Henna And Her Sisters

I'm sure it was in the tail month of the summer of '38, when Reginald "Cuddy" Filmore decided to get himself inked. The boys and I were spending our lubber leave on the streets of Ceylon, celebrating after we'd brought the Mary Celeste safely into port through two salt storms and the biggest gull twister we'd ever seen. We landed our cargo of barge nails and the shore scrappers were filling our holds with iced tea leaves which we were contracted to bring to Bristol.

Well, me and Cuddy and the rest were sopped silly on Genoan grape liquer, and we weren't seeing the straight of it when we went into the shop of a Sri Lankan skin painter. Well, we all thought that this funny-gundy was a tattoo artist so Cuddy laid lown a few coins of silver, and had his back done up with a Scotch anchor held by two sultry she-pirates. It was a pretty piece of work, even if it were done in some ruddy brown colour, which we guessed was Indian ink. We figured it had to do with the darker skins of the locals, making it show up better.

Well ol' Cuddy sure was suprised the next time he took a bucket bath, because sure enough, his tattoo washed off like a week's worth of deck grime. It figured to me that these Indians didn't want to be messing up there bodies permanent-like, so they invented these tattoos in case their wives or girlfriends didn't approve.

It weren't a wonder now to know why Cuddy didn't scream a word when he was having it done--seeing as how there weren't a needle affixed. I myself screamed like a Maltese sea bat when I had my first tattoo drawn. Mind you, mine was done in dyed rat's blood carved in my skin with the dull end of a kelp knife.

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