Jamie sends Claire through the stones to escape Culloden, but something happens that sends them both to a time neither of them understand, where they meet some rather familiar strangers…
‘My son, Billy, would ask, “Do you have to be the witch or the queen tomorrow?” I thought, well, that’s pretty much my life.’ – Helena Bonham Carter by Jillian Edelstein, 2002
Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore (via larmoyante)
An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical,
symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make
no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor
blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And
once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how
you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the
storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the
storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this
storm’s all about.
Tori