THE EPISTOLARY EPIC OF JACK DANTE
by Derk Bramer
To his father and his mother, Jack Dante, their eldest son, on the twenty-third day of September sends filial veneration with love.
It is within the iron-girded innards of this steel horse (so aptly termed “locomotive”) from which I write to you, and as you have so persistently insisted I maintain regular correspondence, I am more than willing to oblige. There is a fair distance yet to travel before this engine has reached its destination, and thus I have ample time in which to compose the first of many letters. I must note, however, that during the course of my stay, I may be so occupied as to scarcely have occasion for constant communication.
As this locomotive chugs steadily along its path, I cannot help but marvel at the recent innovations of our time. How shortly ago it was that carriages and caravans were the only feasible methods of traveling afar, but now the very continent is naught but a train ticket away. The scenery I have passed is eclectic at best, sometimes dazzling and other times drab, but surely these sites will pale in comparison to what waits for me at the end of these tracks.
The journey thus far has been uneventful, but I hold great anticipation for the days to come. I have heard only wondrous tidings of this new setting in my life, such that nothing could possibly dampen my spirits. Rest, then, knowing that this foray into parts unknown shall be worth our temporary partition, and now that I have at last embarked upon this venture I shall do my best to learn all there is to know of both this foreign province and that which its indigenous folk have to offer.
Jack Dante, to his beloved Lady Beatrice, sends on the twenty-fifth day of September the sweetness of imperishable love and his most intimate blessings.
My dearest love, it has been scarcely a week since I last held you in my arms, but already I find myself despondent by the loss of your sweet words and gentle caress. Temporarily confined as I am within my room by my unfamiliarity with the landscape, my thoughts have turned so invariably to you as to further invigorate my insuperable inclination to hear from you posthaste. As we both have always devoted ourselves to attaining the common attribute of unwavering honesty, it is with the goal of neither embellishing my adversities nor downplaying my difficulties that I shall endeavour to give as accurate an account of my situation as possible. Let it be known, then, that from hereon all of my messages, both to you and to others, will be as faithful an account as a gentleman of integrity can muster.
When I referred to my current location as “my room,” for instance, the wording was quite generous (if I may say so myself) regarding my living quarters in which I shall dwell through the duration of my incursion. I had never been of the claustrophobic sort, but upon arriving and unpacking my few belongings, I could not help but sympathize with a body trapped within a coffin under the pressure of two metres of well-packed dirt. With this in mind, I admit that “my room” is a malapropism in that it is neither roomy nor mine. For alas! Not even the kingliest of cadavers are allowed solitude in their own sepulchers. Once buried, everyone from the pauper to the prince must share their final resting places with the weevils and the worms.
And so it was that no sooner had I finished settling into this unsettling setting than a second skeleton was stuffed into the sarcophagus. Indeed, this fellow is as gaunt as he is pale, a skeletal frame draped in rags. After we had introduced ourselves to one another, any further attempt to strike up conversation with this shambling tatterdemalion lapsed promptly into silence. Perhaps, though, he is as uncomfortable to find himself in such a strange new land as I, and therefore I feel obligated as a fellow traveler to give him the benefit of the doubt. Who knows? Mayhap we might even grow to be friends, if there is an amiable companion somewhere underneath that disheveled appearance.
I must note, however, that it is only because he has recently left with an assortment of strange paraphernalia, the purpose of which is as of yet unknown to me, that I find myself at liberty to write on the day’s occurrences. Needless to say this is not the paradise I envisioned, but whether this is heaven or hell will remain a mystery to me until I have gained a better measure of this region and its customs. Until then, my darling, I will attempt to make the most of my situation, and so long as I have your enduring support and affection, remain confident that I will emerge from this bestial den so much the better for having bested whatever trials may come.
To his father and his mother, Jack Dante, their starveling son, on the first day of October sends servitude of filial veneration.
