Originally published in The Marlowe Review, 2026

He’d done well so far, the weather had held all morning, despite the clouds, all dark grey, advancing like the tide. He’d left Navan early and gotten a lift within about ten minutes, from a woman on her way to teach at a Montessori. Nice enough, very chatty. Told him her life story, which had been about as interesting as folding laundry. She’d taken him all the way to Maynooth anyway.

Since Naas it had been a little harder going. He’d had to walk a good way, down to Two Mile House, some three hours or so plodding along, until a toothless farmer took pity on him and dropped him at Crookstown.

Now he had to decide between the main road, the R4- whatever it was, with lorries shooting past like they were about to take off, spraying little tsunamis of muddy puddles at him as they went, or the backroads.

The main roads have more cars. More cars: more chance of getting picked up. But people don’t like to stop on main roads, they’re driving fast enough to ignore you without feeling bad. Generally speaking, backroad drivers pick you up more. But then the backroads have less cars, and it’s a windier job, so less chance the car is going where you’re going. He decided on the main road. He had his mother’s St Christopher medal around his neck, and hoped the patron saint of travellers would help steer him in the right direction.

A lorry sprayed dirty water over him as it hurtled itself down the long, sloping road. A van passed. An Audi, a Nissan. A woman in a Skoda waved an apology at him, motioning she was turning off the main road, but then cancelled the indicator and kept going straight. The cow. He had something for her alright.

His method for cars that ignored him, slated him, insulted him or caused any transgression against him, real or imagined, was to curse them. Nothing major, no fatal car accidents or anything, more just small inconveniences. They’d be late for work, say. Or they’d get a flat tire. They’d bump into their auntie who would talk forever about the village gossip or Jesus or something as mundane.

Sometimes, if someone intentionally splashed him, or shouted at him or drove him into the ditch, he’d give them a real curse, a big one, but always regretted it and often rescinded it. He wasn’t sure if he could rescind a curse, but he liked to think he could. Sometimes he just said things in anger. He wasn’t sure he was doing it right anyway, the cursing. He was the seventh son of a seventh son, which supposedly counted for something, but he’d never been taught how to do it properly, and there wasn’t exactly a course you could take in that sort of thing. The Touch. His grandfather had the Touch, but he’d died before he was born. He only half-believed in it anyway. Three more cars passed without stopping. Toyota, Nissan, BMW. A cold, a failed NCT, chlamydia.

It was getting dark. Hitching at night was horrid. No one picked him up, and he never felt safe getting into the car of whatever lunatic did stop.

He hadn’t seen his mother in well over a year. They hadn’t spoken since the winter before, when he hadn’t come back for Christmas and she’d called to say how disappointed she was and he’d yelled at her. He felt bad about that, he was always so excited to see or speak to her and yet when he did it often ended like that. Anyway, all would be forgotten now, sure. Water under the bridge, time heals all ailments. Prodigal son, etcetera.

The wind picked up, he glanced heavenward and saw the clouds had darkened, gained weight. His silent prayers had held them off as long as they could, but there was no stopping the downpour now. Not the Touch, not St Christopher or God or all the pantheon of Tír na nÓg could help him now.

A rush of air past him, the sound of tires gently skidding, the hum of a car slowing to a stop. The flash of brake lights in the darkening afternoon. Hazards winking at him. He cocked his head and smiled. His luck hadn’t run out just yet. He began a slow jog towards the waiting car, which purred softly like a great big cat, just as the rain began to fall.

https://www.themarlowereview.com/the-hitchhiker-benedict-pignatelli