Sally’s Story
by
H, B. Lloyd
O u a l , a village on the Oregon Coast, was the
home of Sally, a young girl who lived alone in a
small cabin overlooking the sea. The cold winds
bleu mid the rains flew almost all of the time in Ouat.
Sally was always cold and wet, it seemed. Her cabin
had a quite serviceable wood stove, but she never
seemed to have enough dry wood to burn.
She would wander the beach and collect
driftwood, and stack it around her cabin, but the rain
would keep it damp and her cabin was drafty and she
just couldn’t seem to keep warm.
Now, young Sally w as an artist and she would
draw pictures of the sea and the forest surrounding
her cabin. One day she was drawing in the forest,
when she saw a small figure asleep under a huge
forest fungus. He appeared to be an elf or a gnome
or something. He looked no more than 3 ft tall with
cork boots and canvas pants, held up by bright red
suspenders and a green and brown plaid wool shirt.
He wore a shapeless black hat over his long hair
w hich joined his graying beard to surround his
peacefully snoring face. Beside him lay a small, but
sen iceablc looking, double-bladed ax. She decided
to sketch the little person, and had just finished her
draw ing when a rain squall started. The rain,
combined with Sally's sigh of dismay, woke him.
“Oh, what,. . . Oh, this will never do, oh,. . .
no.” He sputtered.
“I ’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, but it is
raining. I have a cabin near il you’d like to try to
stay dry, though I have very’ little w armth to offer
there.” Sally said.
“Oh, 1 couldn’t, no, I must. . .”, and the rain
became heavier and Sally started back home.
“I'm going and you’re welcome but I must get out
of the rain”, she said over her shoulder as she dashed
through to woods tow ard her cabin.
When she reached home, she found a few pieces
of cedar, and several dry sticks of driftwood, and
built a small fire in the stove. “What a strange
person,” she thought, “so small and asleep in the
forest. 1 wonder where he lives, what he does, I
hope he isn’t going to get wet and cold and catch his
death in this rain.” The rain was now coming down
seriously and looked like it would last for quite a
while. She put her sketch book on her desk with her
other drawings and looked around her little cabin.
The walls were covered with sketches and
paintings, and the ceiling was hung with mobiles,
some finished, some works in progress. The
aforementioned wood stove sat in the middle of the
small room, with a patina of rust and soot on its front
and top. The small fire crackled but had yet to warm
beyond the walls of the stove when she heard a
tentative knock at the door.
“Come in.” She spoke quietly and a little
hesitantly.
The small person opened the door a crack, and
pecked in. He had his ax over his shoulder and
seemed to have composed himself since their last
meeting.
“My name is Billybong,” he said, as he entered,
looked around and rested his ax by the threshold.
“Oh, my, you draw ,” he said. “Is that what you
were doing w hen 1 woke up?”
“Yes,” Sally said, “Do you want to see?”
“NO!” he shouted. “Oh, No!”
“What is it?” Sally asked.
“W ell,” he seemed to deflate, to lose what little
height he possessed, to became smaller, and older,
and tired, very tired.
“Well, 1 had a tough day, the weather has been,
you know, you live here, tough. And, well. I’m
damned old, so I took a nap. And what arc y ou
doing living out here and drawing pictures of people
without their permission?!” His cheeks flushed.
“Excuse me!?” , Sally said, ”1 draw! You are no
different from the trees to me, I offered you shelter
from the rain, who arc you to talk like that?”
“ Not much shelter or warmth,” he said coming
nearer to the stove.
She looked over at the stove, not much indeed was
coming from it.
“W ell, the wood is wet and. . .what, Mr.
Billybong are you doing in these woods?”
He looked at her, and his eyes seemed to plead for
an understanding that he feared to hope for.
“1 am a logger gnome.” It seemed difficult for him
to say. “There are few of us left, we used to work
with the old people who lived here before the new
people came. Our job is to help the forest and the
people w ho live in it. We watch the young trees as
well as the old ones. We find young trees that come
from trees we know to be strong and we help them if
need be. We cut some trees that have died. II there
is a nest in the branches or a den in the roots, of
course, w e leave them alone, but if they are old
snags, with little nourishment to give to the young
trees, we cut them, and they warm the people in the
cold wet times.
“Oh, my,” Sally said. “Are you very old?”
“ We, my people, planted the Redwoods, “ he
said, with some pride.
She looked at him again, this time with a wonder
that she had seldom fell before.
“Can I get you some chamomile tea or perhaps
some thing to eat?” she asked.
“No!” he spoke harshly, and again tried to
compose himself. “You drew an image of me?”
“Yes,” Sally said, “don’t you want to look at it?”
She turned toward her desk to fetch the sketch pad.
