Wannaskan Almanac for Tuesday August 26, 2025 The Song Chapter 5

Chapter 5:  The Cleansing

The realization hit Elias with the force of a physical blow. Humans had messed it all up. The altered world was a testament to that fact, a stark and undeniable truth written in the absence of concrete and steel. The vibrant wilderness that had reclaimed Maine was beautiful, yes, but it was also a graveyard of human ambition. The more Elias explored, the more evidence he found of humanity's destructive touch.

He walked through forests that had once been scarred by logging, the trees now standing tall and proud, their roots entwined in the earth where factories had once stood. He saw rivers that flowed clear and clean, no longer choked with the runoff of farms and cities. He found meadows teeming with life, where shopping malls and parking lots had once sprawled.

Everywhere he looked, he saw the scars of a world that had been wounded, poisoned, and ultimately, transformed. And with every step, the conviction grew stronger within him: he had to use the song. He had to take this cleansing power and spread it across the entire country, to every corner of the land that had been tainted by human presence.

The decision was terrifying, but it was also liberating. For the first time since the world had changed, Elias felt a sense of purpose, a reason for his survival. He was no longer just a fugitive, lost in time. He was a force of change, a catalyst for a new beginning.

He took a deep breath, the clean, crisp air filling his lungs, and began to sing. He sang the Song of the Turning with a power and intensity he had never before dared to unleash. His voice echoed through the valleys and across the plains, a primal sound that resonated with the very soul of the earth.

As he sang, he walked, his footsteps guided by an unseen force. He moved with a newfound determination, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his heart filled with a mixture of hope and trepidation. He was a wanderer, a pilgrim on a sacred quest, his song the only weapon he carried.

He quickly realized that the song had a range, a radius of effect. Things changed back to their natural state within a certain distance of where he was singing. And he also discovered something else, something crucial: the song only worked on what he was looking at.

He found this out when he was singing in a former town, reverting the buildings back to nature. He heard a noise behind him and turned to see a dirtbike. The dirtbike did not disappear. It was only when he turned back to the town and sang, focusing his gaze on the buildings, that they turned to dust and were replaced by trees and grass.

The dirtbike. It was a machine, a human creation, and it was still there. At first, Elias was confused, but then a spark of understanding ignited in his mind. The song wasn't a magic spell; it was a force, a way to manipulate time, perhaps. And like any force, it had limitations. It was his intention, his focus, that directed its power.

The realization opened up a new possibility. If he could control what the song affected, then he could also control what it didn't affect. And that meant he could potentially use some of the remnants of the old world to aid him in his quest.

The dirtbike became his unlikely chariot. It was a rugged machine, built for off-road travel, and it was surprisingly well-preserved. Elias, who had only a rudimentary understanding of mechanics, managed to get it started. The engine roared to life, a defiant sound in the otherwise silent wilderness.

With the dirtbike, Elias could travel faster and farther than he ever could on foot. He rode from town to town, from county to county, from state to state, his song echoing across the land. He was a whirlwind of change, a one-man army against the tide of human history.

He was careful, however. He knew that the dirtbike needed fuel, a resource that was becoming increasingly scarce in the altered world. He made it a point to fill up the tank whenever he found a gas station, singing the Song of the Turning before he filled up, so that the gas station itself reverted to nature, leaving the underground tanks intact. He would then carefully siphon the gasoline, storing it in containers he found along the way.

His journey took him through landscapes both familiar and alien. He saw the towering skyscrapers of what had once been great cities, now crumbling ruins overgrown with vines and moss. He rode through the silent streets of abandoned towns, where nature had begun to reclaim the cracked pavement and broken buildings. He traversed vast stretches of farmland, now transformed into sprawling meadows and forests, teeming with wildlife.

Everywhere he went, he sang. He sang at landfills and factories, at mines and quarries, at any place where the land had been scarred by human activity. He sang until his voice was raw, until his body ached with exhaustion, until the very air around him vibrated with the power of the song.

He encountered animals of all kinds, creatures that had been driven to the margins of the old world, now thriving in the absence of human dominance. He saw herds of deer grazing in former suburban neighborhoods, packs of wolves hunting in the ruins of industrial parks, and flocks of birds nesting in the skeletal remains of skyscrapers.

He even saw a few humans, scattered survivors who had managed to adapt to the altered world. They were wary, often hostile, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and resentment. They saw Elias as a ghost, a reminder of the world they had lost, and they wanted nothing to do with him.

These encounters filled Elias with a profound sadness. He understood their anger, their grief. He was the one who was erasing their world, after all. But he also knew that he couldn't stop. He had to keep singing, keep cleansing, until the work was done.

The country was a vast and varied land, and the journey was long and arduous. Elias faced countless challenges along the way. He battled harsh weather, navigated treacherous terrain, and endured the constant loneliness of his self-imposed exile.

There were times when he doubted himself, when the enormity of his task seemed overwhelming. But then he would remember the beauty of the altered world, the purity of the air, the vibrancy of the life that had returned, and he would find the strength to keep going.

He left Maine, heading west. He passed through what had been New Hampshire, Vermont, and New York. The great cities were gone, replaced by forests. He sang at the ruins of Boston, at the former site of New York City, his voice echoing across the empty land.

He continued west, through Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana. The industrial heartland of America was now a patchwork of fields and forests, the scars of its factories slowly fading into the embrace of nature.

He reached the Great Lakes, vast bodies of water that were now clearer and more pristine than they had been in centuries. He sang at the shores of Lake Erie and Lake Michigan, his voice mingling with the cries of the gulls and the lapping of the waves.

He crossed the Mississippi River, a mighty waterway that was now teeming with life. He sang at the former sites of St. Louis and Memphis, erasing the last vestiges of their human past.

The South was a land of both beauty and sorrow. Elias saw the remnants of old plantations, their fields now overgrown with wildflowers, their grand houses crumbling into dust. He sang at the former sites of Atlanta and New Orleans, his song a lament for the lost history and culture of this region.

He ventured into Texas, a state as vast and diverse as a country unto itself. He sang at the oil fields, turning the derricks and pipelines back into the earth from which they had come. He sang at the sprawling suburbs of Dallas and Houston, erasing the concrete sprawl and replacing it with native grasslands.

The Midwest was a land of rolling plains and endless skies. Elias rode his dirtbike across the vast expanse of Kansas, his song carried on the wind. He sang at the wheat fields, restoring the land to its natural state, and at the ghost towns that dotted the landscape, remnants of a bygone era.

He reached the Rocky Mountains, a majestic range that stretched across the western horizon. He sang among the towering peaks and deep valleys, his voice echoing through the canyons and forests.

He crossed the desert Southwest, a land of stark beauty and ancient secrets. He sang at the mines and the quarries, erasing the scars of human extraction, and at the sprawling cities of Phoenix and Las Vegas, returning the desert to its silent grandeur.

Finally, he reached the Pacific Coast. He stood on the shores of California, the vast ocean stretching out before him, and sang the Song of the Turning with all the power he could muster. He sang at the sprawling metropolis of Los Angeles, at the technology hub of Silicon Valley, and at the vibrant city of San Francisco, his song a symphony of destruction and renewal.

His journey had taken him across the entire country. He had seen the best and worst of what humanity had done to the world, and he had used the song to erase it all. He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but he was also filled with a sense of accomplishment. He had done what he set out to do. He had cleansed America.