When the Ghosts Ring || Kogda Duhy Pozvony

Prologue

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Prologue

The Night of Ivan Kupala

Midsummer celebration was cheerless like never before for three of four heart-sisters. Svetlana, Senka and Gorya, their hands linked with those of the village people, played the kolo, a round around the glorious bonfire that burned on the riverside of Mrzla. The flames resembling fiery red hair, or maidens hands, almost reached heaven's this year. The three pairs of cheeks become strawberry-red, from dancing and the burning warmth. Sheer joy, euphoric shrieks and youthful faces fly and dance around them, opposing the sisters' melancholy.

Little Lada, the fourth of the bunch, lays at home, alone, in her bed, and sick. With her petite body burning with heat, her lips dry and chapped, her sweet face now lacking the crimson. Her mother strokes her hand. "Suhochka, suhochka...", tuberculosis, the woman cries, softly cursing the disease that will take her kin. Not a dozen years will Lada see. With the little strength she had left the girly tightened the grip on her mother's finger, to catch her attention. "Zovi... druzhke mi pozovi..." (Call, call my friends). She barely whispered out her last wish, with her usually lively high-pitched voice that now came out of her throat broken and raspy. A soft hand was layed on Lada's golden, sweat covered, locks. The next second, her father was already running through the door, and to the river, where the festival took place.

Svetlana's eyes skimmed every dark corner, hoping she'd see her dear fried emerging, smiling and dancing like she always did. Instead, with her focus away from the shining and singing, she heard a familiar man's voice call her name. "Gorya! Svetlana! Senka!". Without hesitation she walked over to him, letting go of the frolicking hands that chained her. "Čto? Čemu prehayayte?" (What? What do you come for?), words of obvious worry flew out of her. "Lada yest, hoche vas vedyeti..." (It's Lada, she wants to see you). She stopped the breath that was in the middle of leaving her lungs, at the shock of learning her friend still lives, but the weight pushed it out once Svetlana realised not for long. She called for the other two girls, who left the dancing folk in a similar manner to Svetlana's. Her eyes told them what was the matter.

Their bare and tender feet barely touched the ground. They ran, following the path they could take with their eyes closed and only by following their hearts. Lada's home was on the outskirts of Vesna Krayna, the village that was their world and being. Flowy white skirts of linen stood out in the darkness that surrounded them, and flew almost on their own. And finally, the now sore feet arrived.

The three girls walked in, slowly, unable to clam their breathing, they sighed through the soft greetings, "Pozdrav. Privyet. Zdravo.", each bowed their head to the mother. "Lada, drago moye, ovde ysu" (Lada, darling, they are here), her mother brought her back to the preset, as she almost already drifted. Svetlana, Senka, Gorya and Little Lada were all together once more. The sickly child smiled at her sisters with her eyes barely agape, but her hear open. The girls, with tears cooling their hot faces, returned the favour. "I missed you devke (girls)... you... do you remember that time we... stole Mister Vadim's cherries? Oh, they were the sweetest I ever tasted...", with surprising sanity Lada spoke. "Yes, we could tell by the two dresses of yours that day - you came in a white one and left in a red one..." Svetlana's voice rang, desperately trying to make the heavy atmosphere lighter, yet she had to bite her bottom lip in order to stop herself from sobbing. And how could they not recall, one of the last days they've seen Lada well. Twas early summer, only a moth had passed since. But poor Senka couldn't hide her sorrow no more, and she softly weeped, even turning her back to her friends, feeling ashamed for crying. "Don't cry Senka... In a matter of a month I'll be running around, no body will even remember I was ever sick..." Lada's words now took her longer to say, she spoke slower as she was growing tired, yet her smile didn't surrender. A bitter-sweet chuckle bounced off of the dark oak walls. Everyone present laughed at Lada's optimism, even though they knew her words to be false, and so did poor Lada herself.

The little one started again, now more serious and sincere, "Lyubim te, matka... i tebe oche" (I love you mom, you too father), she began her goodbyes. "And you girls...", Lada smiled, taking each of their faces in one last time. The round and red cheeks of Gorya, the eldest. The shining blonde, almost white, hair of Senka, which Lada always secretly desired. And finally, the forest-like eyes of Svetlana, that sent Lada nothing less of love and sincere empathy. "...hvala... i lyubim vas..." (Thank you, and I love you), Lada finished her thought, without an ending tone. "Lyubim tebe takoy-" (I love you, too), Gorya went to answer, but Lada couldn't hear her. She was already asleep, found her rest, dreaming of eternity, drifting through the ends of time. Dramatic and cold silence followed, as realisation washed over the old house.

A female voice let out a piercing cry the way only a childless mother can, and it sure did reached Mrzla.