The next morning, Louis rose before the sun. He could not bring himself to even look at the aged building. "I've got to get away from this place," he told himself. Borrowing a horse from his uncle, the stable master, he rode straight away from the village.
Louis rode far to the north. He went beyond the roads, beyond even where shepherds take their summer flocks. He was not used to taking such long rides, and at times it seemed his muscles were on fire. But he rode on.
By mid-afternoon, he reached the head of the valley. The river was now small enough to cross with a few hops. "Back in the village," thought Louis, as he looked south, "the river was wider than the cathedral…" The cathedral, driving him away.
Louis turned north again. Before him loomed the Forbidden Hills, a wild land of thorn forests, wolves, and, according to the storytellers, witches.
"Too scary," he told himself. "I don't belong here." But when he turned around, the memory of the rotting beams loomed more frightful than anything his eyes might see, more painful than anything his body might feel.
And something mysterious was drawing him into those hills.
The trail led to the base of the slope and into a thicket of stunted trees and prickly shrubs. Louis dismounted, and led his horse up the steep and narrow path. A cloud of yellow dust rose around him, filling the air, sticking to his sweaty face. Thorns snagged his clothes and pricked his skin.
He trudged around and up hill after hill after hill. Turning back was no longer an option. Finally, the trail leveled, and the thicket began to open up. Louis followed the way between two huge boulders, rounded a corner, and gasped.
