(For those new to Owain Glyndŵr, The Imaginary Prince of Wales, read the series so far)
The subject, ostensible though imaginary, of the town hall, now in progress, was the concept of control. The battle, to the death it would seem, had been joined.
Hotspur had been the first to enter the fray. As her namesake, centuries earlier, had challenged a prince (not necessarily imaginary), to single combat, she had similarly, in the present moment challenged the Prince of the Imaginary to consider the idea that people generally, both real and imaginary, would be reluctant to give up control of what they currently owned, ie. money, asset value and merit, these being essential to the conception, and fundamental value, of themselves, their very self, a collective (if imaginary) concept.
The Prince had been hoping that Hotspur’s early sally would take this turn. His confidence increased.
‘Ownership!’ he cried. ‘Ownership! It is an imaginary concept. Ownership belongs to me. To my realm. Ownership is one function of the self, the concept of the self, imaginary, pure and simple. You can’t argue from the point of view of ownership. That is a dead letter.’
Hotspur’s blood was up. ‘I own my money! I own my house! I own my education, my skills, my ability, my merit. I own myself!’
The Prince is disappointed. ‘You’ve turned against me, treated me with contempt for this? For ownership? I would remind you, you are imaginary. You can’t own anything.’
‘I might be imaginary, but ownership is just as central to me as anyone real. I own my imagination! As to you, you are nothing. You are simply imaginary. If you don’t own anything that’s not my fault.’ Hotspur considered this the mortal blow.
At that point Thalia stepped forward. She appeared to grow taller in front of the people (such is power of imagination). ‘I am, as you are aware, the Queen of the Real, the uncontested supreme ruler of reality.’
Hotspur, to her surprise, found herself prone and bleeding at Thalia’s feet, having received a severe blow rather than having delivered such to the Prince. She is confused as to the origin of her wound. (Luckily, this is imaginary. No minor deities were seriously injured in making this series.)
Thalia holds a bloody sword. ‘Hotspur is simply the deity who rules money. She may be real, she may be imaginary. She is not powerful enough to resist the Prince of the Imaginary. I, in contrast, am your equal.’
The Prince was momentarily concerned. Can that be correct? Does the Prince have an equal?
‘Self-declared,’ the Prince averred, ‘you were originally imaginary.’
‘Are you prepared to fight me or not?’ the Queen presented very aggressively.
‘Very well,’ the Prince wasn’t scared. ‘Give it your best shot.’
It may be timely, at this point, to examine what the crowd of townspeople in the hall were making of this contretemps. They had become accustomed to the Prince’s being imaginary and the powers that devolved from that state, new currency for example, the central bank which all could draw on, but they had begun to have concerns, an uncomfortable sense that maybe they’d given up something important, something central, something intrinsic.
There was a rising sound of discomfort from all quarters.
Mortimer raised her hand and the crowd was silent.
‘I am Art,’ she said. The noise returned, somewhat louder. Mortimer continued. ‘This is a battle between Art and Science, Art and Mathematics, Art and Reality. The Queen of Reality must be vanquished. I am the one to do it.’
She turned towards Thalia, the Queen, and beckoned her on. But, much to Mortimer’s surprise, next to Thalia stood Falstaff, large as life.
‘Surprise!’ He laughed. ‘I’m the Lord of the Underworld. Money is my domain, no one else’s.’
(We are hopelessly muddling our literary allusions here, but never mind.)
Thalia stood back to allow Falstaff room to advance.
‘You and Hotspur,’ Falstaff was withering. ‘A couple of amateurs. Thalia and I, we were in it together from the beginning. Poor little Hotspur, double crossed in your turn.’
Mortimer reached down and touched Hotspur’s wound which immediately healed.
The Prince stepped forward to join them, the triumvirate together again.
And finally, Gethin was there. ‘I’m Community,’ he said.
Four against two; what will happen? Will Hotspur remain loyal? Will Gethin sing a Welsh song to celebrate victory?
Find out next week. The final instalment of Owain Glyndŵr, The Imaginary Prince of Wales.