Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Small black sprig on an inner wrist
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A small black tattoo of a sprig or branch with angled side strokes sits on the inner wrist, below a raised hand. The linework is thin and solid, with no shading. The ink is set against pale skin on a light bed sheet, and the tattoo sits low in the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Mab had sold the last of the rowan sprigs on the Tuesday, and by Thursday the fair had reached Crane's Ford with nothing to ward off the river fog. Her brother Tam said the fog was only fog. He said it while he stood on the bank with the tent poles on his shoulder, not looking at the water.
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The old showman, Ezra Gilt, had a rule that nobody crossed the ford without a green thing in their pocket. Mab did not believe in rules, but she did believe in the way the ferryman's dog would never go past the second post. So she cut a sprig from the hedge, stripped it down to three branches with angled side shoots, and pressed it into Tam's palm. 'Keep it where you can feel it,' she said, 'and walk like the arrow is pointing you home.'
He laughed, then he did not. The fog took the carousel horses one by one, first the white, then the grey, then the painted stag that had been Gilt's wife's. When the wagons reached the far bank at dusk, the horses were standing in a row on the wet grass, facing the way they had come, as if waiting for someone to turn them round.
Tam took the sprig from his pocket. It had put fine pale roots through the lining of his coat, like hair. Mab said nothing about that. She planted it by the gate where the fair would leave, and in the morning there were two new leaves on it, and the ford ran clear as glass.
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