Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Botanical tattoo on upper arm, tarot print top
Botanical · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo
A woman in a loose white tank top printed with The High Priestess tarot card stands against a plain white background, with her face cropped out of frame. A black and grey botanical tattoo of flowers and leaves, with fine linework and soft shading, runs over her upper arm and down towards the elbow. The tattoo is the only skin detail visible, and the framing keeps the shirt design central.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Mind the step, it's loose, and nobody in this parish will pay a man to nail down a board. Sit there, where the cushion still has its stuffing. My Tobias came home from the city the spring the lock flooded, with a pack of painted cards under his arm and a head full of the moon. He pinned the High Priestess above the counter, between the seed packets and the tide tables, and said she was the only honest woman in the whole deck.
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She is a seated woman between two pillars, one marked B and one marked J, with a veil of pomegranates hanging behind her. Tobias read her as a gatekeeper. He wanted a garden that would answer back. So he dug two beds by the towpath, one either side of the gate, and planted to match the pillars: dark fennel on the left, pale feverfew on the right, and between them a row of night stock, the sort that gives its scent only after the lamps are lit.
The garden did nothing for a year but grow. Then the summer the canal ran low, folk began coming down after dark to smell the stock and, because it is that kind of village, to ask the shop questions they would not ask in daylight. Tobias answered with seed packets. Feverfew for a broken heart, fennel for a stubborn father, and for anyone who asked whether to leave, a single poppy head wrapped in brown paper.
I asked him once what the card really meant. He laughed and said it meant keep your mouth shut and your water handy. Then he went back to the city, and the garden went to seed without him. Last night I took a lantern down the towpath and the stock was open, every flower of it, pale as that veil. I pinched a head off the nearest bed and put it in my apron pocket, and I have not yet decided whose question it answers. Hand me that tin, would you? The kettle's on.
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