Small black fine line Taurus zodiac symbol tattooed on the side of a finger, with a gold ring visible on the adjacent finger.

Taurus symbol tattoo on a finger

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A small Taurus zodiac symbol, a circle with two curved horns above it, sits on the side of a finger against a pale background. The tattoo is drawn in thin, even black linework with no shading. Its single-colour ink and modest size leave plenty of empty skin around it, and the photograph is taken close up at a slight angle.

Fine line Hand Zodiac symbol Astrology Symbol

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The bull has not come down from the beech wood since the first hard frost, and the lane to Ashdown is glazing over, so Mrs Pell presses a sack of cut turnips into your arms and tells you not to light the lantern until the trees close over the path. She says he will follow the smell of the turnips if he follows anything at all. You go up anyway, counting the stiles under your breath, while the sky goes the colour of pewter behind the rooks.

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The beeches open into a clearing you have never seen from the village side. Someone long ago set a ring of pale stones there, and inside it the grass is worn flat in a circle, round and round, as if a cartwheel had turned there every day for a hundred years. The bull stands at the far edge with his head low, and when he lifts it the horns curve up and in like a crescent moon bent over a round hole in the dark. He does not look at the turnips. He looks at you, and then at the worn path, and then back at you.

You understand, slowly, that he has not wandered at all. He has been keeping the path open, walking it each night so the frost cannot close the ring, the way Mrs Pell's husband once did before he died. So you set the sack down, step inside the stones, and walk beside him. One turn, then another, your boots loud on the frozen ground, until the last grey light slides out between the trunks and the stars come up sharp as pin heads.

At the gate of Ashdown yard, Mrs Pell lifts the lantern and counts him in, one, two, three. Behind you the frost is already silvering the stones, and where the bull's hooves have pressed the mud of the yard there is a faint round mark, going nowhere and returning every time.