Teapot pouring into a teacup on an ankle
Ankle · Black and grey · Photo
A small tattoo of a teapot tilted over a dangling spout, with a stream of tea falling into a saucer and teacup below. The linework is dark and fairly fine, with grey shading on the pot's body and lid. The design sits alone on a pale lower leg and ankle against a dark background, with the foot visible at the bottom of the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Sit closer, the wind up here steals the good bits. You want to know about the pot. Every carter on the Dunmere side of the pass knows the pot, and not one of them will call it bewitched, because they would then have to explain why they drank from it.
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Mother Agnes kept the inn at the summit, where the road gives up and the snow begins. She had one teapot, dented, its lid cocked like a rooster's comb, and one cup with a chip on the rim. Nobody got more than a mouthful, she said, because the pot poured only when the drinker had something to set down. A debt, a grudge, a lie told on the way up. The stream would hang from that crooked spout, thin as thread, and wait.
One February a surveyor came over with a leather case and a face like a shut door. He had a debt in Carlisle and a brother he hadn't written to in nine years. Agnes poured him one cup. The tea dropped into the saucer and went on dropping, and he sat there watching it fill with the look of a man counting coins he does not own. Then he picked up the cup and said his brother's name. The stream stopped. Agnes said that was the whole price, and he paid it gladly enough.
The cup still sits on the sill of that inn, chipped and empty. Mind your step on the ice going down, and if you have anything you have been carrying up this hill, leave it on the sill before you go.
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