“Samuel struggled through the roots and brambles; he tripped often and grovelled in the dark tearing his trousers on the thorns. In time he reached the place, down on the bank, where the ground was damp and smelled of moss and decay. At the base of a massive willow he threw his load to the ground and paused to catch his breath.
When he knew for sure that he was untracked he bent to the task. The moon shone silver through dark branches as he turned the sod. With each swing of the long-handled pick a grunt escaped his gut, deep and guttural in the quiet. Muscles in his back and shoulders flexed and strained and he stopped often to wipe the dirty sweat that ran across his brow and stung his eyes. He stood back occasionally to assess the work shaking his head at the small results of his efforts.”