Sedna, a container of moose spaghetti in hand, said goodbye; she crossed at the doorway with yet more drop-in guests, one of whom Yana had already met. Bunny’s Uncle Seamus was less encrusted with snow and ice this time and was accompanied by a tiny woman with short, wavy silver hair.
“Slainte, Clodagh! Bunny said you were having the major over for dinner and Moira and me wanted to bring her some fish. Here you go, Major,” Seamus said, and handed her a string of stiff frozen fish as if he were handing her a promotion to executive vice-president of Intergal.
“Thanks, uh… Seamus,” she said, pretending to admire them. She didn’t have any idea what to do with them, so she hung the string over the back of the chair, where it was instantly the object of much interest from the cats.
“Get away, you lot,” Clodagh said, wading through orange fur to rescue the fish. The cats stood on their hind feet and batted at the string as she held it aloft. “Better hang them outside until she’s ready to go, Seamus.” ‘
“Right,” Seamus said, casting an odd sidelong glance at Yana.
She waved and said thanks again, and planned to ask Bunny later about the etiquette involving gifts of fish.
They stayed a short while longer, and while they were there two more people came by, a rakish-looking girl introduced as Arnie O’Malley and her little boy, Finnbar, who chased the cats. Finally, all of the extraneous guests left, the girl calling, “Wait’ll you see my new latchkay dress, Clodagh! The lads will be making songs about me for years to come.”
“That Arnie, always showing off,” Bunny said disgustedly.
“What are these songs everybody talks about?” Yana asked. She was full of food and on her third glass of home brew and was feeling pleasantly relaxed and even a bit sleepy. “Are there a lot of musicians in this town?”
“Nah, only old man Ungar and his bunch,” Bunny said. “But everybody makes up songs.”
“Even/body?” Yana had never personally known anybody who wrote songs, or admitted to the practice.
“Yes,” Clodagh said. “We make songs about everything, even one about the reason we make songs, but that particular song belongs to Mick Oomilialik. Maybe he’ll sing it for you at the latchkay.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s a big feast and sing where we get together to talk things over. My Inuit ancestors called such a thing a potlatch and my Irish ancestors called it a ceili, so one of the first batch here combined it into latchkay. Anyway, everybody makes songs to sing then about what’s happened during the last season. Sometimes villages get together and share food and news.”
“So you only have them once a season?”
“Except for weddings, funerals, and other special events, yes.”
“Well, what might you write a song about, for instance?”
“Charlie having to leave is one kind of thing. 1 might write a song pretending I was Charlie.”
“And you can make up music and everything?”
“Oh, no, not usually. Mostly we use the old tunes. And there’s drumming, too,” Bunny said. From Clodagh’s wall she pulled down a circular drum, holding it in one hand and using the other to extract a stick from the back of the drum.
“Our drums can be used like Inuit drums and beaten with a wand in strict time,” Clodagh explained, “or if you want to use it like an Irish bodhran, you beat it with that little stick. Or your fingers, if you’re real clever. When a song is first presented, we use only the drums so everybody can hear the words. Later on, if the song’s owner permits it, others sing along and other instruments join in.”
“I can sing her one of mine,” Bunny said.
Clodagh looked mildly surprised. “Okay. I’ll drum. Which one?”
“About getting my snocle license. Irish Washerwoman.”
“What?” Yana asked.
“Oh, ‘Irish Washerwoman’ is the tune,” Clodagh told her. “Our ancestors liked each other well enough but it was easier for the Inuits to adapt to the Irish music than it was for the Irish to adapt to the Inuit. Of course, some of us don’t have the voice for Irish melodies, so then we sing in the Inuit way.”