Fine line black arrow tattoo on the middle finger of a clenched fist, with a wide silver ring on the finger beside it.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small arrow tattoo on a finger

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a clenched fist held towards the camera, with a small arrow tattoo on the middle finger pointing downwards. The arrow is drawn in thin black linework with a simple feathered head and tail, and the ink sits sharply against the skin. The background is a soft, out of focus lavender top, and a wide silver ring is worn on the adjacent finger.

Fine line Hand Arrow Fist Ring

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody in Hollin Bottom dug a well without asking Mrs Pardoe first. She sat at the kitchen table with a stub of pencil, drew a single arrow on the back of a seed packet, feathered at the head and tailed at the end, and turned it so the point faced the floor. Down, and a bit to the left of the damson, she would say. The men laughed at her, then dug where she pointed, because the water always came.

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Her husband Eli had taught her the trick, though he always claimed it was no trick at all. You held the hazel fork loose and let it tell you. His own fork had gone soft and grey in the shed after the winter he was taken, and she had never been able to bring herself to burn it. Instead she sat with it across her knees most evenings, feeling for a pull that had gone out of her hands years ago, and drawing arrows she did not entirely believe in.

In the spring of the drought, the Hollis boy came up the lane with a spade over his shoulder and a face like wet paper. His father's cattle were dying in the top field, and he wanted the arrow. She told him she had nothing to give but the same guess she gave everyone. He took the packet anyway, folded it into his waistcoat and walked off without a word of thanks.

Three weeks later a letter arrived, scrawled on the back of a feed bill. They had dug at the spot, struck clay, then struck water so cold it hurt their teeth. Mrs Pardoe read it twice at the table, then fetched the fork from the shed, carried it out to the damson, and let it fall where it liked. It bent towards the ground hard enough to split. She stood a long while in the dust, then went indoors and drew another arrow, pointing down.