Colour tattoo of a songbird inside a wreath of flowers and berries, with the words Free Indeed above, on the upper arm.

Songbird in a flower wreath with Free Indeed lettering

Botanical · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A songbird perches inside a circular wreath of blue-grey, yellow and red flowers, green leaves and red berries, with the words FREE INDEED in black lettering above it. The bird is shaded in warm browns and ochres with a red patch on its cheek, and the petals and berries use bold, solid colour. The tattoo sits centrally on the upper arm against a plain, softly blurred background.

Botanical Neo-trad Upper arm Bird Songbird Wreath Flower Berry Leaves Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down and stop fidgeting with that rope, it has no more sense than you do. This is the story of the thrush that came aboard at Lisbon in a wicker cage no bigger than a loaf. Mrs Abernathy's parrot was meant to be the only creature on the Marigold with a voice, but the old woman had a sister in Cork who wanted a songbird, so the cage was handed down to me with a note pinned to its lid and a list of instructions I never once followed.

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For nineteen days that bird sang nothing. It sat hunched on its perch with its eyes shut while the swell rolled us about, and the cook swore it was dead and I swore it was sulking. On the twentieth morning we ran into a fog so thick you could not see the bowsprit from the wheel, and out of it came a sound like a bell rung underwater. The thrush had found its voice, and it was singing at the fog as if it could see straight through.

I opened the cage that night, meaning only to air it. The bird sat on my knuckle a long while, then flew straight up into the rigging and perched on the topgallant yard, bold as a bishop. Captain Teague bellowed for me to fetch it down. I told him I had tried, which was true enough, and he said a bird that would not be caught was not worth the price of the cage, and that was the end of the matter.

Where it went after that, I cannot say. Some nights when we pass the islands I still hear a thrush, and I like to think it is the same fellow, fat on our biscuit crumbs and singing for the sailors who let him go. Now, the rope. Pull it, and mind your fingers.