Dull Blades, Frail Wings
By Evgenia Tumar
Fiction » 2022 Issue
Fiction » 2022 Issue
For me the world has ended twice.
First, four years ago, when I fell from my triple Axel and lost two thirds of my front tooth and the Olympic gold. I was young (barely sixteen) and naive (imagine, spending more time on the ice than in school) and I had my eyes only on the gold (that’s still true, but just for the Olympics). As I stood on the podium, clutching my bronze medal like a maniac and sucking on my own blood – I also managed to split my lip – I thought, that’s it, that is the way the world ends, not with a bang but with a fall. My mom said, I looked like an onryō, a vengeful Japanese ghost. I think, the look was more of an angry badger. Don’t look up the pictures.
The second time, well. I guess, it did end with the fall.
International Skating Union – Calendar of Events, Season 2025/26
Autumn Classic International – Vancouver, Canada
September 12-14
I am keeping a calendar of events because my former coach taught me to. It’s a force of habit by now. Write down your expectations. Keep track of your diet. Meticulously mark down all the mistakes. Repeat for the next competition.
I am not sure there will be a next competition.
When this whole thing started in May, I didn’t pay much attention. I’d just returned to Vancouver from the short vacation and restarted my training. The temperatures rose everywhere suddenly, by at least four degrees. Scientists began to refer to it as the New Younger Dryas Event. They were in a panic. I was at the rink trying to learn a new jump, a quad Flip.
The skies went maroon overnight. You could hear sirens wail on the streets, “The End is Nigh” and all that apocalyptic crap. I was at the rink working on the new choreography for the season.
One day creatures started falling from the sky. Some of them just lumps of bizarre matter, some with the likeness of deranged gargoyles. There were people who claimed they saw creatures that had wings and resembled us. Of course, the man-made environmental catastrophe got traded for aliens immediately. I didn’t see anything. I was at the rink, practicing spins and step sequences. Thinking it was all a big joke.
Then, in June, the electricity went off. The global blackout. People began to die. Quickly. In large numbers. All the ice melted at my rink, as the system could no longer sustain it. I had to reenter the outside world.
And I thought, I remember it very clearly, I thought, I hope this shit is over before the Olympics.
I am still pissed off. The life of a figure skater is a short one. You get two to three Olympic cycles, sometimes just one. The Olympic Games in Milan would be my last chance to win that gold.
In June my parents were in Japan, visiting our family. I lost contact with them when my phone died. I barricaded in our apartment to lie low for the initial chaos outside.
So, here I am. Still in Vancouver in September. It is a ghost of a city. Frozen in time, amid deserted cars and buses and the shredded glass of former shop windows.
I practice my programs off ice now. My short program hasn’t been choreographed, so I keep the one from the last season. Einaudi’s “Experience.” Airy, with a note of hope. The long one is “Prelude in C Sharp Minor” by Rachmaninoff. When I train that one, I pretend I am the angel of Death, sinister, vengeful, merciless.
Expectations: for this to be over as soon as possible.
Diet: cans and cans of food, hoarded in the first days of blackout.
Mistakes: it’s hard to train when the music is only in your head. I think the rhythm is off a bit. All fifteen jumps are perfect, though. No wonder, it’s easier to land them on solid ground.
Skate Canada – London, Canada
November 13-15
We, figure skaters, are tougher than we look. I know, most people think of glitter and graceful movements, maybe, or the sharp blades on our feet, when they think of us. They can’t imagine the amount of training it takes to be able to jump and spin and perform those graceful movements even for four minutes.
Who knew that a competitive figure skater would be a perfect survivalist?
I have great stamina. Food? I am used to eating less while working out more. Lack of water? Ha! You are not supposed to drink during competitions – not a drop – even an extra 100 grams of weight matter for your jumps. Washing your mouth with water is a luxury. Sometimes, I would imagine stopping my performance and just licking the ice. Anyway, I can handle thirst and physical exercise if I can’t find fresh water for a day or two.
