"The Enchanted Poplars"

P Powrie - 1964

Foreword -
Many years ago, when I was nineteen, a 'boy-friend' (Peter) and I went for a lovely ramble up on the hills above Rondebosch, Cape Town, in a very old poplar plantation.

After arriving back at his home in Newlands and after supper, he threw himself down on his back on a large couch, closed his eyes, held out his hand to me and said "Tell me a story." So I sat down on the edge of the couch, held his hand and told him this story of the poplar wood and the ruins of the old house we had discovered somewhere in it. (This story was finally finished off in the 1970's and called "The Enchanted Poplars")

As I look back over the young years of my life I remember many occasions upon which friends would gather around me and say "Tell us a story" - I suppose in those days, there was no radio, TV and not as many books, or toys or places to go, so we had to amuse ourselves in other ways and "story-telling" was one of those ways. We sometimes told stories which were told by all present. One would start on a theme, talk for a few minutes and then say "now you carry on" and the next person would take over and continue the story until they decided to pass it on to the next person. This way nobody ever knew how the story was going to change or end and it was great fun. We should have one of these parties again sometime.

But many wonderful tales of secret passages, treasures and excitements would be told to a rapt audience! As a matter of fact, a fact that I had forgotten, I was always seeking and knocking on the walls of our fairly old house "Bronta" in Tamboerskloof, Cape Town, because I was sure that there must be a secret passage somewhere, as this is South Africa and not England, and our 'old' houses are many generations younger than the old English mansions!

Later, in the middle 'teen' years, a group of three to five of us girls used to get together and dress up in my marvellous collection of clothes, garnered from those thrown out by my three older sisters. Cast-off dance dresses. Arts Ball costumes and other clothes. We acted out story after story, from smugglers to four sisters, the youngest of which had been captured by some fabulous tribe who had made her a Priestess of their Temple. After many months of adventure and searching all over the world, just about, we finally located her - only to discover that she had come to so love her position as "Daughter of the Dragon" that she no longer wanted to come home with us!

These plays were always impromptu and no one ever knew how the story would come out in the end and in this case the other three of us were so completely stunned by her response to our rejoicing discovery of her and I remember that we all ended up in tears, begging her to come home with us and her resolutely refusing! Trying to explain to us why now, as a Priestess, she could no longer change her path in life. We were all in tears and a glorious time was had by all!
My wonderful Mother had had one of our cellars whitewashed and turned into a 'den' for us and this was, in turn, anything from a pirate's treasure trove or smuggler's cave to a beautiful 'stately home' just depending upon the present mood of its occupants. I remember another
time when we were all supposed to be in a row-boat and one girl walked forward guiding us, while the others, two or three, walked backwards, rowing for dear life. (Nowadays young ones just seem to flop and watch TV living off other people's imagination!)

I was always dreaming and living in my imagination until eventually my brother-in-law, Don Wessinger said "Why don't you write down all your dreams to share with others?" (because I was always telling them all about my latest experiences) so I started my book, which I couldn't decide whether to call "Jill's House of Dreams" or "Unfinished Castles" - because most of the dreams were unfinished because I was interrupted and had to go to meals, school or something! But over the many years, various odd episodes were written for inclusion in the book and I have a box full of poems, stories, articles in various degrees of completion! I wonder, will the total book ever be finished?

Towards the end of the war I married and the years since then have been so full of wife-hood and mother-hood to five children (who have never asked me to tell them a story) that I seldom got a chance to slip away into that trance-like state where dreams become reality, and have contented myself with odd "Letter to the Editor" on many subjects, so far having had about 35 to 40 letters printed, which are gathered, together with the carbon copies of their originals (which don't always agree with the letters printed, in some ways) and in some cases, with the rejection slips from the Editor, all this in several bulging scrap books!

