SCP-7879: Book of the Simoom

Author: Cyvstvi.

Cyvstvi

Book of the Simoom by Cyvstvi

On this day, the Simoom rises

And the sea of sands

Will not weep for you

―118-1; Book of the Simoom

3/7879 LEVEL 3/7879

CLASSIFIED

Item #: SCP-7879

Safe

Fig 1.1: The Simoom Approaches by François Braque, 1936.1

SPECIAL CONTAINMENT PROCEDURES: Respecting the historical significance that SCP-7879 had within their culture, mundane replicas of the text have been distributed to the various Bedouin tribes inhabiting the desert regions of Arabia, North Africa, and the Near East.

DESCRIPTION: SCP-7879 refers to an ancient tome organised into 118 chapters of varying length. The title, Book of the Simoom, is inlaid in gold Arabic lettering upon a weathered and worn horsehide cover. The illustrated text within SCP-7879 is composed of Arabic (24.6%), Aramaic (68.3%), and an unidentified language of indiscernible origin (7.1%).

When opened to any of its pages, SCP-7879 will begin to manifest a hot, dry, and dust-laden storm from within the book's interior. This storm, henceforth identified as SCP-7879-A, will gradually increase in both size and intensity for as long as SCP-7879 is allowed to remain open. It is unknown whether SCP-7879-A has an upper limit, but historical observations indicate that it once grew to encompass a region of over 3,500,000km2 over a 30-day period. Upon reaching its fullest extent, SCP-7879-A began to reverse its orientation, rotating counter-clockwise and slowly drifting along a westerly course.

SCP-7879-A is capable of causing widespread damage to local ecosystems and poses a substantial health hazard to all surrounding life. The intense heat – in excess of 56°C – produced by SCP-7879-A results in the death of endemic wildlife and crops, whilst depositing immense quantities of dust into rivers and evaporating entire water systems. SCP-7879-A has been linked to an increased spread of disease due to its winds releasing bacteria and fungal spores trapped within the soil.

Historically, SCP-7879 has been the contested property of innumerable Bedouin tribes residing within the Arabian Desert and is now widely considered to have been their holy text before the Bedouin began converting to Islam in the 7th century CE. According to their oral traditions, SCP-7879 was entrusted to the Bedouin tribes by a jinn, with the text containing innumerable prophecies between its illustrated pages. SCP-7879 remained culturally significant long after the Bedouin's conversion to Islam and was syncretically adopted into their Islamic beliefs.

For centuries, large-scale ghazw2 were carried out by the Bedouin tribes against one another with the sole purpose of capturing SCP-7879. These practices continued until 1875 when SCP-7879 was seized by the Ottoman Empire as part of their efforts to enforce sedentism upon the nomadic peoples within the Empire's territories. Following the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire on November 1st, 1922, SCP-7879 fell into the possession of the State of Syria, the de facto military occupation of Syria by the French Third Republic, and was held at the state's capital of Latakia.

On June 19th, 1925, SCP-7879 was stolen by Al-Kifah, a group of thaumaturgic Islamic revolutionaries who had been waging an insurrectionist movement against colonial rule within Syria long before the French mandate was imposed under the conditions of the Treaty of Sèvres. Drawing their membership from numerous tribes and Arab peoples, Al-Kifah viewed SCP-7879 as an opportunity to drive out the colonial French state in pursuit of an independent “Greater Syria”, an event which they believed was prophesised by SCP-7879.

The theft of SCP-7879 from its vault beneath the National Museum of Latakia resulted in the deaths of several French-Syrians, including soldiers belonging to the French Armée du Levant, reigniting tensions within the region between the native Syrians and the French colonisers. This event coincided with the beginning of the Great Syrian Revolt (1925 - 1927).

ADDENDUM 7879.1:

'552 ARABIAN NIGHTS'

City of golden sands

Reveal to us,

Your longing, lonely sons

And wand'ring daughters

One and all.

―72-7; Book of the Simoom

In order to prevent Al-Kifah from using SCP-7879 to achieve their aims, the Foundation hired Lyle Alan Burnley – a freelance heresiographer who was learned in both French and Arabic – by proxy of the British Directorate of Occult Intelligence to act in the capacity of an adviser to Sultan al-Atrash, a prominent figure within the Great Syrian Revolution. Burnley was discreetly instructed by the DOI to prevent the opening of SCP-7879 by any means necessary and was even permitted to destroy the anomaly— should it ever be required.

You would not think Pasha – as he preferred I call him – any different from the other freedom fighters of his revolution. His weathered face took upon the lines of war and he wore those lines with great dignity. He was apparently a learned man, the respected sheik of numerous villages in these mountains encompassing his base in the Syrian foothills, and he was lauded even further afield by the common man. He had led the Druze – the locals and his clansmen – into battle against the Ottomans, his fellow Arabs, and was doing much the same against the French, each time emerging victorious despite seemingly impossible odds and substantial technological deficits. At that time, I suspected heresy, or worse, and this suspicion was not once assuaged in my year-and-a-half spent employed in Syria at the behest of the British.

Despite these respectable qualities, his English was poor, he spat over his shoulder whenever I spoke French, and he lacked the common courtesies expected of a man in his standing. He was rude and belligerent in public, but soft-spoken and wise in private counsel. Even so, I could not deny that he was a charismatic fellow. The clasping of one's shoulder with an open palm was his customary way of greeting someone, irrespective of their station. To this day, I remain unsure what to make of him. Whether these actions accounted for nothing more than mere acts of theatre to appease his soldiers, or if that was the true nature of Pasha; a man torn between his duty and his men.

However, the British were not in the least bit interested in Pasha. Their sole concerns lay with the occult literature of the Bedouins, which had fallen from the hands of the French Empire and into those of militant revolutionaries stationed within this encampment. Though I am loathe to admit it in writing, my youth was tempered by those qualities held by most Europeans and Americans during the height of colonial imperialism, and even with my liberal outlook upon the occult and foreign, I still served their interests. Whilst the Japanese and Chinese struggled to be seen as equals upon the world stage, strutting about in western clothings and armoured in our own attitudes, the rest of the colonial world remained exploited; each man, woman, and child worth less than the land upon which they lived.

