An Echo in the Bone (Outlander, #7)

by Diana Gabaldon

S’iomadh oidhche fhliuch is thioram Sìde nan seachd sian Gheibheadh Griogal dhomhsa creagan Ris an gabhainn dìon. (Many a night, wet and dry Even in the worst of weather Gregor would find a little rock for me Beside which I could shelter.) Òbhan, òbhan òbhan ìri Òbhan ìri ò! Òbhan, òbhan òbhan ìri ’S mòr mo mhulad ’s mòr. (Woe is me, woe is me Woe is me, great indeed is my sorrow.)

S’iomadh oidhche fhliuch is thioram Sìde nan seachd sian Gheibheadh Griogal dhomhsa creagan Ris an gabhainn dìon. (Many a night, wet and dry Even in the worst of weather Gregor would find a little rock for me Beside which I could shelter.) Òbhan, òbhan òbhan ìri Òbhan ìri ò! Òbhan, òbhan òbhan ìri ’S mòr mo mhulad ’s mòr. (Woe is me, woe is me Woe is me, great indeed is my sorrow.)

Grief

Eudail mhòir a shluagh an domhain Dhòirt iad d’ fhuil an dè ’S chuir iad do cheann air stob daraich Tacan beag bhod chrè. (Great sweetheart of all people of the world They poured your blood yesterday And they put your head on an oak stick A short distance from your body.) Òbhan, òbhan òbhan ìri Òbhan ìri ò! Òbhan, òbhan òbhan ìri ’S mòr mo mhulad ’s mòr. (Woe is me, woe is me Woe is me, great indeed is my sorrow.) I

Eudail mhòir a shluagh an domhain Dhòirt iad d’ fhuil an dè ’S chuir iad do cheann air stob daraich Tacan beag bhod chrè. (Great sweetheart of all people of the world They poured your blood yesterday And they put your head on an oak stick A short distance from your body.) Òbhan, òbhan òbhan ìri Òbhan ìri ò! Òbhan, òbhan òbhan ìri ’S mòr mo mhulad ’s mòr. (Woe is me, woe is me Woe is me, great indeed is my sorrow.) I

Grief

“Let me be enough,” he said quietly.

Ceremony

“If ever you find yourself in the midst of paradox, you can be sure you stand on the edge of truth,” his adoptive father had told him once. “You may not know what it is, mind,” he’d added with a smile. “But it’s there.”

“If ever you find yourself in the midst of paradox, you can be sure you stand on the edge of truth,” his adoptive father had told him once. “You may not know what it is, mind,” he’d added with a smile. “But it’s there.”

Paradox = the edge of truth

“We don’t only sing but we dance just as good as we walk,”

A ley line is an observed alignment between two geographical features of interest, usually an ancient monument or megalith. There are a number of theories about ley lines and considerable controversy as to whether they actually exist as a phenomenon, and not only as an artifact. By that I mean that if you choose any two points that have interest for humans, there’s very likely to be a path that leads between them, no matter what those points are. There is a major roadway between London and Edinburgh, for instance, because people frequently want to go from one to the other, but this is not normally called a ley line. What people usually have in mind when using this term is an ancient pathway that leads, say, from a standing stone to an ancient abbey, which is itself likely built on a spot of much older worship. Since there isn’t much objective evidence beyond the obvious existence of such lines, there’s a lot of guff talked about them. Some people think the lines have a magical or mystical significance. I don’t see any grounds for this myself, and neither does your mother, who is a scientist. On the other hand, science changes its mind now and then, and what looks like magic may really have a scientific explanation (NB—put in footnote about Claire and the plant-harvesting). However, among the theories regarding ley lines, there is one that appears to have at least a possible physical basis. Perhaps you will already know what dowsers are, by the time you come to read this; I...

A ley line is an observed alignment between two geographical features of interest, usually an ancient monument or megalith. There are a number of theories about ley lines and considerable controversy as to whether they actually exist as a phenomenon, and not only as an artifact. By that I mean that if you choose any two points that have interest for humans, there’s very likely to be a path that leads between them, no matter what those points are. There is a major roadway between London and Edinburgh, for instance, because people frequently want to go from one to the other, but this is not normally called a ley line. What people usually have in mind when using this term is an ancient pathway that leads, say, from a standing stone to an ancient abbey, which is itself likely built on a spot of much older worship. Since there isn’t much objective evidence beyond the obvious existence of such lines, there’s a lot of guff talked about them. Some people think the lines have a magical or mystical significance. I don’t see any grounds for this myself, and neither does your mother, who is a scientist. On the other hand, science changes its mind now and then, and what looks like magic may really have a scientific explanation (NB—put in footnote about Claire and the plant-harvesting). However, among the theories regarding ley lines, there is one that appears to have at least a possible physical basis. Perhaps you will already know what dowsers are, by the time you come to read this; I...

“The Speech of Birds.” Columba went out An early mild morning; He saw a white swan, “Guile, guile,” Down on the strand, “Guile, guile,” With a dirge of death, “Guile, guile.” A white swan and she wounded, wounded, A white swan and she bruised, bruised, The white swan of the two visions, “Guile, guile,” The white swan of the two omens, “Guile, guile,” Life and death, “Guile, guile,” “Guile, guile.” When thy journey, Swan of mourning? Said Columba of love, “Guile, guile,” From Erin my swimming, “Guile, guile,” From the Fiann my wounding, “Guile, guile,” The sharp wound of my death, “Guile, guile,” “Guile, guile.” White swan of Erin, A friend am I to the needy; The eye of Christ be on thy wound, “Guile, guile,” The eye of affection and of mercy, “Guile, guile,” The eye of kindness and of love, “Guile, guile,” Making thee whole, “Guile, guile,” “Guile, guile.” Swan of Erin, “Guile, guile,” No harm shall touch thee, “Guile, guile,” Whole be thy wounds, “Guile, guile.” Lady of the wave, “Guile, guile,” Lady of the dirge, “Guile, guile,” Lady of the melody, “Guile, guile.” To Christ the glory, “Guile, guile,” To the Son of the Virgin, “Guile, guile,” To the great High-King, “Guile, guile,” To Him be thy song, “Guile, guile,” To Him be thy song, “Guile, guile,” “Guile guile!”

Prayer

better to spend one’s life in pursuit of a noble goal than merely to seek safety—he agreed with that entirely. But surely such purity of purpose was the province of men without families? A paradox there: a man who sought his own safety was a coward; a man who risked his family’s safety was a poltroon, if not worse. That led on to more rambling paths of thought and further interesting paradoxes: Do women hold back the evolution of such things as freedom and other social ideals, out of fear for themselves or their children? Or do they in fact inspire such things—and the risks required to reach them—by providing the things worth fighting for? Not merely fighting to defend, either, but to propel forward, for a man wanted more for his children than he would ever have.

A man’s life had to have more purpose than only to feed himself each day.

it’s as well to know your own limits.” “You think so?” He tilted his head, regarding me curiously. “Do you not think that the admission of such limits, a priori—and I do not mean only in the medical way, but in any arena of endeavor—that such an admission in itself establishes limits? That is, might that expectation prevent one from accomplishing all that is possible, because one assumes that something is not possible and therefore does not strive with all one’s power to achieve it?”

Possibilities and “limitations”

“I’ve heard it said that a man’s reach must exceed his grasp—or what’s a heaven for?”

All loss is one, and one loss becomes all, a single death the key to the gate that bars memory.

Grief

lacunae