Whilst previously I have been subsisting on the provisions with which you had provided me before the outset of this misadventure, my supplies have dwindled, and rather than face starvation I relinquished my pride and my palette by dining in the communal hashery. I entered through the heavy double doors, and when my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, I saw before me a sprawling hive of gluttony and excess. Countless boors quaffed beverages as bitter and murky as their souls whilst the harlots at their sides picked pusillanimously at vegetables as wilted and bland as their personalities. And everywhere there was a general sense of bustling disorganization which put the mind into an incurable state of uneasiness. What struck me peculiar about the hirelings was their acceptance of servitude. Mindlessly they apply themselves to their tasks, shuffling about and muttering incomprehensibly to nobody in particular. Their gibberish, however, was but a whisper amongst the wailing which reverberated through the hall, only adding to the cacophony which jarred the ears and unsettled the senses.
Reluctantly, but compelled by hunger, like a gudgeon of the Eastern socialist regime I filed in line with a thousand other nameless faces to receive my daily rations, and once it was finally my turn I gathered what few dishes looked harmless enough not to induce nausea, and sat alone, as there were few seats left available even in this vast structure, in front of a window facing a bleak field of weeds, where I took a closer look at the gilded gunk which was to be my nourishment.
Presentation is important in a meal, as anyone will agree, but even the most cultured connoisseur understands that there is a point at which no amount of colourful trappings can substitute clean, wholesome cooking. With this in mind I was wary of the plates in front of me, but when appearances fall short, hunger can act sufficiently as some much-needed spices. For, because even the hardiest of men require sustenance, I had little choice but to accept whatever foodstuffs were given me, and so, steeling my stomach, I began my repugnant repast. The provisions looked and smelled fresh, vibrant, but the mouth cannot be so easily deceived, for mine own taste buds testified that underneath the garish frills, this food was little more than the same decay I had come to expect. The vegetables were green pustules of rot, a mockery of Nature’s bounty corrupted by the taint which had saturated the very soil of the land. I would, perhaps, have found it both more delicious and more nutritious to have hunkered down into a heaping bucket of bilge, but unfortunately it was well into the afternoon, and bilge was served only during the early morning mealtime hours.
And the meat – O! the meat! – consisted of naught but the carrion scraps left over from the vultures and the hyenas. Try as I might, any search for some precious protein was invariably in vain. After digging past the tangles of wet hair and picking out the yellowed teeth so meticulously arranged on my chipped and weathered plate, I managed to procure only the most miniscule morsel of gray, blotchy slivers from an animal whose loathsome origins I could not begin to fathom. But, thankful even for this meager modicum of meat, I made every effort to savour it despite the fact that it had been hewn from a carcass left to shrivel in the desert for far too long.
So lost was I in the daunting task of digesting this bilious swill that I did not notice one of the pinheaded laborers hunched over me until it let out a bark which, as you might imagine, gave me quite a start. Judging from the inflection of its guttural snarl, and by the relative emptiness which now pervaded a place just shortly ago teeming with crowded masses, I could only surmise that I had outstayed my welcome. This was rather fine by my estimation, as I had already demeaned my own dignity by deigning to dine on slop unsuited for swine. Would I could only be back at my own dining table, settling down with the family to a hearty, home-cooked meal! Had I known that this dominion was not exotic but toxic, never would I have hungered for exploration; it seems I have lost my appetite for this exploit entirely.
Jack Dante, to his precious Lady Beatrice on the thirteenth day of October sends steadfastness of personal devotion.
Dearest love, although at this hour I suffer from aching soreness, I cannot resist the urge to write you a moment longer; for writing you my thoughts and feelings has become an invaluable therapy which dulls my pain and reinvigorates my spirits. Allow me, then, to enlighten you as to why I hurt thusly.
