Spelling Ink Tattoo Shop
Spelling Ink Tattoo Shop is the first real Adventures in Fantasy story that I ever wrote, back in the spring of last year. I hope you enjoy! You can find further commentary and discussion at the end.
Spelling Ink Tattoo Shop, Newson Port, Arruson
August 13th, 2017
Tebrick “T” Abridd fiddled with the key, getting the ancient lock to, at long last, click open and allow him into his shop. The bell over the door jangled softly as he entered, allowing it to close behind him, locked again. The last thing he needed was an insistent customer bursting through the door before he had opened.
T flipped the light switch, though there was so much light coming through the bay windows, the light fixtures were hardly noticeable. If a client came, he would close the windows in order to ensure an even lighting for setting and tattooing.
In the center of the room stood his tattoo chair, currently raised to a sitting position. A good position for a consultation, or maybe a simple upper-body tattoo. He could, and would, adjust it to any position necessary, though. Behind it sat another lamp, if he needed more focused light. His eyes were strong enough, though, he rarely used it.
Against the left wall was his tattoo desk, locked from the night before. T walked to it, unlocking it with a fingerprint as he slipped his arm out of his coat sleeve. It began to open the necessary drawers, so T took a moment to pull his coat off and hang it on the rack to the left of the desk. It was a long leather Tribeld overcoat that had cost him more than he cared to think about. Still, when he caught a look at himself in windows, it made him stand a little straighter and a little more proudly.
He sat down on his stool, pumping the bar under the seat to raise it up slightly. He pushed across the floor slightly, in between the chair and the desk. He spun to face his desk, fully open now, with his portfolio of designs sitting on top, alongside paper to sketch out his ideas. Other artists, he noticed, used tablets or computers to create designs, but T was nothing if not old fashioned.
T laughed at the thought a second later, unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up. He was far from old fashioned, he decided, but there was a time and place to adhere to tradition. Design development, in his mind, was one of the important places. There was something about sketching on paper – if you struggled, you could see where the issues might lay by the eraser marks. A clean wipe on a tablet removed those warning signals.
As he fixed his sleeves to the proper length, T took a moment to appreciate the art on his own skin. He intentionally studied it every so often to remind himself why he loved his job. There was creation in tattooing – stories were told, creatures and body structures were discovered and personhood was represented.
On his own skin, his favorite was a blue-inked dragon, wrapping down along his right forearm. With a smile, he traced along the back spine, stopping just before the tail. He held his finger there for a long second, then pulled it away quickly. In response, the dragon zipped away from his finger, creasing around his wrist. It dodged the thickset anchor there and wove between the cords that were tied to it, racing back toward his elbow.
Tebrick Abridd, tattoo wizard, watched the dance of his art, and felt immense satisfaction.
T set down his machine and let his client see what he had done. Bartimaeus, as he called his dragon, had calmed down. It typically did, responding to T’s wish that his clients feel safe and welcomed. Only if he was inking a living tattoo would Bartimaeus act up.
The client was a middle-aged man finishing a sleeve. “I started in my twenties with a matching tattoo with my brother,” he had said, pointing to a greyscale sword right below his elbow, “And it’s just grown over time.”
Most of the tattoos were heavy and dark, with a few splashes of color – a rose, the blue eyes of a female face – ranging from weaponry to religious symbols. The latest, and possible last, addition was on the back of his shoulder. It showed dogtags draped over a simple lily, representing his grandparents and their relationship.
“I wish they could have seen this,” the client said, examining himself in the mirror. “Thank you, T.”
“Glad to,” T said, having already forgotten the man’s name. He finished wrapping the tattoo, giving the care instructions automatically and without conscious thought. The man thanked him, carefully pulling on his coat. He held out his hand, which T shook, then left the shop, the bell above jingling merrily.
T let out a breath and began resetting his shop, cleaning up the cloths and used needles. He rolled his shoulders, stretching some of the strain of them. The bell jingled again, and he spun on his stool, standing up as he did so.
A group of pirates – from the local renaissance fair, he assumed – stood in the door. Their leader wore a classic tricorn hat of faded brown leather, with a matching jacket and sea boots. There were three others dressed in similar fashion – antiquated clothes, with a smattering of authentic-looking swords and pistols among them. The fifth figure, however, was dressed in a long robe and hood. He stood in the center of the group, his head bowed. As the group took a collective step in, T heard the clink of chains. Clearly, in whatever event they were involved in, he was the prisoner.
