Small black and grey fine line tattoo of a wand running along the inside of a raised index finger, with a lightning effect over the fingertip.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Wand tattoo on an index finger

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A slim, detailed wand is tattooed vertically along the index finger of a hand held up against a pale wall and wooden floor. The linework is fine and the ornate handle is shaded in black and grey. A digital lightning effect in white and pale pink sweeps up from the fingertip, and the hand also wears two rings.

Fine line Hand Wand Lightning Finger

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mrs Ashdown had sold wands from a trestle table at the back of Halifax market for thirty-one years, and she never once let a customer hold one before the money was on the cloth. Blackthorn, she said, for the stubbornness, and ash for the patience, the two woods bound with copper wire at the joints. Most people bought them to look at. A few bought them to wave. She only ever sold to people who asked her what the wand was for, and then waited for the answer.

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Tobias Crane came on a wet Saturday in March with his last wage packet from the bakery folded inside his coat. He chose the slimmest one on the table, its handle worked into a knot of tiny rings, and he carried it up to the top of Beacon Hill in the rain. He held it over his head like a conductor at a brass band contest and shouted the first word that came to him, which was please. The sky stayed the colour of porridge. A dog barked somewhere below. He walked back down with his face hot and the wand cold in his hand.

He came back the following Saturday. Mrs Ashdown was tying a cardboard tag to a pair of knitted gloves for a child. 'You were asking,' she said without looking up. 'Wands don't take orders. They answer a hand that already knows what it wants.' He stood at the table for a long while, then went home and set the kettle on. When the water began to rattle the lid, he did not ask it for anything. He simply lifted one finger and pointed, the way you point at a thing you already own.

A thread of white light leapt from his fingertip, forked once against the cupboard, and knocked the lid onto the lino with a clatter. The kitchen bulb flickered and came back. Tobias sat down very slowly and considered the scorch mark on the ceiling. On Monday he took the wand back to the market, and Mrs Ashdown charged him a shilling to re-bind the copper at the joint, and told him, without any unkindness, that the shilling was for the ceiling.