The Hitchhiker

Ana Álvaro knew she had been abandoned there to die. It would only be a matter of time before her young body surrendered to the cruel midday heat, and she was reduced to a pitiful little pile of sun bleached bones, beside the vacant, endless highway. She had quickly deserted any form of hope, and given way to anguish, not being at all accustomed to suffering and danger. It seemed the highway was of use to no one, for they had passed no other travellers on the journey to her current location, and there was no sign of any now. Slumped in the dirt, her clear, unmarred skin, rapidly blistering, she watched the lazy tumbleweeds roll over the dry earth.

At the tender age of seventeen years, Ana’s shrewd, dark gaze, and fine porcelain frame, which appeared somehow too delicate and pure for the harsh and unforgiving soils of her home, exuded the maturity of a soul been hauled through the deepest pits of despair. Ana’s heart was one aged beyond her years, though lacking the knowledge and sensitivity that experience can bring. In fact, Ana could not recall a moment of true misery in all her seventeen years of life, save the lingering nightmares of dark, consuming flames which haunted her sleep. Her grandfather had seen to her enduring happiness, having taken charge of the little girl’s upbringing when she lost her mother at the age of three. The fate of Ana’s mother was a secret, guarded by all in the sleepy town of Agua Santa, with the fiercest determination. Her questions were consistently met with uncomfortable silences and averted glances, followed by the assertion that Eliseo Álvaro had been a wicked woman, whose death had been a blessing. Indeed, a miracle wrought by God Himself. And so Ana had ceased to ask, content to let sleeping dogs lie.

The senior Álvaro had been a simple man, neither given to great feats of strength, nor intelligence, but he was kindly, and had clung to life until the ripe age of eighty-four, many saying he held on for so long, despite the crippling arthritis which rattled his bones, only for the sake of his beloved granddaughter. The old man had worshipped Ana, surrendering happily to her every whim. On her seventh birthday, Ana requested a party dress made of pale blue satin, in a shade matching exactly the miniature lace gown of her favourite doll, Pipi. Her doting grandfather left no stone unturned in his fruitless search for the elusive dress, venturing into even the most disreputable of back alley stalls in pursuit of it. In the end, Ana had received her blue satin party dress, in precisely the right shade, though she could have fit her small frame inside it three times over. Left with no other alternative, old Álvaro had presented Ana with a dress belonging to his late wife, who had been none too slender, but Ana rejoiced in her gift nonetheless. She thanked her grandfather with a wide grin and a kiss, promising to wear it when she was grown. Ana was a spoilt child, coddled and pampered, though not unkind. She loved her grandfather immeasurably, and never demanded beyond his means.
It was that same dress, in the perfect shade of pale blue satin, which Ana now prepared to die in. As she stared into the hot, glistening horizon, her pale blue dress faded to a nondescript grey, as if preparing to blend itself seamlessly into the void and lifeless landscape. The wide girth of the garment fit splendidly her swollen belly, heavy with the weight of her unborn child. It was this detested creature which she felt was the cause of her current misfortune, and with all her exhausted being, ravaged with a desperate, grinding thirst, she longed for the child to be gone, she hated it so.

Dometrio Bolivar was the man responsible for the wretched child, though he did not share Ana’s resentful sentiments towards it. He was a proud man; a man of authority and wealth, said to be the descendant of the renowned Simón Bolivar. This, in fact, was a rumour, begun by Dometrio Bolivar himself. In truth, there was nothing renowned about Dometrio’s origins; every cent of his great fortune was hard earned. More than once he had fled for his life, either from the law or a business deal turned sour. His heart had long been hardened by a life of struggle and greed. The patriarch of a large family, he was wedded to a woman of grace and beauty, for whom he felt nothing more than a vague sort of gratitude. He was the father of many sons, each as tall and well built as he, with his high, distinguished forehead, severe brow, cold grey eyes, and air of confident superiority. Through all his years of success, Dometrio never ceased to sense the wolves of poverty sniffing at his heels, believing it could all come toppling down with the slightest breeze. His fearful insecurity plagued Dometrio relentlessly, until at last he had stumbled upon the illusion of peace in the form of young Ana, more than thirty years his junior.