I envy biathletes. I wish I could both run and shoot. Not that I’ve ever owned a gun. I used to judge hunters, but now I regret my non-existent hunting skills.
I am on the move, desperately trying to reach London, Ontario in time for the first Grand Prix event. Yes, I know there is no ice, even outside, which is uncanny, to be honest. You’d expect ice and snow in mid-November Saskatchewan.
I’ve taken some maps from an abandoned Barnes & Noble and I move at nights, avoiding highways and big cities. I am reluctant to meet other people. I am afraid they would try to rob me or rape me. Even wild nature seems more predictable. My trail is marked with abandoned cars, locked houses, and the stars, shining brighter with no artificial lights to interfere with their everlasting glow. The sky is still red in daylight, as if somebody has slit the throat of the Universe.
Expectations: to reach London in a month. To stay sane.
Diet: not enough meat.
Mistakes: it’s getting harder to go through the whole routine. I am getting tired. I must force myself to practice.
Cup of Russia – Moscow, Russia
November 20-22
I encounter my first unnatural creature – it resembles a chimera with the body of a miniature black dog and the head of a snake – and I kill it with the blade of my skates. It’s instinctive, the skate is the first thing I reach for. There is no blood but the creature reeks. The smell is a mixture of sulfur and rotten fruit. I wonder if the creature is alien. It doesn’t seem to be intelligent enough for an extraterrestrial being.
I touch the blade of my skate. Not as sharp as it used to be. But still deadly.
My girlfriend Dinara had a deep scar that ran from her nose to her cheekbone. Her partner slashed her face during a parallel spin when she was twelve. It’s rarely that extreme, but there is hardly a skater who hasn’t slashed their hand or leg with their blades. As if they demand a human sacrifice – spill your blood on the ice for the smile of figure skating gods.
Di had been training in Russia. I texted her relentlessly, before the power went out. I miss her. I miss being around other people. I long to be in Russia. Maybe, somewhere in Siberia, there is a place where lakes are frozen, and skaters can still practice and compete. I haven’t skated on ice for six months and it scares me. I don’t think I exist outside skating; I haven’t since I was four. Even though I understand, everyone has lost their jobs and hobbies, I can’t shake off the cruel irony of being a skater in the world without ice.
I have no expectations, my diet is scarce, and I only train triple Axel. Poorly.
Grand Prix Final – Sendai, Japan
December 11-14
I meet the Winged creature in the forest. I stumble upon a shape on the ground, half-hidden by the leaves and branches of a fallen, black ash tree. At first, I think they are some unfortunate humans, pinned down by the tree after one of the recent storms. Then I notice their wings. Not white and feathery, but quite thin and bat-like, their color matching the creature’s skin. The wings’ state is poor. One of them is clearly broken and buried under the tree’s trunk. Both are filled with holes the size of my hand. I don’t think they are functional.
As I approach the figure, it raises its head.
The face is ageless and genderless. If you look directly into it, there is this feeling, almost indescribable. Like something ancient and primeval is moving inside your chest with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The closest thing to it, for me, would be waiting for the judges’ scores after a particularly emotional skate. But as soon as you turn away, it is impossible to tell whether the face is male or female, young or old, gorgeous or plain. You can read its emotions, but the features are forgettable.
It is true what people said. They do resemble us. I decide that “they” are a “he.” Perhaps just to humanize the strange being.
He is clearly suffering. His eyes plead. I could never lift the tree. And I see no other way but to cut a part of his trapped wing. I take the larger knife I have on me and start the tedious work. He jerks up violently when the blade makes its first cut, but then keeps himself utterly still. It takes at least fifteen minutes of my cutting and his painful groaning, before he is free.
When the winged man stands up, wretched and feeble, I understand that I am not scared of him. He is tall, at least 6’5’’, and ethereal. His body, shaped like a human’s, is somehow elusive. The wings are large and still beautiful in their decay.
