Id, Raddow and Freud Was On To Something.
The worst things in The World come from the dreams of children between the ages of two and four. The minds of children at that age are the ripest fruits of terrible creation.
For every elegant Sidus there is a rampant amorphous horror that slides and gibbers and squeals. Things that crawl and move in ways that the adult mind must reject, must believe cannot be real.
They say that all humans are born Generists. As we are born blank slates, ready to be imprinted with civility and humanity, we are born engines of fear. Like many things most humans grow out of it, as they age their wavelengths alter and their nightmares no longer build and create The World. There is a theory among the Professori and other academic or research minded individuals that revolves around the idea that between 2 and 4 our brains are at the perfect moment, we are conscious but not yet at the age of reason. We dream but cannot yet reconcile those as simply bad dreams.
As toddlers we are all the Id unleashed and unchained. Our language is not yet sophisticated enough to do the dreamwork necessary to banish these dreams or shed light on them enough to render the inert. Freud knew:
We assume that mental life is the function of an apparatus to which we ascribe the characteristics of being extended in space and of being made up of several portions [Id, ego, super-ego]. —Freud, An Outline of Psychoanalysis
A Father sits bolt upright in bed and leaps from the comfort of his blankets into the chill night air. His partner sleeps and their child wails in his room. The sound is high, sharp and full of primitive panic. Without care that he is barefoot and shirtless the Father runs into the small bedroom, he expects blood or an intruder but there is only the child. The child sits up, clutching blankets and screaming the way only small children can.
“Shh, shh Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here, it’s okay, come on, it’s okay don’t cry.”
Wrapped in big strong Daddy arms the child stops screaming and whimpers.
“Daddy? Daddy, don’t want the raddow, raddow Daddy don’t want it.”
The Father frowns, rocking with the child tucked against his chest.
“Shh, it was just a bad dream. Just a bad dream, Daddy’s here.”
The sweating child mutters about raddow and something that says, “thlissss my kid” or something. He doesn’t know. He does what his Father did for him when he had bad dreams. He climbs into the narrow little bed and tucks a stuffed bear against the child and then the child against his chest.
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word-“
The Father closes his eyes, he is so tired. The nightmares have been every night this week. The child watches the darkness with glassy eyes. Daddy falls asleep still singing and the child watches the thing slink out from the shadow of branch on the wall. The child knows, the child hears the chitinous whisper,
“thlisss, my kid. See my kiddie, kiddie.”
The child sees the one luminous eye bright with malice and intent.
There is no more screaming, Daddy is here and the child can’t stay awake any longer. Sleep settles and the thing, the raddow is made and slips out of the world with a whisper and a promise. The child will forget, the father will forget and someday a Warrior or Beholder will happen upon the Raddow and as it whispers to them, all they will think what we all think when we know the thing we fight has come from the mind of a child.
“Fuck I hate kids.”