The leader stepped forward as one of the others – a woman with long, dark hair bound by a scarf – turned and locked the door. T’s expression changed from amused interest to annoyance. Renn fair enthusiasts had a flair for the dramatic, but he didn’t appreciate the way it was showing itself now. “What are you doing?” he asked, taking a step forward.
“Are you Tebrick Abridd?” the man asked. His voice was hollow, echoing his own throat. It caught T’s attention, and he turned his focus onto the man’s weathered face. Foggy blue eyes stared back, sharp and refusing to be questioned.
“That’s my name,” T replied, refusing to be cowed. This was his shop, not a playground for some bookworms playing dress-up.
“I am Captain Jeremiah Henrickson,” the man said, his eyes trying to bore their way into T’s soul, “And I have a commission for you, Mr. Abridd.” The words were drawn out, a clear ploy to spur excitement and sway T’s mind.
He was an excellent voice actor, T had to admit, but he refused to let himself be brought in. “After the way you barged in here? I don’t think so, Captain.”
There was a click as one of the men reached to a holster and pulled back the hammer on a gun hanging there. Captain Henrickson threw a glance over his shoulder. “Be at peace, Samuel. Violence is not the solution here.”
He turned back around and smiled, showing teeth that obviously didn’t have a dental plan. Though, T thought, if this was his full-time career, he probably didn’t have any health insurance at all. “Get out of my shop,” T said as those piercing eyes came back into view. “I have the right to deny service to anyone, and if you don’t leave, I will call the authorities.”
The captain’s expression faltered, but he said, “Very well.” He turned, as if to go. His crew did the same, but as the woman reached out to unlock the door, the captain threw over his shoulder, “How much do you know about the Wandering Isle, Mr. Abridd?”
T’s mind froze. The Wandering Isle was a story from his youth. His great-great grandfather, Jacob Abridd, spent his life searching it, an island that refused to remain stationary, but moved to elude discovery. Outside the family, the legend was that he had found it, but refused to tell anyone where. Within the family, they knew he had, indeed found it – once. After that, the island never allowed itself to be found again. Jacob Abridd had been lost at sea as he searched. Naturally, the myth permeated that he had found the island again, but this time, had refused to leave, for fear of losing it again.
These, he realized, were not mere Renaissance Fair actors. Whatever their request was, it wasn’t to get a simple tattoo to impress the local community.
The captain had turned, and watched the changing expressions with a knowing smile. “They say The Elmwood was the only ship ever to reach those distant shores,” he said, his voice soft, but still clear. “Helmed by the steadfast Captain Jacob Abridd. Your distant relative, if I’m not mistaken, Mr. Abridd.” He emphasized the last name, leaning forward slightly.
“What do you want?” T asked, feeling a sense of mystery creep into the atmosphere.
The captain gave a smile, showing yellowing teeth. His eyes glinted, but with what emotion, T couldn’t tell. “A tattoo, of course, Mr. Abridd. But not, perhaps, your typical style.”
T waited, not daring to speak. Captain Henrickson nodded to his crew, who turned back away from the door and gathered in the same loose circle again. “There is only one way to find an island that moves,” he said. “And it requires the skill that you possess, Mr. Abridd.”
T immediately understood. “You need a living tattoo to show the way,” he said. “It’s impossible. I can’t mark something if I don’t know where it is.”
“Unless, Mr. Abridd,” the captain said, “Your ink is made from whatever you’re trying to mark.”
T snorted a laugh. “Unless you’ve been to the island, you can’t make the ink you need. And you can’t get to the island if you don’t have the ink. You’re stuck without a way to move forward.”
“That paradox will remedy itself shortly,” the captain said. “In the meantime, I ask you, Mr. Abridd, will you grant us use of your services?” He motioned to one of the men, who stepped forward and reached for his satchel. It was a simple motion, but given the man’s Viking-like tangle of a beard and the cocking of a gun earlier, T had to force himself not to flinch.
Instead of a gun, the man pulled out a bag that jangled as it moved. “It may be hard to find a buyer,” the captain said, “But you’ll find enough gold to pay for the work.”
