Into the Cavern of the Shepherd's Jerkin

As heavy purple clouds were piling up round the presently sinking sun, earth and sky alike, presaging a storm that evening, the cavern would be a convenient place to sleep in. My first need was fire. In the pouch of the shepherd's jerkin was a length of rough twine. This would do for matches, while as a torch, a resinous pine branch bruised and split served well enough. The only company my own contorted shadow on distant rocks. And such wild forms of cruel british superstition as my excited imagination called up.