Just this morning I felt so inclined as to take a stroll out of doors, for I have been far too negligent of my research as of late due to malnutrition and other such ill humours and decided that a bit of ambulatory exploration may cure me of my general distaste for these strange, unsavoury settings. After a few good minutes of walking I saw a sizeable group of natives heading for some nearby ruins. Joining their exodus, I soon arrived in a coliseum, where vast numbers had gathered to witness the events transpiring in the center of the arena. Gladiators were locked in combat, throwing themselves at one another in a berserk frenzy of havoc and violence. A centaur galloped around the outskirts of the battlefield, inciting the teeming crowds to roar in approval of the bloodshed.
Disgusted by the people’s worship of such barbarism, I left promptly, regretful for ever having left the confines of my cell. But no sooner had I started back on the path which would lead me to my quarters than was I knocked to the ground by a tremendous force which had hit me from behind. Through the blood which streamed over my eyes I made out the retreating shape of a mounted rider. He had not so much as paused to ascertain my well-being, but then again I should have by now realized that it would be folly to hope for compassion in this wolves’ den. My clothes had been ripped and my skin was scarred by this unwarranted collision, but I had no other option than to heave myself to my feet and hobble forward, from that point on listening for the sound of approaching riders so as not to be so callously battered again.
I had set forth toward what I thought would be Paradise, but have landed directly in the scorching hellfire of the Inferno. I have vowed that I will escape in no more than two fortnights, and then I shall be back within your loving embrace. Until that day arrives, my love, may God give me the strength to persevere.
To his father and his mother, Jack Dante, their disconsolate son, on the thirty-first night of October sends wishes for all the prosperity he does not have.
Only moments ago did it occur to me that tonight is All Hallow’s Eve, but rather than celebrate this annual opportunity for revelry with my family, as has always been our tradition, I am entrapped once more within my cell, bid indoors by the village’s curfew. My thoughts are enveloped by memories of attending the harvest festivals with my dear siblings, feasting on candied apples and other such treats. Now, however, in lieu of my brothers and sisters, only my cellmate remains to provide his irksome company. Any attempts to reconcile our differences have been futile, due simply to the fact that he is the most destitute dastard I have ever had the misfortune of having met. On a typical evening he carouses about the village with a throng of those who are depraved as he, brandishing like a golden brand the aforementioned “paraphernalia” which, much to my chagrin, I have learned is an illegal apparatus of sorts, a contraband contraption which, should the local constable discover its existence and constant use, I could very well be found guilty by association and be banished into the wilderness.
More grievous than any of these idiosyncrasies, however, is his all-pervading odour. Lord! How repulsive this roustabout reeks! By my estimation he bathes himself no more often than once a month, preferring instead to douse himself in odious oils more rancid than even his own natural stenches, simply slathering on some noxious perfume and then curling up into a nest of his own filth, and all through the night my own feeble attempts at sleep are disturbed by the unspeakable noises emanating from his cot.
Pray for my survival and my swift return. I know not how much longer I can last. I perceive that both my physical and mental health teeter precariously on the brink of a sheer cliff, and I sense foul winds to come. Even now, it whips in through the window, threatening to blow out the fading candlelight by which I write, leaving me once more alone in the dread clutches of night.
Jack Dante, to his dearly adored Lady Beatrice, sends on the sixth day of November the constancy of sincerity and love from his heart in spite of all calamities.
Every day which passes without you is an eternity of suffering. Unfathomable leagues may separate us from one another, but though our bodies may be parted my heart remains ever by your side. Reminiscence over the happy, carefree days we have shared is my sole reprieve from the doom which is reality; the memory of your smile is the single beacon which allows me to pierce the darkness of my own soul and retain my will to live through the throes of loneliness and hopelessness.
The goriest details of my stay in this madhouse I have largely omitted from my previous letters, for fear that a full account of the ghastly experiences I have been made to endure would risk upsetting the delicate humours inherent to the feminine persuasion, but the truth at last must out. No longer can I suffer in silence; someone must know of my plight, and there is no one with whom I would rather share my most horrific hardships than the woman I trust above all others. You have my gratitude, then, for serving as my confidante, the one soul to whom I may freely impart that which causes me such anguish.