The Viking man held it forward, but T refused to take it. “No,” he said. “You can take your business somewhere else. I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever is going on. Find someone else to make your map.”
“Come, Mr. Abridd,” Captain Henrickson said, coaxingly. “Don’t you want to finish what your forefather started? Think about it. The Wandering Isle has been waiting for years for Abridd’s heir to find it. And here you are, given the opportunity to fulfill it! Don’t pass it up.”
There was silence as T considered. He knew that the words were a manipulation of his emotions, but it didn’t make them any less effective. “Who would be the canvas?” he asked, trying not to sound like he was seriously considering it.
Captain Henrickson smiled, clearly thinking he had won. “That would be our friend here,” he said, motioning to the man in the robe. As T turned his attention to him, he could see the chains, mostly hidden in the folds of fabric.
“If he’s your friend, why is he in chains?” T asked, feeling a spark of anger rising. He had dismissed them earlier, thinking they were just part of an act. Now, he was outraged at them.
It was the man in the robe who spoke. “They are a necessary accessory. They do not restrain me, Mr. Abridd.” His voice was bright and clear, a sharp contrast to the echoing of Captain Henrickson. “I appreciate the concern, though it is unnecessary.”
The captain inclined his head inquisitively. “Your thoughts, Mr. Abridd?”
There was no slurring of words or monotone state to indicate drunkenness, drug or charm altering the man’s thoughts. Still, T thought it was a good idea to check. He touched a drawer on the desk. “I’m sure you’ll understand that I need to verify your sobriety,” he said.
The man laughed. “I am not drunk, nor do I have any magic worked on me, Mr. Abridd. However, if it will ease your mind, please check.”
T pulled out the simple Breathalyzer and Hexplate glasses. He fitted a tube to the Breathalyzer and put on the glasses. “I’ll need you to blow into this,” he said, walking forward and lifting the tube. He couldn’t see the man’s face in the hood, but the Hexplate glasses, made to detect malicious magic, picked up nothing. He nodded toward the hood. “Could you remove that please?”
The man tilted his head back so the hood fell away from his face. He was completely bald, with a sharp face. He opened his mouth and breathed a steady stream into the Breathalyzer. T nodded at the result and plucked the tube out, throwing it into the trashcan.
“Well,” he said with an exhale, “There are still a few things we’d need to make a living tattoo. First, we-“
He was cut off by the Viking, who lifted a canister from the bag. “Triadia Ink,” he said, his deep voice echoing in the same strange way as Captain Henrickson.
T took it, putting the Breathalyzer and Hexplate glasses back in the desk. He studied the ink, holding it up the light. He recognized the viscosity of Triadia Ink immediately. It was the highest quality living tattoo ink available. Without living ink, a living tattoo would never come to life – and without a tattoo wizard, the living ink would only act like a normal tattoo.
“And-“
“Ink to mark where the map is,” the Viking said, living out a vial of red ink. T avoided thinking about how it had been made.
“And for the island?” T asked.
“The ink will be provided shortly,” Captain Henrickson said. “In the meantime, here is what you’ll be tattooing.” He held out a piece of rolled parchment. T took it, still doubting if what he was doing was right.
“What if he doesn’t show?” the final man asked, his hand resting on the gun at his hip.
“He’ll be here,” Captain Henrickson said. “Mr. Guilderbrand is a man of his word.”
“Even men of their words cannot find impossible things,” the man scoffed.
“If anyone can,” Captain Henrickson quietly, but with finality, “It’s him.” There was a pause as Captain Henrickson examined him. “So, you will do this for us?”
T unrolled the parchment, revealing an archaic map. “The landmasses are all wrong on this one,” he said, looking up from it. “Do you want an updated one?”
“The Wandering Isle does not care for human corrections, Mr. Abridd,” the captain said. “Use the map we’ve given you, please.”
“Okay,” T said, waving a hand at his chair as he studied the map, his mind blocking it out into clear and distinct sections. The chair unfolded itself into a table, raising to the customary tattoo height. “I assume it’ll be on the back?” T asked, taking his seat and wheeling closer to the tattoo chair. “That’s the only space large enough to fit something like this.
