This fairy tale was inspired by a walking seminar through Istria’s mythical landscape. Reflections on the region’s symbols, stories, and natural features were woven into a new narrative blending heritage-making and imagination. This story is a collaboration between researcher Dr. Martina Bofulin and the AI tool ChatGPT, exemplifying an experiment in contemporary authorship between human and machine.
One spring morning, a curious gathering assembled above Rodik in the Brkini Hills, where the green heart of the mythical park unfolds beneath Ajdovščina: three giants — Ban Dragonja, his wife Mirna, and daughter Draga — Kresnik Zoran with eyes golden as the sun, three fairies — Silva, Mira, and Ruma — the eccentric Orko, and the witch Zobina, who was, as always, slightly late.
‘If no one calls us by name anymore, we’ll vanish into oblivion, sighed fairy Silva, adjusting her veil made of mist.
‘That’s why we’re here,’ rumbled Ban Dragonja. ‘I’ve heard of something called a ‘walking seminar’. It’s not just a walk — it’s moving with a purpose and meaning. Educational, and full of experience. Maybe that’s exactly what we need.’
Zoran nodded: ‘Along the way, we’ll visit places where our history still whispers through stone and wind. We must learn how to share that history with the people of today.’
‘As long as it doesn’t turn into too much lecturing,’ muttered Zobina, tucking a hellebore flower behind her ear and flicking her tail.
And so, the group of nine set off along the Lintver Path in the Rodik Mythical Park toward the Lake. There, the Lintver’s tail still left traces in the dew. Mira whispered to the old trees about the Rodiška Baba, the one who ‘makes the weather’, hoping the trees would pass on the stories — to children who would one day sit in their shade.
‘There’s still something alive here,’ said Draga with a smile, as a sprite ran past with last year’s autumn leaves in its hair.
‘This is only the beginning,’ said Orko, who was now in the form of a dog. He winked at a child who was watching him through binoculars from a hidden spot.
When they reached the Tower above Kubed, the giants paused. ‘We once sat here and gazed far across the valley,’ said Ban Dragonja. ‘I built this tower, and your mother tamed the Rižana River so that it would no longer flood.’
‘And I left my heart in the stone,’ Mirna said softly.
But today people no longer hear the voices in stones. They walk by, taking pictures with their phones. Only three children at the edge of the path tried to listen.
Fairy Ruma whispered to them: ‘Stories are bridges. They connect the heart to a place. Help build them.’
The path led them across the Slovenian-Croatian border to Gračišće. The sun was already setting when they arrived. Kresnik Zoran shone like a beacon, and the fairies stopped at the church where girls had once hammered iron nails into stone to ensure fertility.
‘If they wanted life, they offered a nail. And who brings hope today?’ Silva asked quietly.
For the first time, Zobina grew serious. ‘Maybe not all witches are evil, even if they have tails,’ she said, stepping before the church. The nails in the stone creaked softly — as if they were smiling.
They paused at the Sopot waterfall, where the full moon spread silver across the water.
Orko transformed into a donkey and carried Mirna, whose leg hurt. Silva and Ruma danced. Zoran closed his eyes and dreamed of all the mythical beings of Istria. In his dreams, they told him: ‘Write us into the world. Let children learn from the earth, not just from paper.’
The journey ended at the large wooden table by the stone bridge. Mira handed out sheets of parchment, and they each wrote a story:
Zobina: About how witches aren’t all evil.
Orko: About how being lost can be beautiful, because someone might find you.
Draga: About what it means to be the daughter of giants and still have a girl’s heart.
Zoran: About battles fought not with swords, but with understanding.
The fairies wove the stories together with threads of light, and Orko, now transformed into a bird, scattered them beneath the Tower, along the Lintver path in Rodik, and beside the church in Gračišće.
In the morning, people walked the paths again. Children opened mailboxes. They read the first story. Then the second. They smiled. They looked to the sky.
Somewhere high above, a bird winked.
‘Maybe not everyone will ever know us again,’ said fairy Silva. ‘But it’s enough if a few children do.’
Ban Dragonja nodded: ‘The number nine holds power. Nine beings. Three places. One story. Our heritage lives on.’
And if one day, you find yourself in the forests of Istria and hear a tree whisper or spot a footprint larger than your head, remember someone is watching, to ensure the world never forgets its own roots.
