With the crowd watching his every move, the priest quickly turns the altar into a table. He brings two chairs so the men can sit down. The officials open their black briefcases and take out thick files which they place on the table in front of them. They look out over the crowd below and smile vaguely.

These men come from another world. Their faces are pink and clean-shaven. They wear gray suits, polished shoes, white shirts and wide polka-dot ties tightly knotted under their Adam’s apples. They’re handsome men, nice haircuts, strange but impressive looking.

The smells in the room are growing stronger. The men’s odd sweet aftershave mixes with the smell of incense, smoked moosehide and the sweat that’s coming off the congregation.

The missionary looks nervous. He stands in the spot where he usually gives his sermons. He’s chewing his lip and swaying back and forth, his hands clasped behind him. He’s a little man with curly hair, brown eyes and thick bristly eyebrows. His collar is open and his sleeves are rolled up. His body is covered with big hairy patches. He looks like a bear that’s just come out of hibernation. When he gives his sermons he always says, “My dear brothers…” The rest of the time he calls us his “good friends.” But we’re not his brothers or his friends.

He talks too much and listens too little.

“My good friends,” the priest begins solemnly. “Let us rise for a short prayer. We ask God to show us the light and to give us the wisdom to make the right decisions for our future and the future of our children.”

We recite the Pater Noster.

One of the officials, a man with blue eyes, clears his throat.

“Can everyone hear me?” he shouts.

We can hear him all right. We just can’t understand him. He continues, exaggerating every syllable.

“Thank you all for coming here this evening. Such a good turnout demonstrates the interest you take in your future and the plans the government has for you.”

The priest signals for him to stop while he clumsily translates his words into Algonquin. Then the man from the ministry continues.

“We would like to have met with you sooner. Unfortunately, your community is isolated, far from our offices, and we are overwhelmed with work. However, better late than never, as the old saying goes.”

The two officials exchange glances and burst out laughing. We wonder what’s so funny. The priest, who also looks amused, translates again. We wait to hear the joke so we can laugh, too, but there’s nothing funny in his words.

The heat and smells rise as the setting sun streams through the windows. Babies are nursing hungrily at their young mothers’ breasts. The officials’ strong aftershave is starting to attract midges, and the mosquitoes are having a feast.