Although I did not see it at the time, blinded by the so-called truths of my American upbringing, Pasha was just as much a leader as any other. As I sat alongside Pasha and discussed how best to integrate his dream of “Greater Syria” into the wider Arab world, I slowly and gradually teased the truth of his tome from him. He divulged this information quite freely as he remained in high spirits and took to the drink after their recent capture of a border town from the French garrison. There, watching the hazy, red sun set over the mountainous ridge of Pasha's homelands, I learned that the book I sought was in the possession of one Adab al-Fatat, the leader of Al-Kifah, and a fearsome heretic armoured by his reputation alone.

Where Pasha straddled the line between the patient statesman and the fiery revolutionary, al-Fatat possessed nothing which could be said to resemble subtlety. In a country where I often thought men only smiled before stabbing you in the gut, al-Fatat always wore a smile. His teeth were cracked and stained, his nose misshapen and fractured at several points, and he wore a scarf about his neck which – if the hushed whispers of the local troops were to be believed – had only ever been used to choke the wind from the lungs of those who whispered behind his back. All things considered, describing him as a distrustful savage would be far too great a kindness.

And this was the man I would be meeting by the stroke of midnight – alone in a foreign nation – without a single soul to call friend. My dear reader, if ever there was an omen, this would be it. However, I was – if nothing else – a stubborn heresiographer, and there was nothing that could stand between me and the truth. Even if that something was a murderous thug.

― Lyle Alan Burnley, '552 Arabian Nights', in Heresies and the Occult, 1953

Following this extract, Burnley makes a brief detour – lasting over eleven pages – describing the various occult practices undertaken by the Druze in extensive detail, before eventually returning to the topic of his meeting with Adab al-Fatat on the 11th October, 1925.

After leaving the Druze and their occult dances behind, their shadows stretching in the darkness and illuminated only by the dying embers of their campfires, I made for my rendezvous with Adab al-Fatat. Pasha's encampments were sheltered in the foothills of the Druze Mountains, swollen with countless peoples – representatives of clans, tribes, and settlements from amongst the Bedouins, Syrians, Arabs, Kurds, Turkmen, and Assyrians – and moments of peace and solitude were few and far between.

I crossed into the “Round”, a large open space spanning the midst of the camp that might be crossed in fewer than eight minutes by foot, and the crossroads for many of the camp's fighters. Here, Arab met Kurd, whilst Bedouin shared their meals with Turkmen and Syrians alike. Despite having fought one another for countless centuries, Pasha had managed to forge some sense of unity between his disparate forces; the seeds of the modern nation state. This was Pasha's “Greater Syria”, laid bare for all to witness. Beyond the “Round”, lying on its northern flank, were the encampments of Al-Kifah, honoured by Pasha to strike their tents in the shelter of the Druze Mountains. Whereas vicious desert winds might whip at the rest of the tents and clear the fighters' footprints from the sand; here, the treacherous tracks of desert paths marked the remains of ancient streets which had laid undisturbed since time immemorial. The truth of this was known only to the occultists and heretics amidst the revolutionaries. And – of course – myself.

I once speculated that the Syrian Revolution was made possible by this forbidden knowledge. The French did not belong to these deserts, but the Syrians were her children, and all mothers play favourites. Navigating through their camp of twisting tents, I soon arrived at the conclusion that Al-Kifah were encamped within the courtyard of some ruins. The mudbrick walls had long since eroded with the passage of time, leaving behind only the stained impressions of their four corners across the listless sands. An old well marked the centre of this prehistoric settlement, reduced to little more than a crumbling pile of carved sandstone and scattered potsherds, beside which leaned Adab al-Fatat. From where I was standing, I could make out a weathered volume of text, its cover decorated in fine gold reliefs and embossing, tucked into the pocket of his travelling cloak.

Adab al-Fatat greeted me as a friend with his customary smile, exposing his cracked teeth, each tooth stained black by his habitual abuse of the various entheogens beloved by the Bedouin. He wore a curved sword upon his hip, ostentatiously displayed for all to see, and doubtless wore another dozen blades about his person if the rumours were believed. He was a tall man, with a broad chest, and long dark hair, which he wore beneath a black keffiyeh. He was dressed in a black travelling cloak, fastened about his thick neck by a broach shaped like the crescent moon and made from gold. Everything about al-Fatat marked him as a killer, and even his outfit possessed all the subtlety of the headman's garb.

As al-Fatat began speaking of the great struggle faced by the revolution, something altogether different caught my attention. A swirling cloud of dust gathered restlessly within the scattered rays of moonlight and quickly descended in a column to his immediate left. I watched, stunned as I often found myself in my errant youth, as the dust began taking upon the silhouette of a human being. The process began with its feet, gradually working up towards the trunk, before finally completing its reassembly with the arms and head.

Broad and massive, a skeletal figure now hulked beside al-Fatat. Desiccated, tanned skin hung in tattered streamers from its body, carrying its weight upon a pair of squat legs. Its hands were crossed before its navel, both hands worn down to the bone, and its elbows angled outwards. As I glanced towards its face, I could make out the nasal cavity – devoid of anything resembling a nose – and what little skin remained across its skull was pulled taut across sharp cheekbones. Its stained skull was chinless and it possessed a pronounced brow ridge, the hollowed eye sockets nestled in recesses below a sagittal crest.

Carefully studying the undead creature before me, I realised that its ochre teeth were exposed in a rictus grin. A helm hewn from the polished skull of some massive carnivore rested upon its broad skull, a pair of horns whittled from enormous canines affixed with rotting twine adorned both hemispheres of the skullcap. Clawed hands clung to its wide shoulders as if the beast had been slain whilst poised to bite down upon the figure's head. It wore a set of rotting furs, dried out from exposure to the arid desert winds, and a loose garment of woven grasses hung over its shoulders, the clawed fingers of the dead beast serving as clasps.

I began to speak, but I quickly lost my words, becoming caught in my own throat. The being tilted its head, the neck vertebrae audibly creaking with each motion, before turning to face me. Even when the memories of distant Arabia have long departed from my mind, I shall never in my life forget the words it uttered then and there, a voice speaking with the sounds of ancient bones scraping over handfuls of loose flint.

‘You are not like the others,’ it said. ‘And therefore, I make no further attempts to disguise myself in the desert winds. I am Eh'ret Behn, the Last Dancer of the Eh'real, and I ask that you cease your efforts to interfere in our work.’

