A Breath of Snow and Ashes (Outlander, #6)

by Diana Gabaldon

Time is a lot of the things people say that God is. There’s the always preexisting, and having no end. There’s the notion of being all powerful—because nothing can stand against time, can it? Not mountains, not armies. And time is, of course, all-healing. Give anything enough time, and everything is taken care of: all pain encompassed, all hardship erased, all loss subsumed. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Remember, man, that thou art dust; and unto dust thou shalt return. And if Time is anything akin to God, I suppose that Memory must be the Devil.

“But I’ve seen ye there.” The prickling ran straight down the back of my neck and down both arms. “Seen me where?” “There.” He waved a hand in a vague gesture. “I dreamt of ye there. I dinna ken where it was; I only know it was there—in your proper time.” “How do you know that?” I demanded, my flesh creeping briskly. “What was I doing?” His brow furrowed in the effort of recollection. “I dinna recall, exactly,” he said slowly. “But I knew it was then, by the light.” His brow cleared suddenly. “That’s it. Ye were sitting at a desk, with something in your hand, maybe writing. And there was light all round ye, shining on your face, on your hair. But it wasna candlelight, nor yet firelight or sunlight. And I recall thinking to myself as I saw ye, Oh, so that’s what electric light is like.” I stared at him, open-mouthed. “How can you recognize something in a dream that you’ve never seen in real life?” He seemed to find that funny. “I dream of things I’ve not seen all the time, Sassenach—don’t you?”

“And after all,” he added logically, “I dream of the past; why would I not dream of the future?”