of America
Bloomington, Indiana
 
Contents
Chapter 1  
Chapter 2  
Chapter 3  
Chapter 4  
Chapter 5  
Chapter 6  
Chapter 7  
Chapter 8  
Chapter 9  
Chapter 10  
Chapter 11  
Chapter 12  
Chapter 13  
Chapter 14  
Chapter 15  
Chapter 16  
Chapter 17  
Chapter 18  
Chapter 19  
Chapter 20  
Chapter 21  
Chapter 22  
Chapter 23  
Chapter 24  
Chapter 25  
Chapter 26  
Chapter 27  
Chapter 28  
Chapter 29  
Chapter 30  
Chapter 31  
Chapter 32  
Chapter 33  
Chapter 34.  
Chapter 35  
Chapter 36  
Chapter 37  
Chapter 38  
Chapter 39  
Chapter 40  
Chapter 41  
About the Author:  
 
 
 
 
 
 
To
Howard Barraclough (Barry) Fell
“No prophet gains acceptance in his native place,” nor genius who is before his time.
 
 
Chapter 1 
Albert Peyson Littleton stood 5 feet and 15/16ths inches tall, when stretching mightily, and with suit, shirt, tie and Florshiems, and he never weighed without them, he could usually jiggle the scale up to 128 pounds and 3 ounces.
A handsome little man with cheerful, pleasing features and a sunny smile he was straight backed as a guardsman and well muscled but just miniaturized and fragile.
Push ups defeated him, jogging gave him shin splints, his only encounter with the martial arts ended when the instruction book slipped from his grasp and struck and broke a bone in his toe.
Anything mechanical defeated him in an immediate ‘no contest’. Plugged sinks and defective electrical switches simply sneered back at his approach with a wrench or screwdriver and refused to cooperate with the directions on the instruction sheet. Anything that could not be repaired with adhesive tape he submitted to immediately until the household appliances could almost dial the fixit man’s telephone number by themselves.
The kindest of men, everything, animate or inanimate in his world took advantage of him. When he felt something warm snuggle up to him under the covers of the king size bed in the master bedroom he knew before he heard the purr (like a revving up motorcycle) that it was his wife’s cat Goliath and he peacefully got up and slept on the sofa downstairs under the blanket left there for that very purpose, rather than trying to sleep with fifty, furry pounds on his chest.
His sprinkler system was set for dry weather and limited to the front lawn but unfailingly on any transit from garage to house it turned on and he had to sprint to remain dry shod.
When the mocking bird that lorded it over their back yard, making his nest in the ivy and attacking any intruder to his domain with the malignant attitude and approach of a Nazi dive bomber, he just danced back out of its range and tried to admired the birdsong of the morning. And that was how it was with him.
Particularly was this so with his new sports car. When it was at the only garage in town it started instantly and sat there purring like a contented Jaguar should.
For his wife the mere threat of a tire kick with her sharp-pointed, high heels would terrify the Jag beast into submission and cause it to start promptly.
For him however even after grinding the starter endlessly it just snarled back at him and sat unstarted. So often was this true that he had a monthly bus pass.
Not that he disliked the bus except Tuesdays and Thursdays. Those were the days for the open-air vegetable market in town and he had to stand in the bus from the market to his office. Mrs. Langorini shopped at the market early those days and because of her size required all of a double seat. And so Albert gave her his seat and more often than not also held her several brown, paper-bag purchases and as a result arrived at his office smelling highly of garlic.
Still he had the heart of a lion.
That was the trouble, he thought as he walked into his driveway. How could the All Knowing Deity, and Albert had great faith in the Deity, put a lion’s heart in a 5 foot tall body? Of course no one knew of it. He had never mentioned it to anyone. Albert had never had an opportunity to demonstrate it, but it was there he was certain.
Besides what would people have thought if Richard Coeur de Lion had been only 5 feet and 160 pounds?
The small voice inside him, which so often disagreed with his views, interrupted. “One hundred sixty pounds?”
Albert usually intimidated by the voice would not this day back down.
“I meant one sixty pounds in his armor.”