“No!” he bellowed. “You don’t understand. We,
. . . logger gnomes, are what you call, w e ll,. . shy?
If someone has an image of one of us, they, w e ll,..
. . have a control, or at least can influence o n e ,. . .
to do th in g s,. . . things one may or may not want to
£> UTTER. UfTtDGt 3UNE -fftt
do. The old people respected us and never made
likenesses of us, even though, like you,” he said,
looking around the nxim at the pictures and sketches,
’’they were very talented.”
Sally looked" at the wet little person, and smiled.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” Billybong muttered, “but we
do have a problem. You see, if you keep my image,
your drawing, I will never be secure, 1 will never be
sale, that image is me! If you understand?”
Sally’s eyes sparkled; though she was young,
barely "old enough to live by herself after her family
was gone, she had learned the ways of the forest and
the seas; she had w atched the crows and the seagulls,
the elk and the bears, the whales and the salmon.
“So, you want my drawing?” she said. “Well,
that is what I do, you see. I draw. You, and yours
tend to the forest, but 1 tend to the images.”
C oast R ange
A ssociation
P.O. BOX 148
NEWPORT, OR 97365
B illy b o n g sm iled.
“You scent to be older than you look,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” Sally said, “and it seems that 1 have
something you value. What will you give me for the
image?”
“I regret to tell you,” Billybong said, “that I have
nothing but my ax by the door and what strength is
left in this old body to offer. You have the only
image ever made of a logger gnome, and I am lull ol
shame, because it is an image of me. 1 am old and
weak. Please, give it to me,” he pleaded.
“No,” she said, softly. “No, I have my needs as
well. You seem strong enough. And your ax looks
sharp enough,” she said, looking toward the door.
It did look to have a good edge, and the shiny
blade was decorated with what looked like old
Northwest Indian designs. The handle was also very-
curious, it was a dark w ixxl that had been can ed at
the end to look like a cresting wave, and though it
had obviously been well cured and used, there
appeared to be a small branch with a living leal
growing near the blade.
“I live here alone,” she spoke matter of factly, “I
am young and my cabin is cold and damp and I can’t
gather enough dry wood to keep me warm. If you
will supply me with the wood I need, until I am
warm and comfortable, I will give you my drawing.”
Billybong looked her straight in the eye, and she
did not blink.
“Very well,” he said, and turned on his heel,
grabbed" his ax and was out the door before she could
say another word.
True to his word, Billybong began to bring wood
to the cabin, and stack it outside under the eves. It
was old, dry, aromatic wood. Just to smell it made
you think of the years that the trees had lived, the
storms they had seen, the fires they had survived, the
quiet times in the forest, and things that people just
didn’t have words for. And when Sally would put
the wood in the old stove, it would leap into flame,
crackle and pop, and warm her to her soul.
After a fortnight the wood had stacked up around
the cabin; you could barely see the cabin for the
wood. All of this time Sally had never seen
Billybong, he would apparently wait until Sally was
on the beach, or in the forest, drawing, before he
would bring the w'ood and stack it. One afternoon
Billybong appeared as Sally was making tea, prior to
her usual stroll on the beach to watch the sunset.
“May I have the image now?” Billybong asked; he
spoke from the shelter of the trees.
“Oh,” Sally said, startled by his sudden
manifestation, “Well. . . it is nice to have enough
wood to last for a while, but you see, what I had in
mind is enough to never have to worry about being
cold and damp again. Ever.”
Billybong came closer and again looked her in the
eye, and this time she blinked.
“Ever?” he said. “What is wrong with you new
people? Nothing is ever ever! All things change, all
of the time! Do you want me to cut every tree in the
forest so that you can be warm? I think you need to
find another way to warm yourself!”
Sally looked back at him and suddenly turned and
ran into her cabin. She snatched the draw ing and
brought it out to Billybong.
He smiled and winked and disappeared into the
forest.
That evening, as she walked on the beach, she met
a young man, he was gentle, he was quiet, and he
smiled. She invited hint to her cabin, and she built a
fire in the old stove, and they were warm, and they
drank tea, and talked about life, and she showed him
her drawings and they fell in love. She never saw
the logger gnome again, and she never show ed the
young man the drawing she had made of the
gnom e’s ax. Eventually, she left her cabin, and her
forest and her beach, and went to live with the young
man in a small village down the coast. . . called Hea.
Except during the nine months before he draws his
first breath, no man manages his affairs as well as a
tree does.
G. B. Shaw
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(If you look on the right map, you might find that
Ouat is short for O n ce upon a tim e and that Hea is
short for H a p p ily e v e r after, and then, perhaps,
you w ill understand that fairy talcs can happen
anywhere, anytime, even now, and even on the
Oregon Coast.)
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Now th e trick is to w ork them into a conversation,