― Lyle Alan Burnley, '552 Arabian Nights', in Heresies and the Occult, 1953

In his subsequent writings, Burnley describes how Adab al-Fatat refers to Eh'ret Behn as a “djinn”, a type of mythical spirit whose existence was widely recognised by the tribes of pre-Islamic Arabia, and would later be adopted into Islamic culture. Within Islamic folklore writings, the jinn are often described as invisible, formless beings of insubstantial bodies who possess the ability to change their shape at will.

Before their existence was attested to within the pages of the Qur'an, the jinn were once privately worshipped by the pre-Islamic Arabian tribes, including the native Bedouin, as their guardian spirits. Adab al-Fatat even acknowledges Eh'ret Behn as his ancestor, though he makes no attempt to clarify upon the true nature of his relationship with the entity.

ADDENDUM 7879.2:

'THE SIEGE OF DAMASCUS'

If seeking out the remains

Of long forgotten ancestors,

Then gather in your fingers

The sands of old Arabia

―35-13; Book of the Simoom

Emboldened by the initial successes of the Great Syrian Revolt within the Jabal al-Druze State, nationalist sentiment rapidly spread throughout Syria, encouraged by Sultan al-Atrash and Al-Kifah. On October 17th, 1925, nationalist Syrian revolutionaries and Al-Kifah assisted by Damascene civilians living within the region of the Old City, attempted to liberate the city of Damascus from French occupation by attacking the city's French garrison.

The following is a series of extracts taken from the diaries of François Braque, a French soldier of the Armée du Levant who was attached to the Damascus Garrison and participated in the Siege of Damascus.

October 17th, 1925,

They had been arriving all morning. Hundreds upon hundreds of Islamic fighters, gathering just beyond the range of our field guns. This mutual standoff with one another had begun long before I first took to the battlements to relieve the rest of my patrol. Even now, my rifle nooked between the crenelles overlooking my unit's stretch of the wall, I could see the native scouts probing the gates leading into Al-Shagour upon horseback. A swarthy Algerian to my right fired his rifle at one of the riders, sending the man reeling about and he charged back into the ridges which lined the shadow of the Barada River. This monotonous game of cat-and-mouse repeated for another hour or two, broken only by the occasional death of a native, his horse collapsing atop of him as he was buried beneath the desert sands.

As the mid-afternoon sun rose into the sky and bathed the surroundings in its unpleasant heat, I donned my scarf, only exposing my eyes to the fierce glare. The damned natives had planned their assault well for the sun now shone directly upon the crews of our field guns, the shimmering heat and light obscuring their rangefinding instruments. The sound of horse hooves thundered across the desert - the timbre of a hand rhythmically beating at a drumskin - as the insurgents crested the ridge and charged down into the embankments surrounding the shanty town. There had been little time to prepare for their assault and the haphazard trenches dug throughout the market town by our engineers were swiftly cleared by the mounted warriors, continuing to charge headlong into battle.

A flash of light, a thunderous explosion, followed by a soaring flame arcing through the clear blue skies heralded the discharging of our artillery pieces. The shells found purchase within the soft sand beyond the shanty town, launching immense clouds of dust into the sky, followed by a great scattering of human and animal limbs. Still, the insurgents charged, heedless of their comrades dying all about them. A loud clunk sounded to my left as a Moroccan crew attempted to reload their field gun. My aim was steadied upon a group of riders clearing the final row of trenches, crossing into the field of abandoned wagons and vehicles which had been hastily erected as a final barricade to the gates of Al-Shagour.

A shot rang out across my ears and I ducked behind the cover of the crenelle, turning to my left to see one of the Moroccan gunners tumbling over the battlements. The force of the bullet's impact had turned him about from behind, which could only mean one thing. I hitched my rifle over my shoulder and hurried to the staircase leading down to the streets below, watching as native civilians were massing in the courtyard on our side of the gate. I levelled my rifle, my grip shaking, and I shouted a command down to them in French, but it was rendered inaudible over the roaring din of battle. I heard a cry of pain to my left, watching as another Moroccan gunner dropped, his skull reduced to little more than a wet, red hole as he collapsed against the battlements. I watched in horror as his chest continued to rise and fall for several seconds before he finally stilled.

I felt a sudden push at my back as the Algerian sharpshooter shoved me down the steps, pushing me further down as the native civilians opened the city gates. Shortly thereafter, the insurgents began flooding into the district. As I reached the streets below, I looked up to see the civilians charging up the opposite staircase to my right, clearing the impromptu barricade, and bearing stones in their hands. They swiftly overran the stationary artillery crews and the sounds of the brutal mêlée that ensued will haunt my dreams this night. The last I saw of the Algerian soldier who saved my life was of him retreating into the cramped housing that fills the streets of Damascus, looting the clothing off the body of a fallen Damascene civilian. May God watch over that man's life.

― François Braque, 'Siege of Damascus', in Diary of a French Soldier, 1925

October 17th, 1925,

I write this entry after today's brutal events. After navigating through the cramped winding streets of Damascus, I rendezvoused with the remaining members of my patrol — a scattered handful of French troops holding out in part of the old marketplace. The market stalls had been overturned, creating hastily erected fortifications and cover for the men. The paving cobbles beneath my feet ran slick with warm, wet blood, and I pray to God that it belonged to the Muslims. According to the reports from a gangly youth reporting to be our runner, the Armée du Levant is in near total disarray after conducting a series of staggered retreats throughout Al-Shagour. Fighting has since broken out across the Old City, street-to-street and house-to-house, after the insurgents flooded into Damascus through the southern gates. My sergeant described how the officers, their families, and our elite corps have abandoned the garrison to the enemy, retreating to the fortified Citadel of Damascus, and establishing a defensive position within the heart of the Old City.

Upon hearing this news, my heart lifted and a tired smile erupted across my face, but it swiftly vanished once I saw the weary expression worn by the sergeant. According to his reports, the officers have taken to raining death upon all, firing shells haphazardly throughout the city into the districts to the south and east which are presently embroiled in fighting. I had earlier narrowly avoided one such shell myself, assuming it to have been fired by one of the Muslims who had turned our guns upon us, though I had never imagined it might have been one of our own. He sharply dismissed me, turning towards a series of maps and a weathered compass upon his field desk assembled from upturned apricot crates.