He nods, as if thanking me. We, two weak shapes, build the fire together for our night in the forest.
Canadian Nationals – Montreal, Canada
January 5-11
Look, I am not religious. I don’t believe in God, or Heaven and Hell, or angels. That’s why I am trying not to label the winged man as one. It’d be the easiest explanation. But I don’t know if I am ready to accept that fallen angels exist. Or that they might have caused the end of my world.
It would be too tactless to ask, “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” Judging by the state of his wing, it did. Whether he fell from heaven or some other place.
And I am not even sure if the winged man can talk or if I would be able to understand his tongue. He still hasn’t uttered a word.
We travel together. Mostly in silence. He’s never tried to touch me, so I let down my guard a bit. I am grateful for the company, and he, I believe, for the rescue. He is a natural hunter. He attracts animals like a magnet, and we kill his following of deer and moose. I am happy to have some meat at last.
At night I dream of skating. Just the simple, soothing mechanics of it, the rhythmic gliding. As I gain more speed – wind in my face, tossing my hair back – and prepare for a jump, it feels like I am flying. Then, I do my signature jump and leave the hard surface behind. In my dream, I keep spinning, never landing again.
I only fill in the calendar of events in my head now. I’ve stopped practicing. Don’t have much strength anymore even with the improvements in my diet.
Four Continents Championships – Seoul, South Korea
January 20-25
I would have skipped this event anyway, let’s be honest. Too close to the Olympics.
The winged man and I cross the former US border.
Before the blackout, my friend Adam texted me, “See you at the Olympics (and Worlds).” There is no way I can cross the ocean for the former. But I might be able to reach Boston in time for the latter. Not as a competitor. More like a pilgrim. I want to see all these iceless rinks, the sacred ruins of my former life.
Winter Olympics – Milan, Italy
February 8-22
Around the time of the Olympics, it, finally, begins to snow. Or burn. It is hard to tell. The snow is black like ashes, but cold like ice crystals. The temperature drops a little too.
“Look, it’s a miracle,” I say, but the winged man doesn’t seem to find it amusing.
It’s only natural that in a week or so we encounter a frozen lake. From a distance, it looks like polished glass. I rush to touch its surface in disbelief. Smooth. Unlike the surgical whiteness of the rinks and their ice, this ice is an uncanny mixture of the scarlet above and the indigo waters below. It gazes back at me with awe, reflecting my own ecstatic face. I am not religious, but if I were ice would be my shrine and my temple. My skating, a prayer to the gods of my sport. I touch the ice again – a swift brush of my lips – like I kissed the Olympic ice four years ago in Pekin. The winged man does not interrupt my rituals.
I lace up my skates and step on the ice. At first, I feel like I am four again, stepping out on it for the very first time – a frozen pond near my childhood house – too lost and anxious to move my feet. Afraid of the fall. Then, the muscle memory reminds me what to do and I start with some simple steps, a couple of cross rolls and choctaws. Even gliding fills me with joy. I haven’t felt such intense glee in the last six months. I haven’t been myself in the last six months. I attempt a simple jump, a double toe loop, and squeak when I land it. At the moment, I don’t think even an Olympic gold would have made me so happy.
I hear the cracks before I see or feel them. The ice is too thin, the temperature too warm. I move slower than the cracks. Ready to be buried in the icy water, a voice in my head insists, better die in your skates, than live without skating. The ice breaks under my blades and I fall. Upwards, not into the depth of the lake, for some reason. I realize that it’s my winged man and we are floating above the lake.
But his (one and a half) wings are too frail. He can’t fly, not really. He only manages to lift us up for about two feet. His touch is unnaturally hot. Too hot. If we flew longer, I would’ve got burns under my armpits. We collapse on the snow, laughing (me) and croaking (him). I am still laughing when I notice that he studies the lake intensely. It can’t be, but the lake is burning. Flames eating away the last remnants of ice.
