WTN: ceilidh
James Harbeck
ceilidh
I arrived at Domus Logogustationis to find an assortment of women, mostly in their thirties but some younger, arranging chairs on one side of the main room.
Philip McCarr, whose visit from Scotland was the occasion of the evening’s meeting, strode up to me. “Ye’re jus’ in time, lad! Allow me to introduce the ladies I’ve invited.” He indicated them in sequence: “This is Kayley, Caley, Kaly, K. Leigh, Kaley, Cayly, Caolaidhe, Kaylee, Cayleigh, and Keili.” He turned to them: “…Do a have thit right?”
One of the women said, “Almost! I’m Kaly and she’s Cayly. You got the rest, though.”
“Ah, well,” Philip said, “practice makes pairfict.”
“And to what do we owe the pleasure of their company?” I said.
Philip gestured at various instrument cases ranged against the wall. “It isnae hard tae see – they’re here for a ceilidh!”
One of them stepped forward to shake my hand. “We’re the Ceilidh Bunch.” Or maybe she said “the Kayley Bunch” or “the Caolidhe Bunch” – or all three at the same time, or…
“So membership is open only to homophones?” I said.
“More or less.”
“Do you ever have a Kelly, Keely, or Kylie?”
“Occasionally.” She smiled and went back to her work.
“As befits a ceilidh,” Philip said, “they take turns at solos and it’s a casual thing like.”
“Dancing?” I asked.
“It can happen.”
“So I assume,” I said, making my way over to the refreshment table, “that this is a cèilidh and not a céilí” – although they’re pronounced the same, Philip could of course hear the difference because he’s a character in a story written in text – “because you’re a Scotsman, not an Irishman.”
“Bang on,” Philip said, “but, ye ken, all are welcome. The music soonds aboot the same at any rate.”
“It’s rather amusing,” I said, “that it all only works because, by coincidence, it all sounds about the same. Since all the various spellings trace back to Caolaidhe, which means ‘slender’”—
—“Or ‘narrow,’” Philip said. “Although there’s a broad variety in spelling.”
“Yes, and the popularity came under the influence of Kelly and Kylie, which aren’t related. And of course, returning to ‘hard to c’, also of ceilidhe, which—”
Philip finished my sentence as he gestured at the assembled musicians: “—means a gathering, or a visit. Perhaps from the Auld Gaelic word for ‘companion’, céile.” (For those of you reading, it’s pronounced like “cay-lya.”)
“Old Gaelic?” I said. “I thought it was called Old Irish.”
Philip, ever the proud Scot, turned his eyes to the ceiling. “Do be companionable, man.” He turned to the refreshment table and busied himself with whisky and glasses.
I laughed. “Well, I’m glad they chose to come and keep us company.” They were now tuning up their instruments and the music was soon to start.
Philip handed me a wee dram. “Whit’s the chance ye’ll be up there dancing wi’ them, Jimmy lad?”
I eyed my little bit of liquid courage. “Slender,” I said.
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