I speak, specifically, of the dearth of available hygienic commodities. Indeed, this prison is utterly in want of any sanitary standards. Like in all other aspects of my incarceration, privacy is a prize I could chase to the ends of the earth but would never catch. You, who have been raised with the morals and decency expected in civilized society, can surely appreciate the value of privacy in regards to cleanliness, and as such I hope for you never to be forced to live in a world in which you at your most exposed are little more than yet another body to file into line with the rest of the mounds of soiled flesh. For there is but one bathing hub in this realm, shared by all unto obscenity. But, rather than list my endless grievances, I shall but recount a single occurrence in order to convey my situation succinctly.
Just yesterday, I prepared myself for the arduous task of bathing and began my descent into the underground, for to reach this facility, one must plummet into the deepest bowels of the earth. As I trudged forward, I had to take care not to slip on the moist moss of the stone steps, lest I fall toward my untimely demise. When at last I reached the end of these steps, I made out through the dim torchlight that I had entered a dank cavern. Water dripped from stalactites, and as I progressed I was required to remain in a state of constant vigilance, simply to prevent myself from hitting my head on one of these low-hanging growths. As I gingerly made for the burbling of moving water, a clatter below my feet startled me, and when I jumped back and peered at the ground I saw that my wayward foot had kicked a small pile of bones. I could not discern the nature of these skeletal remains, and I silently prayed that I was only imagining that the bone my toes had touched looked suspiciously like the femur of a human infant. These considerations, however, vanished as torchlight momentarily flared brightly enough to shed light on a hulking, snaggletoothed rat, which hissed at me before scampering further into the shadows. A shrieking squeal in the darkness told me the vermin had been caught and devoured by a larger predator.
At this point I was nearly at my wit’s end, but I steeled my nerves and marched ahead, finally reaching my destination. The waterlines which stained the eroded stone indicated that I stood in what was once a deep, rushing river, but all that remained was scarcely a gurgling puddle. If this stream had ever run clear and pure, it had long since been envenomed by the all-pervading taint, poisoned by bile and blood and every forsaken fluid imaginable.
Regardless of the floating feces, I had resolved to plunge into the gray foam, but when I saw that the putrid pool was already occupied, I began to have second thoughts, and when this scab-ridden shape rose from the waters to reveal itself not as a fellow bather but the swollen, rotting corpse what might once have been a woman, I fled, stumbling away from that creek of mucus and maggots as fast as my quivering legs could carry me. That is, until I heard an all-too familiar screech, and I knew the morlocks were upon me.
Legend said that the morlocks had once been men, assigned to this subterranean grotto as flunkies dedicated to the sparkling cavern’s maintenance and cleanliness, but their offspring were slothful, unmotivated, and ultimately rebellious, abandoning their charge as the waters fled the river. Gradually they adapted to the sunless dungeon they had crafted by their negligence until they became blind, relying on their vestigial eyes no longer. The further they deviated from the surface-dwellers, the more hostile they became, until eventually they had mutated into something subhuman altogether.
Well aware that to be caught by one of these soulless deepstalkers meant joining that bloated body back at the stream, I sprinted until my muscles screamed as loudly as the morlocks, scrambling haphazardly up the stairs and even tripping once, tearing my knee open. Needless to say, the smell of my blood only further excited the hunger of the homunculi, and as I frantically ascended I swore I could hear the squishing of their webbed feet and feel their hot breath on the back of my neck. But at long last I burst into the sunlight, where the morlocks dared not tread. I was safe. But though I had left with my organs intact, I was covered in a slimy film which threatened to comingle with the blood pouring down my leg. When I staggered back into my cell, I grabbed my flask and poured the water over myself, letting the clear liquid stream down my weary body, washing away the blood and the sweat and the tears.
