Who was stolen from his home,
Out of the tree he loved,
And placed in a naval uniform,
To serve on board a confined wooden boat,
Under Captain Frash.
The little monkey would sit in his cage,
And dream of breaking free.
No longer able to sit there,
Restricted and trapped,
He mustered a way to break out.
Escaping his captive Captain,
The brave and fearless Taralla,
Climbed the rocking ship,
Jumped off the middle mast,
And into the harsh waters below.
He swam for many days,
Until finally washing up on a French beach,
Where he found a forest,
Neighbouring the shore.
Hiding out,
He managed to eat,
He managed to sleep,
But he grew tired and bored,
By the day to day chore,
Of just getting by.
It felt no different to being locked up.
One night,
He saw a shimmering star,
High in the sky above him,
And shouting up,
He howled and chatted,
To get its attention.
It worked.
The star came closer,
Lighting up the monkey,
Lighting the forest with a gentle glow.
Taralla asked its name,
“Dahralla”, it replied,
With a soft gentle voice,
That sounded like the buzzing of a bee.
Taralla cried,
“I grow weary of this unforgiving world,
Haunted by my troubles,
And the task of staying alive.”
He wrapped his arms around himself,
And sobbed loudly.
The star hated to see him so sad.
It sang to him,
And whispering gently spoke,
“Let me tell you a story...”
That night it spoke of many wonderous things.
It told stories of flower people, of giants and shapeshifters.
But as morning came,
The star vanished,
Masked by the light of the sun.
The next night Dahralla returned,
And continued with the telling of tales.
It told stories of puppets coming to life, of dragons and heroes.
The storytelling went on for several nights,
Until the star had told all the stories it knew.
Taralla begged for it not to leave,
For the stories had brought comfort,
And taught him many things.
Dahralla sent him a gift,
Floating down from the sky,
Came a small wooden flute,
No bigger than Taralla’s forearm.
“Play on this flute,
And you will gladly hear,
My voice telling my tales,
To elate all worries and fear.”
Whenever Taralla felt lonely,
Tired or sad,
He played the flute.
The tune would ring out and chime,
Across the land.
Dahralla would hear the tune,
And return to him,
Whether seen or unseen,
And would repeat its stories,
And sing its tales.
Long after Taralla had passed away,
A group of gatherers,
Would come together,
Every year,
In honour of Taralla and Dahralla,
A flute would be played,
Signalling the beginning of the fayre,
So various 'tellers would know,
It was time to act out the tales,
Once told by the star to the monkey.
They named the annual fayre,
In honour of the pair,
And every year,
During the winter months,
As the lights dim for evening,
And the fires lit,
They would speak and sing,
Passing the stories on,
To all who would listen.
At the end of the night,
Two people,
A boy and a woman,
Would dress as the monkey,
In his smart uniform,
And decorate self as the star,
Shining brightly,
And close the tribute,
By repeating Dahralla’s words...
“Play on this flute,
And you will gladly hear,
A voice telling these tales,
To elate all worries and fear...”