Realism tattoo on a forearm showing a colour portrait of a woman with long curved horns, one hand resting under her chin, against a black background.

Realistic horned woman portrait on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A photograph of a large realistic portrait tattoo wrapping around the forearm. A woman looks off to one side with long, ridged, curved horns rising above her head, and one hand rests beneath her chin. Soft shading and warm skin tones give the face and hand volume, while smoky grey swirls fill the background behind the figure.

Realism Forearm Woman Portrait Horn Hand Smoke Face

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The river had shrunk so far that spring the boats lay on their sides in the mud, and every morning the elders walked down to the bank to shout at it. Ebe did not go with them. She went up the dry ravine instead, a clay jar knocking against her hip, because her grandmother had said the water had not left the valley, only changed its mind about who it belonged to.

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At the head of the ravine sat an old man smoking sweetgrass in a stone bowl. The smoke rose in grey ribbons and folded back on itself like wool being combed. He did not look up. 'You're the one with the antelope's crown,' he said. 'The herd below the peak has been waiting for someone with sense enough to climb up and ask.' Ebe asked him why the river had gone. He tapped the ash out against his heel. 'A king's son drank at their spring without asking, and the mother of the herd is particular about manners.'

The spring was a dark pool under an overhang, and the antelope mother stood at its edge, her long ridged horns catching the last of the light. Ebe set down the jar. She did not know what else to do, so she did what her mother had done when a question was too heavy to lift. She rested her hand beneath her chin and looked out over the valley. The antelope watched her for a long time. 'No one has ever come up here just to think,' she said at last. 'Tell me what you carried up the hill, and I will let the water go down the way it came.'

Ebe filled the jar at the spring and carried it down without spilling a drop. When she reached the bank the river was already rising, brown and loud, slapping against the hulls of the boats while the elders stood with their mouths open. Ebe kept walking. Behind her the smoke from the old man's bowl still curled over the rim of the ravine, and nobody in the village ever asked her to lower her head again.