Close-up of a small black fine line triskele tattoo, three spirals joined to a central triangle, on the top of a foot.

Small triskele tattoo on the foot

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A small black triskele made of three curled spirals joined to a central triangle sits on the top of a foot, with the toes visible below. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the tattoo is set on a neutral background of pale skin and a light blue cloth. The composition is a tight close-up with the tattoo near the centre of the frame.

Fine line Geometric Other Spiral Triangle Foot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The third winter the snow came over Hollin Pass before the ewes were down, and Maud Caddick went up with a lantern and a tin of chalk to finish the cairn her husband had left half built. Three tracks met at that heap of stones: one from the mill town below, one from the tarn, and one from the Scarrow valley, which was the worst of them. Every carrier who had crossed the top had lost the road in whiteness at least once, and most had lost a mule.

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Her grandmother had told her that the wind on the pass went where it was turned. Draw a curl on a flat stone, the old woman said, and the air would follow it round instead of driving straight at you. Three curls joined to a triangle would hold the three roads together. Maud's husband had stacked the triangle's corners before he died, but he had never drawn the curls, and the stones sat there bare and grey under the drifts.

She scraped a slab clean with her glove and began. The chalk skipped on the wet rock, so she pressed harder with her thumb and went round each arm three times. Halfway through the second curl a boy came stumbling up out of the murk, one of the wool carrier's lads, Tobias Rigg, following the lamp because it was the only light he could see. He asked her what she was doing. She told him the wind needed directing, and he laughed until the wind came over the ridge and the laugh died in his throat.

She finished the third arm as the gust struck. The snow stopped flinging itself sideways and began to turn, slowly, the way water turns in a bucket, and then it blew down the Scarrow track as if called. They walked behind it all the way to the first farm. In the morning the drifts had filled the chalk, but the cairn still stood at the crossing, and the three curls on its stone pointed the same way they always had.