I wandered aimlessly throughout the marketplace, coming upon a number of soldiers taking up position within the bombed-out ruins of an estate. The corporal waves me over, his navy blue uniform stained with white dust and dried blood, and offers me a cigarette from his breast pocket. I accept the gesture and he returns the kindness by telling me how French and Syrians alike have been killed without discrimination, an entire district having burst into flame from incendiary munitions. The smoke of this roaring conflagration can be seen from the rooftops and he gestures upwards, pointing to where several men from our unit have taken up position.

As I sat down upon an overturned crate, cradling my rifle between my legs, a runner arrived to address me and the other soldiers. The sergeant had ordered us to coordinate with other neighbouring patrols in an attempt to regroup at the city's eastern gates. The men and myself were instructed to head north to meet up with a group of countrymen who had been pinned down by horseback charges being carried out by the insurgents. For but a brief moment, I countenanced the idea of refusing. I was tired, exhausted, and shaking with terror. If the insurgents were already to our south, east, and north, we were encircled and stood little to no chance of achieving a breakthrough. However, this thought was readily dismissed when the corporal in the stained uniform stood up and saluted to our west, rousing his own men to their feet. Before we were dispatched in our search for the other patrol, the sergeant had given us orders to make for the eastern gates, hoping to unite with the relief army that had telegraphed ahead of their arrival by train from Lebanon.

Navigating through the cramped, ruined buildings of northern Al-Shagour, I could see the cost of this insurrection all about us. Two dozen victims laid unmoving across the dust-strewn cobbles of the opposite streets, surrounded by scattered fruit, baskets, and blackened craters. A boy sat tearfully beside the body of an elderly man who stared back sightlessly at the young lad. Beside an overturned table, a group of three soldiers lay dead, their bodies marked by the wounds born of a sabre's stroke. Splatters of blood stained the walls of the surrounding housing. From across the street, I heard the clatter of hooves and waved for the men to take cover. The corporal responded promptly by throwing himself to the floor, disguising himself as another victim of this revolt in his bloodstained uniform. The others followed suit as I pressed myself against the doorway.

I heard their approach, hooves rapping upon the cobbles, as a band of horse-mounted warriors came charging back along the streets where they had previously meted their so-called justice upon my fellow soldiers. A lance darted past by my side, scraping audibly against the wooden doorframe, and I resisted the urge to raise my bayonet in response. One of our comrades was not so lucky, the random stroke of a sabre lodging itself within his skull. The mounted warrior struggled to free his blade from the helm and the corporal leapt to his feet, driving his bayonet through the horse's ankle before throwing himself at the rider. The two came tumbling down to the floor in a brutal struggle of flailing limbs, teeth, and fists. His horse brayed, lashing out and striking around it with naked hooves, and charging into the distance.

The five other men in our patrol sprung up from the cobbled streets, their faces covered in mortar and crusted blood. They discharged their rifles in unison at the two other cavalry fighters who were sallying about in the open streets of the market. The horses continued heedless along the streets, the bodies of the riders slumped limply in their saddles. I turned about and raised my own rifle, spearing the dismounted rider through the back, feeling the fabric of his clothing tearing as my bayonet crunched against bone. I dropped my rifle to the floor, the blade still lodged within the insurgent's body, and helped the corporal back to his feet. His face was covered in scratches and his ear hung by tatters of skin. He leaned back into the doorway, exhaling a couple of ragged breaths, before patting his breast pocket, his fingers groping about for his cigarettes.

I left the rest of my patrol behind, tending to their corporal's wounds, and I made my way into the middle of the market, inspecting the carnage all about us. From a few streets to the south, I heard French swearing followed by the protests of a woman speaking in Arabic. I turned my back to the noises and searched the uniforms of the three fallen countrymen. Their bodies were slumped against a broken table covered in score marks. After searching for several hours, we found neither hide nor hair of the rest of their patrol despite searching numerous houses lining the southern walls of the Old City.

From the heart of the city, one can hear artillery pound the city's neighbouring districts, bright flashes of light, and thundering explosions tearing through Damascus. Here, the doors of numerous barracks which had once housed members of the garrison had been painted with the word, "Munafiqun".3 I pressed my hand against the letters, my fingers coming away stained by warm, wet blood.

― François Braque, 'Siege of Damascus', in Diary of a French Soldier, 1925

October 19th, 1925,

I know not why I still breath, when so many others have died, as I write this entry in the captivity of the enemy. We had marched throughout the evening and into the night, seized upon by a great number of ambushes by insurgents and natives alike. Decimated down to half of our patrol's starting strength, only five of us reached the eastern gates of Damascus where the sergeant and his own men greeted us with weary, tired expressions. The morning sun threatened to break as we set out beyond the city's gates, an exhausted army of the dying and dead, each man burdened by thirst and hunger.

From a distance, we could make out the relief army's sentry fires, blazing like stars in the eastern plains surrounding Damascus, and we began staggering along dust-strewn roads in their direction. I cannot recall how long we marched, but it felt as if an eternity had passed before we finally collapsed to our knees before the relief army's tents. An attending sentry whistled for assistance as the majority of our wounded patrol were stretchered into the camp, leaving my exhausted sergeant and myself to explain our actions to an officer dressed in a crisp, starched uniform. I watched wistfully as the wounded corporal was dragged to the medical tents, his fingers clutched tightly about his packet of cigarettes.

The officer berated the sergeant, accusing him of deserting the garrison, whilst the sergeant smouldered with rage, hurling obscenities back about the size of the insurgent's army, the state of our equipment, and the fact that we had been abandoned by our own officers. In that moment, I selfishly wished for nothing more than the blissful embrace of quiet sleep but instead the officer turned toward me with a stern gaze. I nodded along to the sergeant's story, quietly explaining that everything he'd said was indeed accurate. The smartly-dressed officer turned about and dismissed us, pointing us in the direction of the medical tents and warning neither of us to wander far.

