Your writer of pulp, in a desperate attempt to contribute verity, or perhaps vérité, to The Rabbit's Exile has chosen to place the story's provenance in a Silurian myth which a Jungian theorist suggested was a likely example of Freud's archaic remnant in Jung's collective unconscious. The smart arse might note this subtle introduction of the relationship between Freudian and Jungian ideas. Naturally enough the debate is wide ranging, but worth noting that a younger Jung did spend time exploring his idea of the collective unconscious amongst what he must have reckoned were the Simpler People of the western slopes of the Elgon Caldera.
I guess too, there's an argument that might suggest our hero is more primitive
than the average modern hero, his belief systems just a tad on the wacky side
despite the surface, the pavement or the sidewalk if you prefer, of more recent
iterations that have so smothered the purity, or the innocence of the ancients,
who apparently never had need of health insurance or psychiatrists. The problem
is, once a writer of pulp uses the word Myth to describe any explanation of the
real, a ripping yarn no longer belongs to the Sabean Genre. And what ever which
way you put it, reaching into a cathedral for affirmation of idea is a dastardly
trick. But there's good news from Saint Barbara, theoretically 10 inch radius curves are possible without the
nightmare of a Dog Pole Loop and without relocating The
Oddfellow Hall. So I can cling to that for a bit.