Elena and I found this in the kitchen on the Atlantic coast. Does anyone know what it is?

Last night a small group of us found ourselves gathered around another mysterious object. Like two large woks meeting at the rims, the burnished metal hang is somewhere between flying saucer and sorcery. Its upper surface is punctuated by seven indentations and a topknot; its underside has a large orifice for the release of sound. The player cradles it on his lap. When struck with the hands around the dents, the hang chimes out its eight notes in the key of D. Those nearby begin to lightly percuss — the giant tambourine whose name I’ll find out for you, the tinker-bells, the rain stick, the gin lid on the the tabletop. And sing, harmonising over a line of nothing: why is there no mud on your boots?

I feel like going on.

And so we did, for long trance-like minutes. It was tonic at the end of our full, busy-brained days, the perfect background murmur for prayers, wishes and thanks, almost a lullaby.