“That’s correct,” the captain said as the canvas worked to pull off his robe. T began to ready his station uncapping the vial of ink and setting it into a holder on his table. He took a seat on his stool, wheeling closer to the canvas, who took a seat, preparing to lay down. “Have you ever been tattooed before?” he asked, not seeing any visible markings.
“Many times,” Captain Henrickson. “However, they are no longer visible.”
T looked at him, but did not question it. He laid out the map on the table, still studying it as he switched needles in his machine. He opted not to create a stencil – living tattoos didn’t particularly like them anyhow.
He took a glance over the man’s back, looking for any moles or scars that might make his work difficult. There were one or two that might pose a problem, but T wasn’t worried. He pushed away briefly from the chair and motioned at the curtains. They lowered, the light becoming even as the room became dependent on the artificial lighting.
T was about to turn back to his canvas when he noticed a faint bluish-green aura emanating from the pirates. He forced himself not to stare, but tucked it away in his mind, turning back to the canvas in front of him.
He uncapped the ink, preparing to start his work. As he reached for the tattoo machine, the dull roar of a motorcycle engine made its way through the wood of the walls. It stopped outside, and seconds later, there was a knock at the door. The woman peeked behind the curtain. “He’s here,” she said.
“Then let him in,” Captain Henrickson said, with a pointed look at the man who had been arguing with him. The man responded with a scowl, but moved out of the way of the door as it opened. The click of the lock reminded T that it had been locked without authorization earlier. The bell rang out in the silence, singing mysteriously for the new figure.
A tall, broad man entered. He wore a thick leather jacket, reflective sunglasses and a poker face that would have won any round of Texas Hold’em. Captain Henrickson looked at him and they exchanged a nod. “Mr. Abridd,” he said, looking back at the tattoo wizard, “Meet Mr. Guilderbrand. Mr. Guilderbrand, Mr. Abridd.”
Mr. Guilderbrand replied with only a nod. T decided it wasn’t worth the effort to speak, and nodded in response.
“Mr. Guilderbrand, do you have the ink?” Captain Henrickson asked.
Mr. Guilderbrand remained silent, but withdrew a canister of dark ink from within his jacket. He passed it forward, and T examined it in the light. It, too, was Triadia ink based. He assumed that whatever made it the dark color was from the Wandering Isle. He placed it in the holder next to the red ink, then turned back to his canvas, rolling his neck and shoulders. Then, his heart beginning to pound in his chest, he began his work.
Tattooing, especially a living tattoo, was not a quick process. T checked and rechecked before applying the ink, not wanting to mess this up, of all things. As he checked the tattoo, he watched the men out of the corner of his eye. The glow was persistent, and triggered some distant memory that he couldn’t recall.
Sweat trickled down the back of his spine, making him shiver slightly. He hadn’t been this stressed over a tattoo for a long time, and feeling the pressure now was not an experience he wanted to relive.
Time seemed to stretch and collapse at the same time. T could have been working for twenty minutes or two hours for all he knew. There was nothing except the buzz of the tattoo machine and wordless watching of the crew and Mr. Guilderbrand.
Finally, he looked up. “I’m going to place the markers,” he said. “The canvas first, because I know roughly where he is.”
“The map will guide you,” Mr. Guilderbrand said quietly. “The hard part is finished now.”
T looked at him, trying to study the eyes behind the sunglasses. All he saw, however, was the reflection of himself and the pirates. He turned back and picked up the red ink, preparing his needle. As his hands entered the perimeter of the tattoo, there was a tug on the needle, pulling it toward a singular point on the landmass that contained Newson Port. He made a simple red dot within the landmass, assuming it was directly where they stood. For a second, he imagined a massive needle crushing the roof of his shop and killing the canvas, but quickly brushed it aside.
He exchanged his ink and needle for the Wandering Isle ink. In the same way, as soon as his hands entered the area of the tattoo, it felt as though his hands were drawn to a distant part of the ocean. He allowed the ink to guide his work, sketching out the shape of an island.
In his peripheral vision, T noticed Captain Henrickson stepping closer to get a look at the position. There was a laugh, but at what, T didn’t know. He ignored his curiosity, attempting to finish the job.
