Fine line triangles and a small seated figure on a wrist
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A raised hand is shown from the wrist, with a fine line tattoo of nested triangles sitting on the inner forearm. Below it is a small, solid black filled figure with two round eyes and folded limbs. The image is black and white, with the arm set against a dark textured background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Sit closer, the lot of you, the bread won't rise any faster for you glaring at it. Cook Ambrose Teague kept a stone on the shelf above the range, black as a kettle's bottom and the size of a hen's egg. Nobody aboard the Marigold knew who'd carved it. It had two round eyes and its knees folded up under its chin like a man waiting out a squall in a doorway.
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The mate, Hollis Vane, drew triangles on the slate every watch, one tucked inside the next, and swore they were soundings. Three depths, he said, and you keep the middle one clean. We laughed at him until the wind died off the Cape and we lay becalmed for nine days with the water going green and the biscuit going grey. Ambrose sat on his upturned bucket with the stone in his palm and muttered at it in a language none of us had. On the tenth morning a breeze came up out of nothing, right where the mate had scratched his lines.
The boy Tomas asked Ambrose why the thing had no mouth. Ambrose said a creature that holds its tongue has no need of one, and that the sea listens better to a quiet cook. Tomas took the stone down the next time the range was cold and found, on its underside, three tiny lines scratched fine as hair, nested one inside another. Nobody has ever told me who put them there, and I have stopped asking. The bread rises when it rises. Now get your hands out of my flour.
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