Two side-by-side photos of a bold black Eye of Horus tattoo with curled linework on the inner wrist, with red nails and a floral cuff visible.

Eye of Horus tattoo on the inner wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two photographs show the same bold black Eye of Horus symbol on the inner wrist, viewed from the back of the hand and from the palm side. The design uses solid black linework with a curled tail and a filled pupil, with no visible shading. The image is colour-balanced around a black ink tattoo on pale skin, set against a dark car interior and a white blouse with pink flowers.

Forearm Eye of horus Eye Symbol

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You find the falcon's eye the morning after the fox takes the last of the hens, scratched into the wet bark of the old beech where the path leaves the village and slips under the trees. Marjorie Pell is already there with her lantern turned low, pressing a thumb of ochre against a knot someone has worked into a rough oval. She does not look up. 'Your father did this one,' she says. 'Before the flood took the mill. Says the wood only lets you pass if something is watching back.'

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You have heard the rhyme since you could walk: that the woodcutters' children used to vanish between the hazel and the holly, and that the eye was never meant to see you, only to see what was coming. You have never believed a word of it. But Marjorie's hands are steady, the sap smells sharp in the cold, and when she finishes she steps back and says, 'Now you.'

You take the brush and mix soot with lamp oil on the lid of a tin. The brow goes on in one stroke, then the almond of the eye, then the pupil, which you fill until it sits black and round as a stone in a stream. Marjorie points at the tail. 'Leave the curl open,' she says. 'The part that was lost has to be given back, or the thing can't find its way home.' You hesitate, then let the line spiral and stop short, like a question.

At dawn the fox is sitting on the path, just outside the ring of ochre, its breath smoking. It watches the eye on the beech for a long while, then turns and trots back into the trees. The hens are counted that morning, all eleven of them, and when you walk past the old knot again the paint is still wet, shining in the first light as if someone has only just looked away.