Perhaps one day when my very demanding children are older and off my hands - the eldest is now 19 years old - I will have time to finish "Unfinished Castles" (Written 1964, typed 1979 retyped 1983 - and this retyping 1995 by Judy)


THE ENCHANTED POPLARS

Philippa Dymond (now Powrie) 1937

I went for a walk one day, up into the poplar wood on the mountains above Kenilworth, Cape, on one of those Cape days which can only be described in one way, a magic day. A soft feeling in the air and a myriad insect sounds, with just enough faint breeze every now and then to stir the poplar leaves into a rustle of whispered conversation.

There, somewhere in the heart of the woods - I had searched for it twice since then but have not found it again - I came across the ruins of a cottage. All around the poplars were curiously twisted and bent, as if they had been writhing when suddenly struck still by a magic spell.
I sat down on the carpet of leaves with my back against the trunk of a tree and a dream came to me... it was as if I lived again, as an unseen watcher in a time long passed. This is the dream conjured up from the ruins of an old cottage, which had at one time possibly been a slave dwelling in the copse of poplar trees.

In the old Cape days there lived, in the mountain cottage of a large estate on the slopes of the Wynberg mountains, a father, Sir Bertram and his daughter, the Lady Elizabeth.
Sir Bertram had plans for building a house more suitable to the size of his estate, the cottage having been intended as a temporary dwelling.

As time went by, he became more and more attached to the cottage where his daughter had grown from gawky child into lovely maiden of nineteen.

They had only come out from England a few years previously, to the small cottage, after Sir Bertrams' wife, Lady Julia, had died, to make their home in this new country.

There was, of course, the villain of the story, Sir Bertram's cousin, Charles, who had visited them and now coveted the estate and therefore wished to marry Elizabeth, but both she and her father hated the pompous scheming cousin and whenever he called, Elizabeth would order her horse, Fidelis, and ride away into the wood where, the slaves said, she talked to the trees, telling them her secrets and listening to theirs. For certain it was that she talked to the trees and sure it was that they rustled in answer and as later events seemed to prove, they understood each other.

The next Spring Sir Bertram fell ill, having caught a severe chill. For days he was delirious and then just before he died, he begged Lady Elizabeth never to marry Charles, who had evil blood in him. He begged her, his only child, to keep this lovely estate clear of the wicked influence that Charles would bring and this Lady Elizabeth promised to do.

For five weeks after Sir Bertram's death Charles accepted the old slave woman's statement that her mistress was too ill and distressed to see him but one day he struck the slave with his riding whip and ordered her to fetch her mistress immediately. When Lady Elizabeth entered the room she ordered him to leave at once and never to return again. He threatened her with unpleasant consequences if she did not accept his offer of marriage. Again she refused, repeating her wish that he should leave immediately and he stamped out in a fury.

When he had gone, Elizabeth called for Fidelis and rode away to her friends the trees. She followed her favourite path until she had gone some half-mile from the cottage when suddenly a bird fluttered up almost from under Fidelis' forefeet and he reared and twisted.

Lady Elizabeth, who had been lost in a dream of lonely despair and longing for her father, was taken unawares - and perhaps a little uncaring - for she was thrown. She fell with her back on a stone, breaking her spine and lay dazed for a while. Suddenly she realised what had happened and told Fidelis to go back to his stable, knowing that when he returned riderless, the slaves would come and find her.

As Fidelis turned homewards he must have heard her words of entreaty to the poplars "Oh dear friends, please help me. I can no longer save the estate from Charles because I am dying, but you, he wants to cut you down, to build a great house with courtyards and formal gardens to show how important he is. He wants to desecrate this lovely mountain with his gambling parties and drinking orgies. He will ill-treat his slaves and his animals. He is wicked. Wicked. Oh help me, please help me."

The poplars rustled a fervent promise that they would haunt this man until they drove him away from the estate - they would see that the house was left with not one stone upon another. The Lady Elizabeth thanked them, blessed them, and died.

When the slaves found her they knelt and wept beside her still, beautiful form, while the poplar leaves whispered a sad farewell. No sooner had the slaves lifted her and carried her away than the whispering became a rustling which became louder and louder. The boughs started to toss and writhe. They seemed to come alive, to move more than just their waving boughs.

