Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Two small swallows on wrists
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
Two raised arms with clasped hands are photographed against a pale blue sky. A larger black swallow in flight sits on the left wrist, and a smaller swallow sits on the right wrist. The linework is thin and the ink is black and grey, with the birds shown in simple outline and light shading.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Mags Penhale had counted the swallows under the lifeboat house eaves for thirty summers, and she never looked up at them without starting again from one. Her brother Tom had sailed out of Padstow on the Serena with a paper twist of his mother's sugared almonds in his coat and a promise to be home before the birds went south. The birds went south in September. By October the gulls had the quay to themselves and Mags had stopped setting a plate for him.
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The fog came down off Ushant on a Tuesday, thick as wet wool, and the Serena's mate, old Jory Trewin, swore he could smell the Breton shore under it. Tom was at the wheel with no compass he trusted. Then a small bird came out of the murk and skimmed the mast, close enough to see the forked tail, and another came behind it, larger and blacker, banking hard to the west. Jory said that when swallows fly low over the water there is land within a day's sail. Tom put the helm over and followed them, and by first light the grey shape of Pointe du Raz was standing out of the sea like a held breath.
He came up the Padstow quay in March with his sleeves rolled and a healing cut across one palm, and he found his sister by the lifeboat house, standing exactly where she had always stood. She did not ask where he had been. She lifted both arms to the sky, and he lifted his to meet hers, wrists together, until the tide turned and the gulls went quiet.
Mags counted the swallows again that evening, as she always did. This time she got the number she wanted.
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