Om mandala tattoo on the top of a foot

Eighty winters back there was a trader's lugger called the Saint Anwen, carrying nothing holier than pilchards and salt. Her skipper had a brass bell bolted to the wheelhouse, a gift from a travelling priest for the crossing. Every time the swell lifted her, the bell spoke one low note, the same note you get when you hum into a cup. The men said it kept the water sleeping. Then one March night she struck the Chapel Rock, and the bell went down with her, still humming, into forty fathoms of nothing.

The fishermen of this harbour are stubborn folk, and the next spring young Tomas Rowe, who was nine and had no business in the boats, went out at slack water with a bucket and a hand line. He swore the note came up through the hull of his father's crab boat. He dropped the line where the sound seemed to sit, and hauled up a coil of rope, wound tight as a spiral, and inside it, green as a lily pad, sat the bell. Its lip had opened like a flower. Nobody believes the rest, but the boy said the note rose out of it in rings, petal after petal of cold water, until the whole harbour hummed. The ferry came in on time that morning, though the wind was blowing a gale, and every soul aboard said the sea was singing.