There had been a time when the old man walked the trail carrying his son, Joseph, on his back and hardly worked up a sweat. Those days were now only a distant memory. Once again he had to stop to catch his breath. How he wished he had those days to relive. Not so he would be young once more, but so he would never start his son on the path to take his place as the shaman of his people. Joseph’s youthful ambition to learn the ways and magic of his people gladdened his father’s heart in those early days.

I know you have heard my tale before, but I'm here to set the record straight. My name is Rumplestiltskin. All that happened in my story is mostly true. But there was no malicious intent. That's where my point of view differs.

It started out as a simple stroll through the graveyard....

I would like to tell you a story if you will take the time to listen. It is the story of how all this began. How I ended up here in Ireland, and why I can never leave. It is not a long tale, and some may even think it inconsequential, but to me it is the most important story of all.

On the 7th day, of the 6th month, of the 15th year of The Great Rain, High Priest Guymon Forde trudged through the thick mud and wet grass with the babe in his arms. The child’s screams as the rain came down in drenching sheets was frequently taken over by the crashing thunder and violent shaking of the trees from the wind. Forde tried to give what comfort he could to the babe, who had come into this world not even an hour ago, as he made his way through the Forest of Light towards his destination, The Hanging Rock.