I thereafter found myself collapsed in a cot, surrounded by unfamiliar men and the wounded bodies of my own unit, where I first began to compose these thoughts. Before I could finish, I was interrupted by a sudden blaring of whistles throughout the camp, men rushing past the medical tent's windows. I hurried to my feet and approached the window, looking out to the desert dunes which overlooked the valley in which the relief army had struck their tents. Atop those dunes, stood hundreds upon hundreds of natives, the glare cast by the sun disguising their true numbers. I watched as a single warrior astride a horse came forth, a jewelled sword swaying from his hip. His arm dropped to his waist, but he did not make to unsheath his blade, instead reaching for a large tome of text. He raised this tome aloft for all to see and this was met by a roaring chorus of Arabic cheers, a chanting sound which swiftly drowned out the furious din from the army beneath readying itself for battle.

Our soldiers had gathered in the valley below, rifles raised and awaiting the signal from the officer's whistles. I stepped forth from the tent, finding a better view atop a sentry's dugout. From here, the two armies stared at one another, ours huddled in the shelter of the valley beneath the enemy atop their dunes. What happened next… I can only describe as supernatural. I watched as the mounted warrior opened his book, grasping it between his hands as the Arab chants became louder and louder. A raging storm burst forth from the book's pages, hurtling across the dunes before the insurgents and knocking our soldiers from their feet. As they attempted to navigate the ankle-deep sand, their feet struggling to find purchase in the soft, golden sands, they were beset by horrors. Skeletal wraiths, robed in sand and wielding swords of polished amber and glass, emerged from the desert storm as it surged across the valley.

The wraiths fell upon the first wave of soldiers, the sounds of rifles being discharged followed by harrowing screams of panic and fear, as the chorus of foreign chants swelled ever louder. In the distance, an officer attempted to blow his whistle, but his arm was cleanly sliced away by one of the wraiths, which quickly fell upon him and his unit. A single wraith, its voice a song of deep, archaic tones, sliced through sinew and bone, steel and cloth, with a blade forged from glass. Blood splattered against the desert sands as the storm continued its relentless approach, rolling black clouds and sweltering heat descending upon the tents as the troops scattered into the biting winds to escape the advancing wraiths.

The storm's impact slammed into me and I donned my stained scarf, feeling the sand whipping at my exposed skin as the heat grew intolerable. Somewhere in the distance, a series of explosions thudded, the noise of artillery batteries being unleashed into the desert storm. However, their shots fell quite short of their intended marks, assailed by the storm's winds, and I felt myself knocked skywards. The air was forced from out of my lungs and I tumbled down into a crater filled with burning fabric, sand, and smoke.

Dazed and shell-shocked, I struggled to rise to my feet and felt myself sinking backwards into the sand. Exhausted, I simply laid there, shutting my eyes tight to the scathing winds, and listened to the sounds of carnage all about me. The chants of the natives were met by the undulating song of the wraiths, the cries of dying men raging above me as I hugged my limbs against my chest inside the smouldering crater. After lying there for what felt like hours, the desert storm passed and the heat subsided. I began to slowly clamber out of my crater, hauling and dragging myself to its edge.

As I mounted its edge, I sank to my knees and came face to face with one of the wraiths. In that haunted visage of mummified skin and sad eyes wearing the burdens of endless unseen sorrows, the horrors of the desert laid naked for all to bear witness. Its grip was loose around a single-edged sword, a blade of polished amber and the hilt smooth as sanded bone. It looked down at me and wordlessly gestured to my wounds, a thin gash below my cheek where a piece of shrapnel had struck me, before turning about in the sand and returning in the direction of the dunes.

On this day, I was spared by Death itself, for in me, it saw itself.

― François Braque, 'Siege of Damascus', in Diary of a French Soldier, 1925

In the aftermath of the Liberation of Damascus by the Great Syrian Revolt, François Braque spent four weeks in the custody of the Damascene rebels within the city, before being handed over to the French authorities and thereby fulfilling the terms of amnesty offered to the rebels. Whilst the French continued to impose their colonial authority over Syria, Braque was discharged from military service in 1927 and would thereafter be condemned to a Catholic mental health hospital in Baalbek, French Lebanon.

Here, he would spend the following nine years of his life, only being allowed to leave the institute after recanting upon the Bible of what he had allegedly witnessed in Syria. After leaving the institute, Braque spent his military pension on a small villa in the Kingdom of Egypt and would paint his magnum opus, The Simoom Approaches, six weeks prior to his death in October 1936.

ADDENDUM 7879.3:

'THE SIMOOM RISES'

And between these weathered pages,

Sun bleached, aged by passing time,

Enshrine memories of a lost Arabia.

Where once she stood at the heart of the world

And watched on as ancient kingdoms―

Plied her depths and plundered her halls.

Until one day, a kingdom rose

From barren seas and salted shores

And she imagined it might never fall.

An Empire of the Dawn

consumed beneath scorching golden sands,

And wailing winds born of desert storms.

For the Simoom rises

And the sea of sands

Will not weep for you.

― 1;1, Book of the Simoom

Following the successful manifestation of SCP-7879-A outside of Damascus, SCP-7879 remained open and the phenomenon continued growing in size. Despite Burnley's failure to prevent this event from occurring per the Foundation's instructions, he remained in contact with the Directorate of Occult Intelligence who provided intelligence regarding the movement of French military assets within and without Syria intending to subdue the revolution with assistance from the Département Général des État Noir.

Burnley was advised to ensure that he was positioned so that SCP-7879 would fall into his possession in the event French military forces engaged with the Syrian revolutionaries. To this end, Burnley remained in close contact with Adab al-Fatat and Al-Kifah. The following consists of several recordings produced by Burnley on his “crystallum obscura”, a chunk of hewn crystal from the caverns beneath Yellowstone National Park which was capable of capturing audiovisual recordings within its foggy interior.

Crystallum Obscura Transcript

Date: 19th October, 1925

Participants: Lyle Alan Burnley, Adab al-Fatat, Eh'ret Behn

The scene begins with the three participants overlooking the former encampment of the French relief army. Hundreds of bodies remain unmoving upon the desert sands, the Simoom billowing in the distance as it rises high above Damascus, swallowing the sun as it travels upwards into the sky.

Lyle Alan Burnley: You probably think that was justice, al-Fatat, but what we just witnessed was nothing more than a massacre. You herded them like hapless sheep into the desert, knowing they would be forced to encamp in the open. And then, those… those things of yours, they cut them down where they stood.

