Welcome,
Dear soul,
To hear a tale born from the mist and memory of Lake Balaton.
A story of beauty,
Envy,
Sacrifice,
And the ego of ancient spirits who once shaped those lands.
There was a time,
Children,
Long before elegant people strolled the shores of Lake Balaton,
When only goats wandered there,
White as winter snow,
Soft as silk woven by angels.
And the herd belonged to an old woman,
A woman whispered to be touched by witchcraft.
Proud she was,
For she believed no creature under the heavens could ever match her goading beauty.
But time rose on,
And one day from nowhere and everywhere at once,
A young maiden arrived by the lake.
And behind her walked a herd of goats like no one had ever seen.
Their coats shimmered like sunlight on water,
Their weary hooves were made of gold,
And every step they took rang softly across the grass like distant bells beneath the earth.
When the old woman saw them,
Jealousy flooded her heart like poison,
For she knew these were not merely more beautiful than hers,
They were otherworldly.
The maiden,
Unaware of any danger,
Spent her days by the lakeshore,
Gazing at the stars reflected in the water,
While her goats roamed free under the protection of the one who watches all living creatures.
But envy never sleeps.
One night,
While the maiden lingered by the water,
The old woman called the ancient spirits to carve a deep trench between the land and the lake,
And at her summons the shore yielded.
The earth opened like a dark gate,
A gash drawn by forces older than the mountains.
And as the last clod of earth fell,
A storm rose without warning.
The lake rolled waves stronger like giants,
And the shore vanished beneath a single thundering breath.
The maiden ran,
Calling for her goats,
Until the water swept her away and carried her into the trench.
Her last cry echoed over the storm.
My goats,
My beautiful,
Beloved goats.
And then she was gone.
When the goats heard her voice,
They rushed toward the trench as if summoned by fate itself.
The old woman ran after them,
Thinking she could claim their golden beauty for her own.
But destiny had already spoken.
The golden goats leapt into the waters to follow the maiden they loved,
And the old woman's own goats,
Seeing their mistress run,
Followed blindly after her.
A single wave rose,
Wasp and merciless,
And swept them all into the depths.
Nothing remained of them but their tiny hooves,
Scattered along the lake's edge,
And even those turned to stone long ago.
So,
If someday you walk along Balaton's shore and find small,
Curved pebbles shaped like little hooves,
Hold them gently,
For they are all that is left of a love stronger than envy,
A loyalty deeper than storms,
And a story whispered from a time so old that only the stones remember.
