Black and grey tattoo of a skeleton wearing a pith helmet, sunglasses and a striped top, with a cactus and birds in a framed panel on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Skeleton in pith helmet and sunglasses on a forearm

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A skeleton wearing a pith helmet, round sunglasses and a jacket over a striped top holds a cigarette in its teeth. Behind it, a cactus, a horizon and several birds sit inside a hand-drawn rectangular frame. The piece is shaded in black and grey with bold outlines and soft grey tones on the figure and background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Mabel, the mule has finally stopped sulking, so I can write this properly before the light goes. The well at Ysterfontein came up dry again on Tuesday, which means the company will want another survey and I will want another hat. You'll laugh, but the helmet I bought in Port Nolloth has done better service than the theodolite. The sun there doesn't bounce off the sand so much as argue with it.

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The birds have followed us for three days now. Vultures, Abdul says, though I counted eleven and only two of them looked like they had any intention of dying. Abdul doesn't like them. He says they're waiting for the hired men to be sensible, and then they'll get the lot of us. I told him the only thing I've ever seen vultures wait for is a man who has stopped moving, so he'd better keep his hat on and his wits about him.

The tobacco tin is nearly empty, and the cactus by the boundary cairn has put out a flower the size of a dinner plate. I drew it for you on the back of the chart. Keep the sketch. Don't tell Father I was sentimental.

Yesterday, when the wind dropped, I sat on the cairn and watched the horizon do nothing at all for an hour. It was the most peaceful hour I've had since Easter. I suppose that's what a man in my line is for: to sit in the middle of nothing and make it measurable. Write back, and tell me the garden still has the blue hydrangeas. I'll be home before they've finished blooming, I promise, even if the well isn't.

Yours, Walter

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