To his parents, Jack Dante, the hollowed husk formerly their son, on the eighth day of November sends wishes for all the good fortune he himself utterly lacks.
I have taken ill, and as such I pray you will pardon me for the conciseness of this letter. This morning when I awoke I felt a terrible headache, the likes of which I never before have undergone, and in an effort to remedy this situation I have attempted to sleep, but you needs must know by now that rest is a comfort which will be perpetually denied me so long as I reside in the Inferno. I had set out to fly North, but so far did I soar that by the time I found naught but a skyline of sickness and smoke, my wings had already carried me beyond the point of no return.
So eager was I to abandon my birthplace that I sold my soul to the Devil in exchange for a locomotive ride, but in my wanton wanderlust not once did I consider that the ticket was only one way.
Jack Dante, to Beatrice, on the ninth of November sends his final work of love.
What miniscule strength remains in my depleted body, I hereby dedicate to the writing of this last letter, my will and testament. An overwhelming ailment has overcome my body, exhausting what little had not been already depleted by the trials and tribulations of the past few months. Not even the sturdiest oak can subsist on sand and sewage, and so it is that my leaves have long since fallen, my branches reduced to withered limbs. My sole solace is that you, my angel, are not here to see me in my emaciation. My very quill quivers in my trembling hand, and the nightmare phantasms which haunt my heart continue to torment me even unto my end.
But my patience is rewarded, for I have found an escape route, a passageway out of this prison. For so long I fought to flee this mausoleum that it is only in the midst of mine own fading away that I at long last have come to realize that the only way out is in the very coffin I have struggled to escape.
Hark! A welcome noise sounds from yond window. The long-lost locomotive has returned for me, I hear its whistle even now as I write; replenishing within me the joy taken from my heart, reinvigorating the vibrancy stolen from my soul. I am back on its blessed tracks, I hear the steady chugging of the gears and the pounding of the pistons, and I know that it is only a matter of time until I leave the godforsaken taint far behind me. Indeed, I know this to be true, for I already hear your melodious laughter on the wind; it warms my shivering mass and calms my chattering teeth. I hear my family, their voices, all of them, they welcome me home, and I hear you say “I love you.”
The rest is silence.
Excerpt from “The California Aggie”
November 12, 2007
The University of California, Davis police department is investigating the death of a student whose body was found in his dorm room Saturday night.
The Coroner's Office has identified the deceased as Jack Dante, 18, of Florence, California. Dante was a first-year student majoring in English and minoring in Classics.
The coroner's office initiated an autopsy earlier today, determining the cause of death to be a combination of dehydration, food poisoning, severe fever, and internal injuries from an untreated bicycle collision. UC Davis Police Capt. Bob Stoker said a train ticket possibly belonging to Dante and found at the scene is being examined by the California Department of Justice.
The investigation by the coroner's office and police department continues. Further information will be provided as soon as it is known.
"We are deeply sorrowed at the news of Jim's – err, Jack’s death, and extend our condolences to his family and friends and stuff," said Vice Chancellor for Student Affairs Nancy Gulliver.
UC Davis police and fire departments and an ambulance responded about 10:00 p.m. Saturday to a 9-1-1 call from the student’s Resident Adviser. Stoker said the RA, concerned that Dante had failed to show up for the floor’s mandatory “Sex & Food Jeopardy” meeting that evening, had checked his room.
“I dunno,” said the deceased’s roommate when questioned about Dante, “he just kinda sat there and wrote a lotta letters. He never even partied or drinked booze or got high on pot or had sex or nothing.”
A campus memorial service will be held at 6:30 p.m. Thursday, Nov. 22, in 194 Chemistry, followed by the long-anticipated SEXAPALOOZA. Catering will be provided by Sodexho, with musical guest MC Dis-Taste. Free condoms will be provided to all attendees.