The Sands of Time

avila

1957

They called her "Megan the Terror."

They called her "Megan the Blue-eyed Devil."

They called her "Megan the Impossible."

She was ten years old.

She had been brought to the orphanage when she was an infant, having been left on the doorstep of a farmer and his wife who were unable to care for her.

The orphanage was an austere, two-story, whitewashed building on the outskirts of avila, in the poorer section of the city, off the Plaza de Santo Vicente. It was run by Mercedes Angeles, an Amazon of a woman with a fierce manner that belied the warmth she felt toward her wards.

Megan looked different from the other children, an alien with blond hair and bright blue eyes, standing out in stark contrast to the dark-eyed, dark-haired children. But from the beginning, Megan was different in other ways as well. She was a fiercely independent child, a leader, a mischief-maker. Whenever there was trouble at the orphanage, Mercedes Angeles could be certain that Megan was at the bottom of it.

Over the years, Megan led riots protesting the food, she tried to form the children into a union, and she found inventive ways to torment the supervisors, including half a dozen escape attempts. Needless to say, Megan was immensely popular with the other children. She was younger than many of them, but they all turned to her for guidance. She was a natural leader. And the younger children loved to have Megan tell them stories. She had a wild imagination.

"Who were my parents, Megan?"

"Ah. Your father was a clever jewel thief. He climbed over the roof of a hotel in the middle of the night to steal a diamond belonging to a famous actress. Well, just as he was putting the diamond in his pocket, the actress woke up. She turned on the light and saw him."

"Did she have him arrested?"

"No. He was very handsome."

"What happened, then?"

"They fell in love and got married. Then you were born."

"But why did they send me to an orphanage? Didn't they love me?"

That was always the difficult part. "Of course they loved you. But - well - they were skiing in Switzerland and they were killed in a terrible avalanche - "

"What's a terrible avalanche?"

"That's when a bunch of snow comes down all at once and buries you."

"And my mother and father both died?"

"Yes. And their last words were that they loved you. But there was no one to take care of you, so you were sent here."

Megan was as anxious as the others to know who her parents were, and at night she would put herself to sleep by making up stories to herself: My father was a soldier in the Civil War. He was a captain and very brave He was wounded in battle, and my mother was the nurse who took care of him. They married and he went back to the front and was killed My mother was too poor to keep me, so she had to leave me at the farmhouse, and it broke her heart. And she would weep with pity for her courageous dead father and her bereaved mother.

Or: My father was a bullfighter. He was one of the great matadors. He was the toast of Spain. Everyone adored him. My mother was a beautiful flamenco dancer. They were married but he was killed one day by a huge, dangerous bull My mother was forced to give me up.

Or: My father was a clever spy from another country...

The fantasies were endless.

There were thirty children in the orphanage, ranging from abandoned newborn infants to fourteen-year-olds. Most of them were Spanish, but there were children there from half a dozen countries, and Megan became fluent in several languages. She slept in a dormitory with a dozen other girls. There were late-night whispered conversations about dolls and clothes, and as the girls grew older, about sex. It soon became the primary topic of conversation.

"I hear it hurts a lot."

"I don't care. I can't wait to do it."

"I'm gonna get married, but I'm never going to let my husband do it to me. I think it's dirty."

One night, when everyone was asleep, Primo Conde, one of the young boys at the orphanage, crept into the girls' dormitory. He moved to the side of Megan's bed.

"Megan..." His voice was a whisper.

She was instantly awake. "Primo? What's the matter?"

He was sobbing, frightened. "Can I get into bed with you?"

"Yes. Be quiet."

Primo was thirteen, the same age as Megan, but he was small for his age, and he had been an abused child. He suffered from terrible nightmares and would wake up in the middle of the night screaming. The other children tormented him, but Megan always protected him.

Primo climbed into bed beside her, and Megan felt the tears running down his cheeks. She held him close in her arms.

"It's all right," she whispered. "It's all right."

She rocked him gently and his sobs subsided. His body was pressed against hers, and she could feel his growing excitement.

"Primo..."

"I'm sorry. I - I can't help it."

His erection was pressing into her.

"I love you, Megan. You're the only one I care about in the whole world."

"You haven't been out in the world yet"

"Please don't laugh at me."

"I'm not."

"I have no one but you."

"I know."

"I love you."

"I love you too, Primo."

"Megan - would you - let me make love to you? Please."

"No."

There was silence. "I'm sorry I bothered you. I'll go back to my bed." His voice was filled with pain. He started to move away.

"Wait." Megan held him close to her, wanting to ease his suffering, feeling aroused herself. "Primo, I - I can't let you make love to me, but I can do something to make you feel better. Will that be all right?"

"Yes." His voice was a murmur.

He was wearing pajamas. Megan pulled the cord that held his pajama bottom up and reached inside. He's a man, Megan thought. She held him gently in her hand and began to stroke him.

Primo groaned and said, "Oh, that feels wonderful," and a moment later said, "God, I love you, Megan."

Her body was on fire, and if at that moment he had said "I want to make love to you," she would have said yes.

But he lay there, silent, and in a few minutes he returned to his own bed.

There was no sleep for Megan that night. And she never allowed him to come into her bed again.

The temptation was too great.

From time to time a child would be called into the supervisor's office to meet a prospective foster parent. It was always a moment of great excitement for the children, for it would mean a chance to escape from the dreary routine of the orphanage, a chance to have a real home, to belong to someone.

Over the years Megan watched as other orphans were chosen. They went to the homes of merchants, farmers, bankers, shopkeepers. But it was always the other children, never her. Megan's reputation preceeded her. She would hear the prospective parents talk among themselves.

"She's a very pretty child, but I hear she's difficult."

"Isn't she the one who smuggled twelve dogs into the orphanage last month?"

"They say she's a ringleader. I'm afraid she wouldn't get along with our children."

They had no idea how much the other children adored Megan.

Father Berrendo came to the orphanage once a week to visit the wards, and Megan looked forward to his visits. She was an omnivorous reader, and the priest and Mercedes Angeles saw to it that she was well supplied with books. She could discuss things with the priest that she dared not talk about with anyone else. It was Father Berrendo to whom the farm couple had turned over the infant Megan.

"Why didn't they want to keep me?" Megan asked.

The old priest said gently, "They wanted to very much, Megan, but they were old and ill."

"Why do you suppose my real parents left me at that farm?"

"I'm sure it was because they were poor and couldn't afford to keep you."

As Megan grew up, she became more and more devout. She was stirred by the intellectual aspects of the Catholic Church. She read St. Augustine's Confessions, the writings of St. Francis of Assisi, Thomas More, Thomas Merton, and a dozen others. Megan went to church regularly, and she enjoyed the solemn rituals, mass, receiving communion, Benediction. 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 white-sheeted 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.