Adab al-Fatat: Best guard your tongue lest you offend our friend, American. His people are not things; they are the jinn. Even so, who are you to make judgement on our struggle? Have you not witnessed how the French treat my people? Their High Commissioner thinks of himself as a king, beating and humiliating our people, detaining them without cause, and whipping the skin from our backs if we so much as forget to salute him as we walk the streets and highways of our cities. They treat us like dogs, and see here, how my ancestors treat them with the respect the French have delivered upon us!

Adab al-Fatat laughs and then turns towards Eh'ret Behn.

Adab al-Fatat: What of you, ancestor, do you think our struggle to be righteous?

Eh'ret Behn remains silent, watching the Simoom as it rises higher into the sky. Its winds can be seen disturbing the sand around their feet, but they remain unmoved.

Lyle Alan Burnley: Do you think it righteous to return violence with violence, al-Fatat? Your liberation is deserved if it can be fought for, few would dispute that, but do you think your struggle will be rewarded once the French reinforcements arrive, learning of the slaughter you waged against their comrades?

Adab al-Fatat: It is neither Al-Kifah nor al-Atrash that the French must fear, but the desert herself. She has never looked kindly upon foreigners who do as they might in her midst.

Adab al-Fatat touches SCP-7879, his fingers brushing at the book's open pages, which illustrate a scene of golden figures raising their swords above their heads as a solitary black figure stands against them.

Adab al-Fatat: Long before the Ottomans, even before Rasūl Allāh sought our secret passages for himself, the desert was ours. So long as the Simoom rises high, the French will find neither oases nor safe passage through these lands. Only death by the hands of the jinn.

Lyle Alan Burnley: And what of the French forces massing to the north of the city, those soldiers who fled from the Simoom's winds and those who still remain in the Old Citadel?

Adab al-Fatat smiles, his hand lingering upon SCP-7879.

Adab al-Fatat: We do not fear them. Whether they run or stand, the Simoom shall swallow them regardless.

Lyle Alan Burnley: Your magical desert storm will not save your country, al-Fatat. A modern nation is built by more than just soldiers. It relies upon the fishwives and the basket-weavers, the scientists and engineers, the religious scholar and his critics. How will you win their support if the French continue to slaughter them in their masses? I have seen all manners of people united beneath Pasha's banner, but his banner is not carried aloft by occultist weather.

Adab al-Fatat steps forward, flashing a smile at Burnley.

Adab al-Fatat: I warned you to watch your tongue, American—

Eh'ret Behn turns, coming to regard both men with his empty eye sockets.

Eh'ret Behn: Your ceaseless bickering belies the truth of your struggles.

Eh'ret Behn pauses again before speaking, his voice weary and tired.

Eh'ret Behn: Ghazi, I consider your struggle to be righteous. For countless generations, I have watched as your people struggled within this desert; to be born, to live, and to die upon these lands. You did not arrive to press claim to its resources, oppress its peoples, or plunder its wealth for yourself. By all rights, these lands belong to you. However, violence only begets violence. When you visit your righteous fury upon the wounded, the sick, the infirm, the elderly, the desperate; then you are no better than these foreigners.

Adab al-Fatat: And what would you have me do, ancestor? Have me stand by idly as the French plunder my own city? There are children dying behind those walls, ancestor! Children who lie starving and wounded, children who have seen things no child should ever bear witness to, children who will never again know the innocence stolen away by those foreign dogs.

Eh'ret Behn pauses for a moment.

Eh'ret Behn: There are children dying. The injustices of this new world are laid bare within those four words.

He returns his attention to the Simoom as it reaches across the Anti-Lebanon Mountains to the west, grasping at the snow-capped mountains with fingers of raging, golden sand.

Eh'ret Behn: I have lived a thousand lifespans in the shape of this undead husk which stands before you, and experienced a great many things. I could tell you of the monstrous Drisent, soaring beasts of tooth, claw, and flame, or I might describe to you the Eotrol, gigantic beings with the strength to reshape the bones of the earth. I might recount the tales of the ephemeral empire of the bronze-hued Fae, born from fallen stars and the first to exploit the gifts of language. I could regale you with stories of the barbaric Fell and their Dusk-Eyed Queen whose savage decrees reigned over the Palearctic while my people sheltered within their caves. I might retell the tragedies of the First Empire to you, nothing remains of them but crumbled ruins and faded memories― but none of these stories are for you.

Eh'ret Behn turns to face the pair once more, his hollow sockets devoid of any emotion, but his voice ringing with a grave tone.

Eh'ret Behn: If you fail to recognise your own past, the future will shortly thereafter take its revenge. I ask you both, can any struggle ever truly said to have been worth its cost?

Crystallum Obscura Transcript

Date: 20th October, 1925

Participants: Lyle Alan Burnley, Sultan al-Atrash, Adab al-Fatat

Sultan al-Atrash and Burnley are gathered around a table, a weathered map of Damascus and its surrounding environs spread across its surface. A fistful of opals have been scattered across the south-eastern boundaries of Damascus, whilst two sapphires have been placed to the north of Damascus and another solitary sapphire rests at the centre of the oldest capital in the world. Sultan al-Atrash's fists are curled tightly at the map's corners, whilst al-Fatat reclines against a tentpole, his brow furrowed.

Sultan al-Atrash: Another report of French troops massing north of Damascus. And here, look, a missive from scouts along the western border of Senegalese and Moroccan soldiers crossing the Lebanese border. That thrice-damned storm will keep the French from our backs for a time, but they will assault us in droves, bringing tanks and aircraft with them. They lick their wounds, biding their time, whilst we bicker about ourselves.

Adab al-Fatat: Rest assured, Sultan. The Simoom will continue to hound their dogged advance.

Sultan al-Atrash: And when the storm passes, al-Fatat? What will Al-Kifah do then? Will your fierce displays and desert tricks keep them at bay? I will not throw away lives to fight against an enemy we cannot defeat, regardless if they be Arab, Kurd, Syriac, Druze, Turkmen, or a Bedouin.

Adab al-Fatat: With the Simoom at our backs, Al-Kifah will stand proud, Sultan—

Sultan al-Atrash: I do not care what becomes of you and your men, al-Fatat, but I shall not have you casting aside the lives of my men in this senseless pursuit of paradise!

