Colour traditional-style tattoo of a dreamcatcher with two feathers and a blue panel with white stars, on the side of the torso.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dreamcatcher with feathers and star panel

Traditional · Ribs · Mixed · Photo

A colour tattoo of a dreamcatcher with a woven web of thin black lines, a rope-like rim studded with blue, red and yellow beads, and two long feathers hanging below. A blue panel with white stars and a red and white ribbon sit at the left edge of the design. Bold black outlines and solid colour fills are set against reddish skin, with the feathers shaded in grey and black.

Traditional Ribs Dreamcatcher Feather Bead Star Ribbon Web Rope

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The net loft at Skerrow smelled of tar and wet hemp the morning Dougie Lark came up the steps with a flour sack under his arm and asked me to hang the thing somewhere the sea wouldn't reach. Inside was a hoop of braided rope studded with beads the colour of boiled sweets, and a web of black thread so fine I had to tilt it to the window to see the pattern. Two grey feathers hung from the bottom like wet washing.

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"It came off the Margaret Ann," he said, "the week before she went down on the Hollin bank. Her skipper's wife made it. She said it would catch what was bad and let the good through." He would not say more, and he would not take it back. I hung it from the iron hook above my bench, between the spools and the sail twine, and for a month it turned slowly every time someone opened the door.

In late November the wind came round to the north-west and stayed there, and I lay awake listening to it sing through the slates. I got up before light and took the catcher down to pick at the knots. Under the web, tucked into the rim where the rope had been bound off, I found a folded scrap of blue cloth with white stars stitched on, and beneath it a strip of red ribbon with a name written in faded ink. Not Dougie's name. Not the skipper's wife's. It was my mother's, in the hand she used for labels on jam jars.

I sat with it on my knee until the loft windows went pale. Then I rehung the catcher exactly where it had been, the feathers swinging a little, and went down to the quay to see whether the tender had come in. It had not. But Dougie was there, leaning on the bollard, and when he saw me he took off his cap and held it against his chest the way men do at a graveside, and I understood he had been waiting for someone to ask him the right question.