The fearful slaves sent a messenger to fetch a doctor and the attorney who was Elizabeth's guardian until she became of age, at twenty one.

The following week, the formalities over, Charles arrived to take possession of the estate only to find that the slaves had fled in terror, for, all the week it seemed that the trees drew nearer and nearer, their branches reaching out to touch the very walls of the house.

Charles observed the nearness of the trees with disgust and ordered the slaves he had brought with him to start cutting them down, but in the morning it seemed that although ten trees had been felled there were more than ten in their places and the boughs now slapped against the windows. The slaves were ordered to work harder, their master himself moving amongst them, cracking his whip and threatening them with what would happen if they slacked off but always it seemed that the trees multiplied and grew closer and closer until he felt as if he was suffocating. The fourth day he awoke to find that his slaves had abandoned him and he was alone in this crazy, frenzied poplar wood. His apprehension increased as he noticed that two windows had broken where the boughs had crashed against them and thrust their way into the house and the rustling of the leaves had become so loud that with a touch of hysteria Charles covered his ears and cried out "Be still, be still. What do you want? What are you trying to do?" Suddenly it seemed that he heard their answer to him "Go away from here. Go away from here. You killed our Lady Elizabeth and we shall kill you, kill you."

Charles pulled himself together and shouted "This is nonsense. Utter nonsense, do you hear? Trees don't talk and I won't give up my heritage so easily. You can do your worst but I'll beat you yet. I'll fetch more slaves and workmen. I'll cut you down, every last one of you!"

Muttering to himself Charles hurried to the stables to find that there was but one horse left, Fidelis, whom he saddled and rode to the village where, he thought, he would arrange for workmen to come and clear away the trees the next day.

Meanwhile the story of the strange trees had spread, his slaves had vanished and there were no more available. All he could manage was for a small party of workmen to come the following week and he rode home, through the twilight, in a state of helpless rage.

That night he decided to stay and prove to himself that the trees were ordinary poplars after all, but he was overcome with weariness and slept the sleep of the dead. Next morning he found a great crack in the wall and, as he stared at it with sleep-dazed horror, it widened and the house began to shudder. He dashed outside and saw that where the steps had been, a poplar shoot had pushed its way through a pile of rubble. The sound of a crash made him turn back to the room to see a roof-beam hanging drunkenly where it had broken away from the wall. The house was collapsing right before his very eyes.

He gave a great shout of laughter in which there was more than a hint of madness and screamed "I'll build a new house, you'll see. A great new house - but I'll cut you all down first." Then he hurried to the stable to saddle Fidelis and galloped to the town to arrange storage for his furniture until his great new house was built. The removers came right away and that night Charles slept in the village.

Next day he returned to the house. He had not meant to but it seemed as if a great magnet, stronger than his will, was drawing him back to the scene that was now one of desolation. The roof had completely fallen, the walls were crumbling and he turned to stare at Fidelis, who had remained faithful - but faithful to whom? Could it be that Fidelis had been waiting patiently to avenge his mistress?

Charles gave a terrible cry and turned to run away from the ruins, the twisting trees, the horse and everything that now represented to him his fate at the hand of Lady Elizabeth's avengers, but a force stronger than himself caused him to mount Fidelis, where he sat as if under an hypnotic spell as the horse turned and galloped off along the path which Lady Elizabeth had taken.

Suddenly, as Fidelis reached the place where his mistress had fallen, a bird fluttered up from almost under his forefeet and he reared and twisted. Fidelis stood and gazed for a moment at the still figure on the ground, then turned and, with a drooping head made his tired and hungry way back to the empty stable, stooping now and then to crop the bits of grass along the way.

So the gang of workers found matters when they arrived a couple of days later. A cottage in ruins, a thin hungry horse, still saddled, standing disconsolately in his crumbling stable and then, upon searching and calling they came upon the body of the man who had hired them, lying amongst grotesquely twisted trees, which seemed to whisper softly to each other as the body was carried away.

I awoke from my reverie and, with a sigh, turned my steps homewards.