Adab al-Fatat bows stiffly and exits through the tent's curtain. As he leaves, Burnley can be seen slipping something into his travelling cloak.

Sultan al-Atrash: His book of prophecies is naught but lies. Where is his city of golden sands? Where now are the spirits of his ancestors, thirsting for the vengeance in spilling foreign blood? I saw the killing fields beyond Damascus with my own two eyes, and know that no desert fighters could have wrecked such carnage. Even I was fooled by his first prophecy; the son of a minor noble, destined to unite the tribes beneath a golden banner. Have I not raised such banners as we marched? We have all done everything we could to fulfil the prophecies, but it is done. Abandon the book and return to the truths of Allah, my old friend.

Lyle Alan Burnley: Then what do you plan, Pasha?

Sultan al-Atrash turns towards Burnley, evidently having forgotten the man was even there until he spoke.

Sultan al-Atrash: I've half a mind to continue the revolution from the Transjordan. Would my men not be safe under the protection of your own benefactors, Burnley? Thousands of professional French soldiers will arrive from Morocco and Senegal in the coming weeks, pouring across the Lebanese borders upon armoured trains. The French captain of Damascus will continue to wage his war against unarmed civilians, and I have neither the men nor the equipment to prevent either from happening.

Lyle Alan Burnley: And what of al-Fatat and Al-Kifah?

Sultan al-Atrash: What of them? If Al-Kifah are so determined to continue in their ancient struggle here, then they are welcome to, but they will die outside of these walls as so many others have before them. More than seven-hundred years ago, the French once attempted to take this city for themselves, but their assault was almost single-handedly rebuffed by the civilians of Damascus led by a charismatic Islamic preacher. Yet, seven-hundred years ago, they did not have tanks and aircraft with which to terrorise those same civilians with. Blind faith alone will not topple an Empire.

Sultan al-Atrash pauses, his frantic gestures having scattered the opals from the table, and they now rest half-buried in the floor of desert sand. He leans down, picking each one up and pocketing them as he speaks.

Sultan al-Atrash: I would welcome you to join our men in the Emirate, Burnley. I believe it would be most helpful to our cause if you would voice your own support to the British.

Lyle Alan Burnley: I shall consider your offer, Pasha.

Crystallum Obscura Transcript

Date: 23rd October, 1925

Participants: Adab al-Fatat, Eh'ret Behn

Adab al-Fatat admires the hewn crystal which he discovered within his travelling coat, placing it atop the spread pages of SCP-7879. He is sat atop a dune, studying the Simoom as it continues to grow and rage across the desert skies, a cyclonic maelstrom of dust and sand. The sand beside him is disturbed from beneath, a skeletal hand groping up through the dune and grasping at the surrounding sand as Eh'ret Behn manifests upon the surface.

Adab al-Fatat: And where have you been these past few days, ancestor?

Eh'ret Behn: Wandering. I recalled a village which once nestled along the eastern banks of the river which neighbours your city. It has since been consumed by time; all that remains in its passing is dust, sand, and potsherds.

Adab al-Fatat: The desert remembers all the same, ancestor. It swallows us up and spits us back out. The descendents of that village might now shelter behind the walls of Damascus.

Eh'ret Behn: Perhaps.

The pair remain quiet; the only audible sound coming from the ancient desert storm coursing through the night sky.

Adab al-Fatat: The Sultan plans to abandon Al-Kifah in our struggle against the enemy and I fear that the Simoom will not suffice, ancestor. The holy text speaks of traitors and false prophecies, warnings to the reader. What if I have misread the prophecies? What if—

Eh'ret Behn: Then your struggle will continue regardless. It is as you said; the desert remembers. In all my years, I have only twice witnessed the myriad tribes of these lands united beneath a single banner. Others will take up your struggle and your nation will never again be the same. The Simoom has turned the tides, ghazi.

Adab al-Fatat: Even so, I begin to doubt the prophecy's words. True enough, our struggle may continue, but without an end in sight, and none of my warriors will live to see Syria freed from the grasp of warring empires from across the seas.

Eh'ret Behn pauses, turning his head with a creak to regard al-Fatat.

Eh'ret Behn: You speak of endless struggles, yet know nothing of mine, ghazi. Long before your kind and their errant siblings stumbled blinking into the sunlight, my people already lived. Our rituals were those of fire, song, and dance. As our campfires roared with dancing flames, so too did our people. We were a happy and contented people, singing our songs and dancing to the rhythms of the earth. But in time, another people emerged, and everything we cherished was lost to us. Our ancestral hunting grounds defiled; our herds slaughtered. Our campfires extinguished by those who hated light, flame, and everything it represented. Our ancestral gods entombed in wooden shackles. Together, my people were driven further and further south, fleeing from those who despised us for the sins of walking the earth before them.

Eh'ret Behn turns his hollow eyes upon al-Fatat.

Eh'ret Behn: Eventually, we had nowhere else to run, our backs to the sea atop a sheer monolith composed from the shells of long-dead sealife. And so, we carried out one final, glorious feast. One final dance together, a celebration of life and its beauty, before hurling ourselves upon the fires; men, women, and children alike. Our spirits burned within those flames, dancing upon the winds, whilst our bodies burned. We became what you witness before you; husks of a former self, destined to strive ever onward until we crumble into nothing but dust and grains of sand. Our souls became one with the winds, our bodies enslaved to follow in their wake, and we eventually crossed the southern seas to new lands. For thousands of years, we wished vengeance upon an enemy who had forsaken our opportunity to live, to sing to the earth's song, to dance upon its skin, and feel the warmth of fire upon our skin. They had stolen our freedom and we were desperate to see it returned to us— just as you are, ghazi.

He pauses, crouching down and staring up at the Simoom once again, his voice bearing a weary, tired tone.

Eh'ret Behn: In time, we finally received the chance to enact revenge upon our enemy and so the members of my tribe marched east, unheeding the cautions offered by the rest of our people. We crossed the eastern seas and arrived in these lands which surround us. Ten-thousand years ago, there was no desert; only endless stretches of verdant grasslands, cut through by slashes of crisp, clean water. It was as if we had never left our original homeland beyond the sea. However, as our desperate struggle came to a close within these lands, our spirits had become bound to the desert winds and we found ourselves unable to leave. The devastation which we and countless others had visited upon this place was so monumental, sunken so deep within the bones of the earth, that it was reduced to the barren wasteland before your eyes.

