Sidney Sheldon - The sands of time

Perhaps most of all, she loved the wonderful feeling of serenity that always stole over her in church.

"I want to become a Catholic," Megan told Father Berrendo one day.

He took her hand in his and said with a twinkle, "Perhaps you are already, Megan, but we'll hedge our bets."

"Dost thou believe in God the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth?"

"Yes, I believe!"

"Dost thou believe in Jesus Christ, His only son, who was born and suffered?"

"Yes, I believe!"

"Dost thou believe in the Holy Spirit, in the Holy

Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the remission of sins, the resurrection of the body and eternal life?"

"Yes, I believe!"

The priest blew gently into her face. "Exi ab ea, spiritus immunde. Depart from her, thou impure spirit, and give place to the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete." He breathed again into her face. "Megan, receive the good Spirit through this breathing and receive the blessing of God. Peace be with thee."

At fifteen Megan had become a beautiful young woman, with long blond hair and a milky complexion that set her off even more from most of her companions.

One day she was summoned to the office of Mercedes

Angeles. Father Berrendo was there.

"Hello, Father."

"Hello, my dear Megan."

Mercedes Angeles said, "I'm afraid we have a problem,

Megan."

"Oh?" She wracked her brain, trying to remember her latest misdeed.

The headmistress went on: "There is an age limit here of fifteen, and you've reached your fifteenth birthday."

Megan had long known of the rule, of course. But she had put it in the back of her mind, because she did not want to face the fact that she had nowhere in the world to go, that no one wanted her, and that she was going to be abandoned once again.

"Do I—do I have to leave?"

The kindly Amazon was upset, but she had no choice. "I'm afraid we must abide by the rules. We can find a position for you as a maid."

Megan had no words.

Father Berrendo spoke. "Where would you like to go?"

As she thought about it, an idea came to Megan. There was somewhere for her to go.

From the time Megan was twelve years old, she had helped earn her keep at the orphanage by making outside deliveries in town, and many of them were made to the Cistercian convent. They were always delivered to the Reverend Mother

Betina. Megan had sneaked glimpses of the nuns while they were praying or walking through the halls, and she had sensed in them an almost overpowering feeling of serenity. She had envied the joy that the nuns seemed to radiate. To Megan, the convent seemed a house of love.

The Reverend Mother had taken a liking to the bright young girl, and they had had long talks over the years.

"Why do people join convents?" Megan had once asked.

"People come to us for many reasons. Most come to dedicate themselves to God. But some come because they have no hope.

We give them hope. Some come because they feel they have no reason to live. We show them that God is the reason. Some come because they are running away. Others come here because they feel alienated and they want to belong."

That was what had struck a responsive chord in the young girl. I've never really belonged to anyone, Megan thought.

This is my chance.

"I think I would like to join the convent."

Six weeks later, she took her vows.

And finally Megan found what she had been searching for for so long. She belonged. These were her sisters, the family she never had, and they were all one under their Father.

Megan worked in the convent as a bookkeeper. She was fascinated by the ancient sign language that the sisters used when they needed to communicate with the Reverend Mother.

There were 472 signs, enough to convey among themselves everything they needed to express.

When it was a sister's turn to dust the long halls,

Prioress Betina held out her right hand with the heel forward and blew on the back of it. If a nun had a fever, she went to the Reverend Mother and pressed the tips of her right forefinger and middle finger on the outside of her left wrist. If a request was to be delayed, Prioress Betina held her right fist before her right shoulder and pushed it slightly forward and down. Tomorrow.

One November morning, Megan was introduced to the rites of death. A nun was dying, and a wooden rattle was rung in the cloister, the signal for the beginning of a ritual unchanged since the year 1030. All those who could answer the call hurried to kneel in the infirmary for the anointing and the psalms. They silently prayed for the saints to intercede for the departing sister's soul. To signify that it was time for the last sacraments to be given, the Mother Prioress held out her left hand with the palm up and drew a cross on it with the tip of her right thumb.

And finally, there was the sign of death itself, a sister placing the tip of her right thumb under her chin and raising it slightly.

When the last prayers had been said, the body was left alone for an hour so that the soul could go in peace. At the foot of the bed the great Paschal candle, the Christian symbol of eternal light, burned in its wooden holder.

The infirmarian washed the body and clothed the dead nun in her habit, black scapular over white cowl, rough stockings, and handmade sandals. From the garden one of the nuns brought fresh flowers woven into a crown. When the dead woman was dressed, six of the nuns in a procession carried her to the church and placed her on the whitesheeted bier facing the altar. She would not be left alone before God, and in their stalls by her side, two nuns stayed through the rest of the day and night praying, while the Paschal candle flickered at her side.

The next afternoon, after the Requiem mass, she was carried through the cloister by the nuns to the private,

walled cemetery where even in death the nuns kept their enclosure. The sisters, three and three, lowered her carefully into the grave, supported on white bands of linen.

It was the Cistercian custom for the dead to lie uncovered in the earth, buried without a coffin. As the last service they performed for their sister, two nuns started to drop soil softly onto her still body before they all returned to the church to say the psalms of penance. Three times they begged that God have mercy on her soul:

Domine miserere super peccatrice.

Domine miserere super peccatrice.

Domine miserere super peccatrice.

There were often times when young Megan was filled with melancholy. The convent gave her serenity, and yet she was not completely at peace. It was as though a part of her were missing. She felt longings that she should have long ago forgotten. She found herself thinking about the friends she had left behind in the orphanage, and wondering what had happened to them. And she wondered what was happening in the outside world, the world that she had renounced, a world where there was music and dancing and laughter.

Megan went to Sister Betina.

"It happens to all of us from time to time," she assured

Megan. "The church calls it acedia. It is a spiritual malaise, an instrument of Satan. Do not worry about it,

child. It will pass."

And it did.

But what did not pass was the bone-deep longing to know who her parents were. I'll never know, Megan thought despairingly. Not as long as I live.

New York City

The reporters gathered outside the gray fagade of New

York's Waldorf-Astoria Hotel watched the parade of celebrities in evening dress alight from their limousines,

enter the revolving doors, and head for the Grand Ballroom on the third floor. The guests had come from around the world.

Cameras flashed as reporters called out, "Mr.

Vice-President, would you look this way, please?"