In the beginning, after he labored over the heavens and the earth, the light and the dark, the land and the sea and all living things that dwelled therein, after he created man and woman and before he rested, I believe God gave us one final gift. Lest we forget the divine source of all that beauty, he gave us stories.

I am a storyteller. I live in a house in the shade of a sycamore tree on the banks of the Gilead river. My great-grandchildren, when they visit here, call me old.

"Old is a cliché," I tell them, with mock disappointment. "A terrible trivializing. An insult. I was born along with the sun and earth and moon and planets and all the stars. Every atom of my being was there at the very beginning."

"You're a liar." They scowl, but playfully.

"Not a liar, a storyteller," I remind them.

"Then tell us a story," they plead.

I need no goading. Stories are the sweet fruit of my existence and I share them gladly.

The events I'm about to share with you began on the banks of the Gilead. Even if you grew up in the heartland, you may not remember these things. What happened in the summer of 1932 is most important to those who experiences it, and there are not many of us left.

The Gilead is a lovely river, lined with cottonwoods already ancient when I was a boy.

Things were different then. Not simpler or better, just different.

We didn't travel the way we do now, and for most folks in Fremont County, Minnesota, the world was limited to the piece of it they could see before the horizon cut off the land. They wouldn't have understood any more than I did if you kill a man, you are changed forever. If that man comes back to life, you are transformed. I have witnessed that and other miracles with my own eyes. So, among the many pieces of wisdom life has offered me over all these years is this: Open yourself to every possibility, for there is nothing your heart can imagine that is not so.

The tale I'm going to tell you is of a summer long ago. Of killing and kidnapping and children pursued by demons of a thousand names. There will be courage in this story and cowardice. There will be love and betrayal. And, of course, there will be hope. In the end, isn't that what every good story is about?