“Thirty two pounds of armor. I doubt you.” Came the voice.
Albert too proud to fight back today hurried in the back door of the kitchen to encounter a smoke filled room from a blackened, smoking saucepan with the remains of what might have been casserole on the stove. And a pensive Moira staring out the window and tapping her front teeth with a dripping, stirring spoon.
Before he could ask, “Albert. There comes a time in every woman’s life when she must take a stand.”
Hopeful of redirecting her thoughts he said, “There is that antique umbrella stand in the hall. You can take that and...”
She continued. “AND when she needs must test her man to his core. Will he or will he not, on only her word, and purely to please her inner longings, attempt any jump, climb any mountain, endure any hardship...”
“Where do you apply to get out of this crummy Army?” Albert temporized but not seriously
Ignoring his attempted soothing she continued. “A time when fair but feeble woman needs not a gentle, kind, loving, corporate attorney but a...” She gestured with the spoon like Joan of Arc on the charge, “A brigand, a...a buccaneer, a conquistador.” She made another slash with the spoon.
“Been one of those days, has it, Dear?”
He took her in his arms. Against his face the blue-black Irish hair, soft as Irish linen, smelt of soap and verbena. He could see in his mind’s eye the pale Irish skin, smutty Irish lids, blue, blue Irish eyes that could smoke or flame or stir a man’s will into taffy. Full mouth, lips Irish rose, teeth not quite perfect made a smile that could make a man dance or sing, cry or sigh or all at the same time.
She was also statuesque. The top of Albert’s head reached just to the level of her hairline, and he had to hold her loosely, as he was so abundantly feminine that movie starlets sighed when she strolled past.
She also was single minded. “Besides I’m not letting that hulking, gap toothed, haughty/snotty get away with it.”
“Dear that hulking, what ever you said, is your identical twin. Not even your Mother could tell you two apart without turning you upside down to look for the birthmark Therefore she must be the second most beautiful girl in the whole world.”
“Birth mark nothing. It is a beauty mark. Just slightly misplaced.” Unmollified Moira broke away and continued.
“But Albert I want it for...” With all the drama of the theater she gestured wide with the spoon and then pointed down to her pelvis. “Her.”
“Dear you are only two weeks overdue and it might even be a...”
“He wouldn’t dare. It’s a her!” There was a hint of a tear now. “And oh... I so want everything to be just right for her. I want to be ready in every way. I had such a happy childhood and I want hers to be perfect too. It is so important especially when they are so small and helpless to have everything just right. The nursery is fine and I have read all the books and learned the exercises. But when they are so little and impressionable, their mind can be molded like moist putty.”
“Putty minded? Sound like your Aunt Flora.”
“All right. Are you going stand there making those awful jokes or are you going face up to scratch?”
“Face up to be scratched, I guess.”
“That’s better. Tonight then, at midnight.”
“What?”
“The O’Duffys will raid the mean old troll’s castle.”
“Does it look a lot like a split level, three bedroom, two bath, tract house on Mulberry St.?”
“Yeah. Black sneakers, black pants and black turtle necks, black face masks...”
“Listen Moira, ‘Little Mary’, own daughter of Duffy, own great grand daughter of Black Dublaitch, and direct descendant of St. Bridgett herself, it is frowned on these days to clip your antagonist on the beezer with your weaving spindle and kipe her chattels. It is no longer considered genteel.”
Undaunted Moira continued. “I recceed the place today. We’ll need a pass key, screwdriver, hammer, flashlight, glass cutter...”
“Dear, even a gorilla sized, cat burglar couldn’t carry all that silently.”
“This an affair of honor. Will you match up?” And then teary again, “Oh Albert you will help me won’t you?”
“Albert the...” He paused then said the words but under his breath, “Lion Hearted.” and then out loud, “Volunteer volunteering, Dear. Before dinner or after?”
“Dinner? Dinner?” she noticed the saucepan. “Oh dear, oh dear... I guess it will have to be catsup sand