“There are too many logs floating on the Notawe River. The river is blocked and I can’t go back to our hunting grounds with my family. It used to be a beautiful river, easy to navigate and full of fish, ducks, geese, beaver. I could always manage to feed my family.”

He shrugs.

“Now I can’t get there anymore.”

Basile sits down slowly. He’s a pretty strong fellow but tonight he looks like an old man. He looks worn out. His back is curved and his eyes are cloudy.

The priest looks uncomfortable. He turns to the officials from Ottawa.

“Basile is complaining about the log drive on the river…”

This time it’s the quiet official who answers. “Tell him the log drive is not our department,” he says crisply.

The priest translates. “Are there any other questions?” he asks quickly.

He looks around the room to make it clear that it’s someone else’s turn.

Noé stands up. He’s a giant of a man. He towers over everyone and his voice is strong.

“This past winter I only killed one moose. It’s not enough. I remember the days when I would bring down three, even four. Now the animals are fleeing because of the tree-cutting, and there are more and more white hunters. They are taking away our food. It’s got to stop!”

And he sits down, too.

The priest looks unhappy as he translates.

“This man is complaining about the cutting the whites are doing and too many hunters…”

The two agents shake their heads helplessly.

“Tell them we’re here only about the housing program,” one of them says in an irritated voice. “The rest has nothing to do with us. Tell them the government is giving them compensation — family allowance, social security — and that soon they’ll have houses…”

As soon as he finishes translating, Father Lafram-boise holds up his hand and looks at the crowd.

“Time is passing quickly and these gentlemen have to return to the city this evening,” he says firmly. “Is there one last question concerning the houses?”

Poné, the elder of the community, is sitting quietly in the front row. He’s very old, though no one knows exactly when he was born. He’s a bony, weathered little man. His skin is thin and brown and stretches over his smooth cheekbones like birchbark. Poné knows the land better than anyone.

He stands up, but even then he’s no taller than the seated crowd. He looks at us serenely. His voice is as soft as an evening breeze rustling through the tops of the gray spruce. The room is very quiet and solemn and full of respect.