Eh'ret Behn now stands tall, his shadow cast in moonlight across the desert sands.

Eh'ret Behn: My people are neither jinn nor spiritual guardians, but the Eh'real, and we are cursed to wander these wastes until our bones wear away, becoming one with the desert winds, and even then we shall remain.

Crystallum Obscura Transcript

Date: 2nd November, 1925

Participants: Adab al-Fatat, Eh'ret Behn, Burnley

Foreword: After the departure of Sultan al-Atrash and his forces, Al-Kifah remained behind to wage an insurrection within the city, believing that SCP-7879 held the key to securing their futures. During one such skirmish with French forces, al-Fatat was shot and his wound festered, resulting in him being confined to his bedchambers.

Adab al-Fatat is laid in a bedroll, his hand pressed firmly beneath his breast, black stains seeping between his fingers. SCP-7879 lies at the foot of his bed, the pages spread wide to an image of a lonely black figure raising a rusted, chipped sword above their head, red eyes blazing as white hair cascades down the figure's shoulders. Eh'ret Behn lifts the tent’s flap, the desert winds raging outside as he enters.

Adab al-Fatat: Since we first met, American, your eyes have been fastened upon the holy text of the Bedouin―

Adab al-Fatat coughs, his expression contorting with pain. He staggers to his feet, his travelling cloak stained with dry, sickly blood, as he approaches Eh'ret Behn.

Eh’ret Behn: It is I, ghazi. Your men continue to fight within the city, ghazi. [pauses] You are wounded?

Adab al-Fatat sinks to his knees, his fingers digging beneath his blood-crusted cloak.

Adab al-Fatat: Wounded? No. I am dying, ancestor, and I fear I might never reach that paradise.

Eh’ret Behn says nothing, but looks down at al-Fatat as he stumbles forwards. Behn catches the man between his arms, kneeling down in the desert sand.

Adab al-Fatat: Generations of men and women before me have lived and died for this moment. They too awaited the signs of prophecy enshrined within the text; a desperate struggle against a foreign enemy, a man born of some small nobility uniting an entire nation beneath his banner, the return of the jinn who first presented this holy work into our ancestor’s hands, a divested people sailing across the seas. Oh, but I realised it all too late, American. I realised it all too late―

Eh’ret Behn: Ghazi, is it not enough to know that you lived? To have struggled against an enemy beyond your powers, fought with blood and tears, and inspired a great many people to your side. I have seen how your fearless warriors stare down their enemy in the defence of the elderly, the sick, the women, and the children.

Adab al-Fatat: I have lived the life of a rogue and a murderer―

Eh’ret Behn: And the life of a hero and a warrior. We are not undone by our final moments, but the legacy of the life we led. The desert will remember and honour you, El'ghazi, and I am honoured to have fought beside you.

The shadow of a smile crosses al-Fatat’s lips.

Adab al-Fatat: 'On this day, the Simoom rises and the sea of sands will not weep for you.' See how the moon and stars rise, and I am so very tired―

Adab al-Fatat collapses, his fingers reaching for his crescent moon brooch and smearing its golden surface red.

Eh’ret Behn remains silent, before gently closing al-Fatat’s eyes and raising his travelling cloak over his head. He reaches to his left, withdrawing his sword from his scabbard, and resting it atop his corpse.

Eh’ret Behn: Be at peace, El’ghazi, for your struggle has finally come to a close. You were as fierce and true as any Eh'real warrior.

Eh’ret Behn crouches beside al-Fatat’s body, watching over as his corpse sinks beneath the desert sand. Fifteen minutes later, Burnley enters the tent, his clothes scored by sand and his face betraying his state of exhaustion.

Lyle Alan Burnley: Jinn, where is al-Fatat?

Eh’ret Behn: El'ghazi is gone; his body and blood returned to the desert. Whilst his men continue their desperate struggle within the city, they are few, and a great slaughter will soon befall this city. Whether you stand your ground or flee, you will die here for the desert is not kind to strangers, and so you must prepare to depart with me.

Lyle Alan Burnley: Why me?

Eh'ret Behn raises his head stiffly, his neck creaking as he looks up at Burnley.

Eh’ret Behn: Because you are surrounded by men, hungry to enact their vengeance against those who killed their kin. Because, heresiographer, it is just you and I who remain standing. Follow me, or perish in this wasteland alongside the rest, there is no other choice.

Crystallum Obscura Transcript

Date: 18th November, 1925

Participants: Lyle Alan Burnley, Eh'ret Behn

The crystal's fogged interior reveals an image of snowcapped mountaintops overlooking a desert storm rising above a serene blue sea. Burnley is crouched on the mountainside plateau, SCP-7879 remaining open between his fingers. The manuscript illustrates a near identical scene to the one before the pair, but the desert storm is seen crossing onto land. Eh'ret Behn stares longingly at the storm, watching from atop Qurnat as Sawda' as the Simoom crosses the Mediterranean Sea.

Eh'ret Behn: For countless millennia, the book between your hands has brought naught but bloodshed, murder, and false promises to the people of these lands, and so I must ask― what are your designs for it?

Lyle Alan Burnley: I― my employers wish to see it returned to their care, even if its occult qualities have now been divested from it.

Eh'ret Behn: I do not plan to contest your designs, but I must ask that its words are one day shared with the people of these lands. To honour the struggle of El'ghazi and his people.

Burnley nods, his hands clutched tight around SCP-7879's horsehide cover. The pair remain silent for ten minutes. Burnley is the first to speak.

Lyle Alan Burnley: If I might ask, Behn, what do you think of when you see this new world?

Eh'ret Behn remains silent for a moment, before turning his head towards Burnley and speaking.

Eh'ret Behn: I think of its injustices.

Lyle Alan Burnley: And what of your fellow spirits, did they ever ponder on the great injustices you laid witness to during your millennia of fighting?

Eh'ret Behn: No. The few that could still think at all— they thought of home.

Lyle Alan Burnley: Why was that?

Eh'ret Behn: Because that was their injustice, heresiographer.

Burnley closes SCP-7879 and silently observes Eh'ret Behn descending the mountain, his footprints buried beneath the sand in his wake by the passing winds of the Syrian Desert.