Colour tattoo of a seated fox cub, shaded in orange and tan, on the inner forearm close to the wrist.

Seated fox cub on inner forearm

Forearm · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a young fox sitting with its body turned away and its head looking back over its shoulder. The fur is rendered with soft, painterly brushwork and gentle shading, with darker brown on the legs and tail tip. The small design sits on the inner forearm against a plain background of skin, lace and denim.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The keep had been dying for two hundred years, and the fox cub had chosen the one room with a roof still on it to keep it company. You find her curled in the hearth of the old solar, where the chimney breast still stands, her red coat the only warm thing in all that grey. When you crouch, she does not run. She sits, turns her body away from you as if the stones were more interesting, then looks back over her shoulder with a small, unbothered face, as though you are the one who has arrived late.

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You are there for Mr Cadwallader from the council, who wants the north wall measured before the demolition crew comes on Monday. You have a tape, a clipboard and no reason to be sentimental about masonry. Still, the cub keeps turning up: on the stair, on the rubble of the chapel, always seated, always glancing back, as if she is leading you somewhere and is patient about it.

She leads you to a gap behind a buttress where a bricked-up doorway has crumbled open. Above the lintel someone has carved a fox with a hen in its jaws, the detail worn almost smooth by rain and by a few hundred winters of hands running over it for luck. The cub settles on the threshold and waits, tail wrapped neatly over her paws.

You write north wall: sound on the clipboard, then cross it out and write nothing at all. When you reach the gate, you turn back. She is sitting in the lane now, in full sun, watching you go. You lift a hand, and she lifts nothing, only looks back over her shoulder until the bend takes the keep away.

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