Black and grey fine line tattoo of a small stag head with branching antlers on the upper back, between the shoulder blades.

Small stag antlers on upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A small black stag head with branching antlers sits centrally on the upper back, below the nape of the neck. The linework is thin and the solid areas of the head are filled with dense black ink and dotted shading. The black and white photograph is taken from behind, with hair falling across the top of the frame.

Fine line Dotwork Back Stag Antler Deer Animal

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The fiddler at Scarrow Hall kept a rule that nobody danced the last tune until the lamps were turned low, so when the stag came in through the kitchen door that night, the floor was still full of boots and wet wool. It stood in the doorway with its antlers branching into the rafters like a winter hedge. It did not look at the men or the women. It looked at Nan Idle, who had mended every coat in the parish and had never once sat out a dance.

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Nobody knew what to do, so Nan did what she did with any difficult customer. She set down her needle, stood, and walked across the boards with her hands open. The fiddler, a thin lad called Tobias Crane, saw the stag's eyes catch the light and began a slow air with no ornament in it, just the bones of a tune. The stag lowered its head. Nan laid one palm flat on its nose, the way you would settle a horse, and felt the warmth come up through her skin.

Eleven winters back, a party from the big house had gone into the woods for sport, and the stag had stepped out of the trees to take the shot meant for a boy beside it. Nobody had buried what was left. Nan had seen the bones kicked into a ditch and had said nothing, because saying something cost money she did not have. Now she turned the great head towards the door and asked Tobias to play the reel again, slower, so the room could hear the woods in it.

The stag went out into the frost with the music running behind it. By morning the ditch was empty, and someone had hung a small iron bell from the lych gate. Nan kept mending coats that week. Whenever the wind came off the moor, she heard the bell ring once, very softly, like a partner asking for the next set.