From Within the Mist

When the Pacifids learned that they were not alone in the universe, it was not because they had set out to discover new life. In fact, they had never even considered the existence of anything besides themselves, and the creatures and fauna that inhabited their world. They just weren’t that curious. 

Although the Pacifids didn’t have satellites dotting the space above their world or spaceships, they were not technological dummies. They had ground transportation, but no air travel, because they didn’t need it. Their entire population was concentrated in an area that was roughly the size and shape of the State of Florida.

   Pacifid biology ensures that there can never be an overpopulation of their world. You see, all succeeding generations of Pacifids are born at the same time. Each Pacifid, at the age of fifty, produces one Pacifid. I won’t go into the mechanics of how this happens, but suffice it to say that it is the most pleasurable experience in a Pacifid’s life. Then, at the age of one-hundred, they are compelled to walk out into the mist that surrounds the edges of their world, and they disappear. Never to be seen or heard from again. It sounds weird. But for millions of years, there was no ceremony, no mourning, and no goodbyes. Life simply continued as it always did.  

Before the discovery, Pacifids were a simple sort; quite pleasant, when compared to humans. They shared everything, and never fought amongst themselves. In fact, there was no word for conflict in the Pacifid language. There was no word for love either. But that’s another story.  

Oh, I should mention that Pacifids are like squishy pink blobs; very soft; like marshmallows. Picture a snowman with a small head, a big belly, short stubby legs, large feet, skinny arms, and big hands. They’re also kind of sticky. 

Anyway, back to the day when the Pacifids discovered that they were not alone in their universe. It was a day like any other. A gentle breeze swirled the edge of the mist. The sun illuminated the violet sky, giving everything a deep purple hue; the air, which always smelled like rotting potatoes, smelled, like rotting potatoes; and the Pacifids were busy doing what Pacifids usually do. Things, which I won’t describe here, because they have nothing to do with this story.  

If Pacifids kept time or recorded their history, their historians would note that at some point early in the eight millionth year of their existence, at about midday, twelve creatures who were definitely not Pacifids emerged from the mist in their lower southern region. Think, Miami, on a map of Florida. 

These creatures, which the Pacifids would later call Monglamentors, (from their word Mongla, which means mist, and Mentori, which means out of,) were actually, Herroons, beings that lived on the same planet, but the other side of the mist.  

Unlike the Pacifids, however, the Herroons were solid. They were almost pure muscle, and tall. Picture a seven-foot-tall version of the comic book character, The Hulk. Now, picture him angry, very angry! That’s your typical Herroon.  

The total opposite of Pacifids, Herroons lived and breathed the word conflict. The word permeated their entire language. Even words that did not normally mean conflict could mean conflict if a Herroon wanted. But I digress. 

When the twelve Herroons emerged from the mist, they seemed confused. Then they began to argue; which, by the way, is standard for Herroons. After a while, they approached a passing Pacifid, who, for this story, we’ll call Cubby.  

What they said to Cubby no one knows. There was a language barrier, so, it could’ve been anything. Nonetheless, Cubby didn’t reply; which, in Herroon culture, is an outrageous insult, and must be avenged with nothing less than the immediate death of the offender.  

The Herroons, who all felt they had been insulted, promptly attacked Cubby, and beat him unmercifully until he died; they then, as per their custom when they vanquish an enemy, consumed his remains.  

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on one’s point of view, within minutes of eating Cubby, they all fell to the ground, burst into flames, and died.  

You see, unbeknownst to the Herroons and the Pacifids, Pacifids and Herroons share the same world, and are the instruments of each other’s deaths. In the mist, during the hundred-year cycle, the Herroons eat the Pacifids, who are highly toxic to them, and die. Somehow, the twelve that emerged from the mist had missed their meal.  

As the wind gently blew the ashes of the Herroons back into the mist, the Pacifids who had witnessed Cubby’s death experienced a strange new emotion. They would later call it Nasquelix. Roughly translated into English, it means to be afraid or fearful.  

During the next hundred-year cycle the Pacifids began to change. Consumed by their fear that the creatures they called the Monglamentors, would return, the Pacifids created many mythologies regarding them. They also created the first of their many religions; the Religion of the Mist. Within two one-hundred-year cycles, they had fought their first war. And at some point, lying beneath the death and destruction that differences in belief can lead to, they found the meaning of the word, conflict.