“I’m done,” he finally said, leaning back from the canvas. The man, who had been so motionless that T had wondered if he was dead, finally stirred slightly. “I just need to wake it up.” He touched the corner of the tattoo, letting the ink begin to work the way it wanted to. Across the man’s back, the water began to ripple, and the clouds emblazoned at the top began to move in the direction of the wind outside. On his arm, Bartimaeus began to dance, responding to the magic being used.
“Thank you, Mr. Abridd,” Captain Henrickson said. “I cannot tell you how we appreciate your help in this matter.”
Mr. Guilderbrand pushed past the others to examine the map. After a brief examination, he nodded in satisfaction. T let out a long sigh, wiping the sweat off his brow and finally relaxing.
“We’ll take good care of it until it heals,” Captain Henrickson said, pulling up a sleeve to show an arm of faded tattoos. “We’re quite experienced in that realm.” He and the Viking helped the canvas to his feet, pulling the robe back over his head.
“Wait,” T said, “You have to put-“
“I said we’ll take care of it,” Captain Henrickson said, his tone flat and brokering no argument. He pulled the man’s arm, nodding toward the door. “Thank you for your service, Mr. Abridd. Mr. Nidge, please pay the man.”
The Viking pulled out the bag of coins again, and in that strange echoing voice said, “Don’t spend them all in one place.” As T took them, the Viking reached past him and took the vials of red and dark ink, leaving the Triadia in its place. “Enjoy it as a bonus,” he said, nodding toward it. He capped the vials, then handed the dark one to Mr. Guilderbrand and returned to his place beside the rest of the crew.
The door, unlocked again, opened and the bell rang, this time holding a sense of foreboding, but excitement for what was to come. “Will you tell me what you find?” T asked, looking up from the bag of gold.
Captain Henrickson paused at the door, then said, “We will see, Mr. Abridd.” Then he pulled the canvas forward. “Come along, Jacob.” He pulled the man out, and the rest of his crew followed him. The argumentative one was last. He threw a nasty sneer over his shoulder, then followed the others.
Only Mr. Guilderbrand remained. Still silent, he studied T for a long moment, then nodded. “You will be allowed to remain,” he said. His voice was deep and confident, and T was left confused by what he meant. Before he could ask, Mr. Guilderbrand turned and exited, closing the door behind him.
T slumped for a moment. Then, in shock, he sat upright and bolted out of his chair. “Wait, Jacob?” he shouted. “Jacob who? Jacob Abridd?”
He burst out of the door and into the hot Newson Port day. But there was no sign of the pirates. The only one there was Mr. Guilderbrand, who, with one final nod and a rev of his engine, pulled out into the street and likewise disappeared.
T watched him go, his heart pounding and mind racing. He turned around and entered the shop, locking the door behind him. The bell jangled softly – mysteriously. T waved a hand and sat down in the tattoo chair as it rose to become a seat again.
He didn’t understand half of what had happened. Nor was he sure if he wanted to understand. His hand reached out and touched the map that he had used as a reference. He lifted it up, surprised that Captain Henrickson had left it. He studied it again, though he knew the details intimately, then flipped it over to examine the back. In the lower right hand corner was a small signature beside the date “August 13th, 1897.” T read it, and felt a cold shudder sweep down his spine.
He realized he had seen this map and signature before. It was held in the digitized family history his oldest brother had put together. T scrambled for his tablet, inwardly screaming at how slow the internet was.
Finally, it loaded – a ship’s ledger from The Elmwood. T’s heart thudded as he read it. The first was no surprise. The second, the signature of the first mate, left his mouth dry and mind terrified.
Captain J. R. Abridd
First Mate, Jeremiah T. Henrickson
Like I said, this was the first story I wrote for Adventures in Fantasy, though I didn’t know it at the time. It’s based off a writing prompt that addressed the ideas of Magic Tattoos, one of them being a dragon that moved around on your skin. From there, I started thinking about the reasons behind needing a tattoo that moved – would there be more reason than just fun?
There were a lot more ideas on that prompt, and I’m looking forward to using more of them as time goes on. If you see a prompt (or have one) send it my way! I’d love to mull it over.
Keep an eye out! This cast, T especially, will show up soon enough. In the meantime, check out Adventures in Fantasy to read the whole collection! If you’ve already done that, check out the Library to find another read!