From the moment he first saw her, Dometrio could not banish the girl from his thoughts. Their affair began when Ana was only sixteen, drawn to the profusion of expensive gifts he bestowed upon her. Ana did not return his devotion, but, finding herself lacking in honourable means of income, following the death of her grandfather, she saw Dometrio’s uses and chose to play the perilous role of mistress. In the beginning, Dometrio enjoyed the thrilling secrecy of his love; the late night rendezvous’ and hidden letters, scrawled in Ana’s childish hand. When her pregnancy was revealed, Dometrio rejoiced as he never had before, dreaming aloud of an elopement and new beginnings in an unfamiliar city, with his young sweetheart and child. He never imagined for a moment that his dangerous game would be unravelled.

Disgrace was not an emotion which a woman such as Sénora Bolivar, accustomed to deference and respect, could tolerate. Humiliated beyond words by her husband’s betrayal, and, being an intelligent, conniving woman, Dometrio knew she would extract a painful revenge. Unbeknownst to him, Ana herself had sent word to Sénora Bolivar, fearing the future Dometrio was designing for her. For weeks, Sénora Bolivar floated through the rooms of their grand home, like a restless ghost, biding her time, preparing for the vengeance which would soon be hers.

When the day arrived at last, Sénora Bolivar, praying her nerves would not fail her, arrived on Ana’s doorstep, mopping her brow discreetly with a white handkerchief.
“Ana, my dear, a pleasure to meet you again. I have made for us a little picnic, will you join me? I greatly desire to speak with you.” And so Ana, under a cloud of confused suspicion, had followed Sénora Bolivar to her vehicle. At first, their conversation was polite and guarded, becoming awkward at the mention of Ana’s bulging pregnancy.
“It will be quite a struggle, I should imagine, raising a child without a father. Especially in the early years, they can be such a burden then. Though I suppose your mother managed.” At this mention of her mother, Ana’s curiosity was instantly fuelled.
“What do you know of my mother, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Oh no, my dear, I don’t mind at all, in fact I would be delighted to inform you. It occurs to me, your mother was not so different from yourself.” Pulling over to the side of the vacant, barren highway, Sénora Bolivar began to weave the terrible skein of Eliseo Álvaro’s last moments.

“Always a strange woman, that one. Lived alone in the most repulsive little wooden shack, terribly reclusive. It was of little surprise when we discovered she had been practising witchcraft, you know, hexes and the like. We’d all suspected it, the way the men fell over themselves to get to her, even the most respectable, married sorts.
“But she rejected them all, time and again, until one man caught her vindictive eye. Later, she even claimed to love him.
“When you were born, we all knew who the father was, even the poor man’s wife, such a gentle woman, never harmed another living soul in her live, God bless her.” It was the man’s betrayed wife who first began the rumours of witchcraft, and from there the talk grew into a rampaging flame of anger, spreading through the town as through a wheat field in summer.

“The community united, it was a beautiful sight, her vile shack burning to the ground. No one ever knew how you managed to escape, I assume even you yourself can’t recall. Such a wicked woman, her death was a blessing, a miracle wrought by God Himself.”

Sénora Bolivar watched as Ana shut her eyes tight, a lone tear drop squeezed from between her dark lashes. The vision of a suppressed memory played, like a ghastly silent movie, projected onto her eyelids, of dark, consuming tongues of flame, licking up the walls, a sobbing woman, clutching her tightly, placing a carven charm about her neck, “for protection” mouths the trembling lips, then, the voices of demons, chanting and shouting outside.

Ana had scrambled from the vehicle, falling to her knees in agonising disgust, vomiting into the dirt. Sénora Bolivar had had her vengeance, “She will burn now as she should have then. Mother and daughter, bound to the same fate, God’s will is done at last.” She thought, as she returned to her grand home and respectable life, smiling with bitter satisfaction.

When at last, the shimmering form of a freight truck materialised in the distance, Ana scrambled awkwardly to her feet, thrusting her scorched arm out in front of her, thumb pointed towards the brutal sun directly above. The driver, exhausted from a long days drive on the unchanging highway, jumped in fright at the dishevelled figure beside the road. Terrified by the chilling apparition of the hitchhiker, the ghostly mirage, alone in the dirt, the driver shook his head to clear it of the vision, and sped past, not daring to glance back.

*This piece was written for a school assignment, as an imitation of the style of Isabell Alende's 'The stories of Eva Luna'