Fine line black triple moon tattoo on the inner wrist, shown with a hand holding a dark stone and crystals in the background.

Triple moon tattoo on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A hand holding a dark, mottled stone is shown with a small black triple moon tattoo on the inner wrist, made of three crescent shapes in thin outline. The background contains quartz points, a lit candle and a selenite figure in soft, warm light. The tattoo is in black ink and sits in sharp focus against the skin, while the crystals are slightly out of focus.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Come closer, the fire wants the wood to be quiet, so you must be quiet too. This is about Morag Teague, who kept the lighthouse on Skerry Ness when the mainland men still rowed out with their boats full of nonsense. Her grandmother had taught her three moons to watch for: the waxing one that shows the fishermen where the reef sits, the full one that brings the herring in close, and the waning one that tells you a boat will not come home. She painted all three on a slate above the lamp room door, and every night she checked them against the sky the way other women check the bread.

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One February a man named Ewan Ross came off the Lucy Anne with a cough like a rusted hinge and a debt to the laird he could not pay. He asked Morag for a passage across to Scalpay on the flood tide, and she told him the water was wrong. The slate said the waning moon was thin, the sea said the same, but Ewan was a proud man and he went anyway, with a purple stone in his coat pocket that he kept turning over and over in the dark, like a prayer he had forgotten the words to.

He came back at dawn, soaked to the bone, and he did not speak of the crossing. He only opened his palm on her kitchen table and set down the stone, dark and speckled as a midnight sea, and beside it three small crescents he had scratched into the wrist of his own hand with a nail, so that he would never again mistake the signs. Morag took his hand in hers and said nothing at all, which is the kindest thing a lighthouse keeper can do. And that, my dears, is why the moons are still written on the wrist of every Teague woman who has ever held a light.

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