He rises from the black shore and steps into the water. A winged, broken figure in the middle of a fiery lake. Next, he looks at the skies and begins to howl.
World Championships – Boston, USA
March 23-29
We sleep on campus of Boston college. It’s eerie. The empty halls. The rooms, still decorated with polaroid photos and posters on the walls, fairy lights and flags of various states. I take the bed under Wyoming and fall asleep with uneasiness, as if the owner of the bed might return to claim it in the middle of the night.
Somehow, we end up sightseeing in the morning. I have been to Boston before, but never to Chestnut Hill. It’s lovely and awfully quiet. No human noise to distract from human art. I think architecture moves him. We peer inside various buildings, until we reach Gasson Hall. It’s grand and reminiscent of a church. We stop in front of a marble statue of two winged figures, fighting. One presses the other to the ground with his foot. They don’t look particularly like my winged man; they’re too human, their wings too small and bird-like. Their faces too memorable. I read the engraving, “Statue of the Archangel Michael Triumphing Over Lucifer.” My winged companion has almost turned into a statue himself in front of my eyes. He studies the two angels twice as long as everything else this morning. There is eternal sadness in his unmoving eyes. I wonder if he sees himself in Michael or in Satan. I want to comfort him but I don’t know how.
When we finally go outside, he addresses me for the first time.
“I can’t go up anymore. The only way is down.” His voice is like his face. I wouldn’t be able to describe its pitch or even the language he uses.
He adds words that are softer, “It’s not the end of your world.”
I want to ask him many questions. “Is God real and did we get him right?”, “Are you going to Hell?”, “Will you become human if you stay here?”. “Will I see you again?” I want to give him a hug too.
I don’t dare. He kneels right there on the street in the dirt. Suddenly, a pale hand reaches out from under the ground. The winged man intertwines his fingers with the pale hand’s. The gesture is almost intimate. The hand drags him down and the ground swallows him whole, leaving no trace that the winged man has walked this earth.
This is more shocking, more surreal, than the blazing lake and the red sky and the existence of winged men. I sit on the ground in a stupor, tracing the place where the hand appeared. Silently, I summon him back. But the earth doesn’t open again.
It takes me about two and a half hours to reach TD Garden in downtown Boston, where this year’s World Championships were to be held. Outside, it’s a grotesque gray box. It seems as empty as I am on the inside. I feel nothing. No momentum. No big revelation.
I return to the arena two more times the following day. It’s at the center of Boston, after all. I hear my name carried by the wind as I am preparing to leave for the third time.
“Mako?”
“Mako Himura!”
For a second, I think he came back for me.
I see a group of people running to me from the left side of the arena. I recognize many of them. My good friend Adam. Aimee, my longtime US rival. Boris, the Russian singles skater who trains in California. Mr. Volkov, Aimee and Adam’s coach. Corentin and Génie, the French ice-dancers based in Detroit. Half a dozen young kids, barely novices by the look of it, shout my name and wave. Even from a few feet away, I can see they are weary and hungry and gaunt. So, that is what Adam meant in his text. They are pilgrims too.
They surround me and hug me and start talking all at once.
“Should we play cards to decide who wins the title?” Aimee says. And for that alone, I am eager to hand over gold to her willingly.
I take Adam’s hand in mine, trying to mimic what I saw yesterday. Trying to find comfort in our intertwined fingers.
I think of my angel – I’ve decided I am ready to call him that – and I am not surprised to discover that in my mind he is faceless again. The memories of his touch and his voice already slipping away, melting quickly like the ice in this new, hot world. I hope, he is happier among his brethren.
I am not sure, if I am happier among mine.
Finally, I give up and embrace Adam. My eyes rest on the arena again. The sky above it seems more purple than red today. And I swear, I see a weak light flicker in the lamp at the arena’s entrance.