Black script lettering reading Rise and rise again until lambs become lions, tattooed along the inner forearm.

Script quote tattoo on the forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single line of black cursive script runs horizontally along the forearm, reading Rise and rise again until lambs become lions. The linework is thin and even, with the letters evenly spaced and little shading. The ink is solid black on pale skin against a dark background, and the lettering fills most of the width of the frame.

Lettering Forearm Quote Script Lettering Lion

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The boats came home to Skerrow every evening that spring, and every evening Old Ingrid counted them from the harbour wall with a knitted shawl over her head against the wind. Eleven had gone out in March. Nine came back in April, and the cod were thin, and the bank was fished out past the old marker stone.

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The younger men wanted to sail for the deep water beyond the Gannet Rocks, where nobody had gone since the gale of the year before. Their talk filled the Fleece and Anchor until the landlord turned the lamps down. Ingrid's grandson Tam was loudest of them, with his father's temper and his mother's eyes. He came to her kitchen one night with salt still on his collar and said the sea was a lamb that had been bled white and would never feed a family again.

She gave him tea and a heel of bread. Then she told him about her father, who had been a lamb of a boy, small and sick in the winter, and who had gone to the herring at twelve and to the whaling at nineteen and had come home with one arm held stiff and a laugh that frightened the gulls. "Rise and rise again," she said. "That's what he told the minister when the minister said the parish was finished. It was the only thing he ever carved on the lintel, and nobody could read it but him."

Tam went out to the Gannet Rocks in May with two other boys and a borrowed engine. They came back four days later with a hold so heavy the boat sat low, and Ingrid stood on the wall with her shawl blowing and counted them all in.

The lintel still says what it says. Nobody in Skerrow reads it as a boast anymore. They read it as a wage.