As Blake and Michael entered into the village on the bike, there was a certain silence at midday that seemed foreign to Blake. Michael commandeered the Harley to an area of the reservation where some authentic pueblo buildings stood—obviously inhabited still. Coming out of one of the blue framed doorways, starkly contrasting with the earthen color of the structure, was a stocky woman wearing brightly colored green and red apparel. She had obviously heard the roar of the motorcycle and knew the source of it to be her celebrated son.

Michael shut off the engine and both young men walked toward her who greeted them with a cordial smile. Her arms were open to receive to object of her affection and Michael embraced his mother heartily. Others could be seen peeking out of windows on the upper levels of the complex, and the dark-skinned woman with the pleasant face and gray braided hair, ushered the two into the ground floor of the primative dwelling.

Michel introduced Blake to his mother softly and politely, and she took his hand in hers and nodded. She did not speak English but rather the very foreign dialogue of the Zuni, which Michael, out of respect and pride, maintained during almost the entire visit, only temporarily sharing with Blake what she had said in welcoming him into her home and village. Seated in the small kitchen, with what appeared to be 1960-ish appliances in the background, Blake gained some idea of the difficult history the Zuni people had endured, holding on to their culture in spite of the hardships and historically cruel treatment of them by the United States government over the centuries.

Nevertheless, over a strong herbal tea and a type of sweet, honeyed bread, the three spent an hour or so, with Michael obviously telling his caring and perplexed mother of his hew life so far away in the East. Incongruously, she had a cell phone on the table which rang and was answered several times while she answered in Zuni, excitedly announcing Michael's presence to other relatives and neighbors who inquired. Soon, the small kitchen was invaded by at least ten to fifteen villagers, all showing great emotion at seeing their compatriot, and most likely relative, sitting with his mother back in the very house he was raised in.

Blake was emotionally moved at this impromptu reunion, and especially from Michal's gesturing and touching the heads and shoulders of his people in a way that revealed both his shamanistic position in the tribe and their reverence toward him. As Michael held one of the youngest of the Zuni pueblo members on his knee and bounced her affectionately, he announced that his departure was imminent. There was great lamentation at this news and several of the Zuni who had crowded into the small room, including his mother, began to cry. Michael stood and held his hands out dramatically as a signal to not react so. This included a small speech which Blake understood through Michael's body language and facial expression, that he would never abandon his people, no matter what calling his education and temporary travels to the East would entail.

Soon all stood near him and joined hands. Michael began what sounded to be a prayer in the Zuni tongue, which all listened to reverently with eyes closed. Once the prayer ended, everyone in the room, made a point or touching or kissing him before they left willingly. It was all a moving and completely unexpected sight for Blake to witness.

Once the small crowd had dispersed, Michael reached into his pocket and took out a thick, sealed envelope, ostensibly money, and handed it to his mother as a gift. She nodded and placed it on a shelf, giving it no more attention but instead taking both of her son's hands in hers and kissing them. For a long moment the two stood transfixed, staring deeply and motionlessly into each other's eyes.

To Blake there was no need for words or any translation to express what the two were saying and receiving. Michael gave his mother one last hug and a kiss on the cheek and turned, himself holding back tears before departing. The two young men returned to the motorcycle and an even larger crowd of the pueblo's villagers were congregated around their young shaman as the bike sped off.

Instead of traveling back toward the entrance, Michael took a side road up toward a mesa, still within the pueblo territories. As the road became a rough trail and the two climbed higher into the cooling air, a view was afforded them of the village below, the adobe pueblo architecture standing out starkly on the desert floor. The sun, lower in the sky now, gave the angular buildings and apartment-like complexes a striking golden appearance.

"Can you see," Michael shouted back to Blake, "why the Spanish who invaded these territories in the fifteen hundreds thought they had discovered El Dorado? The legendary cities of gold?"

Blake looked below them and indeed could see a golden city of clay shimmering in the sunlight. "Yeah, I get that," he said, holding on tightly as the bike rumbled and jerked from the irregular surface of the trail they were now on.

Soon, at a prominent rise along the flat hill, Michael slowed the bike down and eventually brought it to a stop. It seemed pointless, at first to Blake that they would stop there, except for the amazing view it presented of the village below and the expanse of desert and mesas stretching out to the horizon.

But then Blake saw it again.

It was the same shiny craft approaching at first quickly, at a steep angle from above. It then slowly leveled off some hundreds of yards above the ground and continued to approach their position. It was unmistakably the same circular, silver object they had both seen while approaching the pueblo.

Once again Blake's heart began to pound as he tried to tell himself the vision was some aberration of light or just a conventional aircraft. But it was not. Nothing conventional about its shape or maneuvering. It was only reminiscent of the images he had seen in rare news stories of UFO's or Hollywood SciFi productions. Yet, there it was. Real and gleaming in the ordinary sunlight. Hovering now motionless and silent just one hundred yards away.

"Michael!"

"Wait. Don't panic. Don't move, Blake."

The two of them stayed seated on the stationary bike while the craft seemed to be waiting as well.

"The object then did a small tilting maneuver, as if to signal its presence was intentional.

"Michael? What's that? What do they want?"

"They want . . . to talk."

"Talk?"

"Not to you. To me."

The silver craft slowly came forward still. And now lower to the ground until it was only half the length of a football field away and easing ever forward.

"Michael!"

"Just wait. Chill out now . . . It's OK."

"But this is not OK! Michael?"

The ship did another slight tilt before hovering down to rest on the ground. It was now landed nearby them on the mesa. There was no sound, only the desert wind. But it was close enough  for Blake to see that the illuminated glow it seemed to have traveled on, had now ceased. The craft had clearly landed to meet them.

It was an eerie, silent and long moment that ended when Michael got off the bike an started to walk toward the craft.

"Wait! Michael! What are you doing?"

"I'm alright. Trust me."

No! Don't go toward it! Have you ever done that before?"

He turned to Blake, still seeming strangely fearless.

"I've seen these things all my life. They're nothing new to us."

"But have you . . . approached them? Talked to them?

"Not until now . . . But I think it's time."

"What?"

"This day has been coming, Blake. They've  wanted to contact me."

"But . . . they may be . . ."

"No. It's something I must find out."

With that, Michael walked forward toward the silver craft. Blake felt his head light and his stomach nauseous with fear. He instinctively crouched behind the Harley for protection, watching with great anxiety as Michael walked closer to the school bus-sized ship. Soon he was standing in front of it motionlessly. His body seemed to become rigid and then relaxed. His head dropped and his arms hung motionlessly at his sides. He seemed to be in some uncontrollable  trance. He remained perfectly still for what seemed like many minutes.

Finally Blake could not stand the thought of what harm night be being afflicted to him. He feared the effects of this seemingly unconscious state. He wanted to call out to him, but it was as if he also was in some sort of paralytic state. Blake could not call out or even move. Was it the fear that had so gripped him? Or some unseen force that the craft---or beings within the craft, were controlling him with?

Suddenly, he saw Michael's body jerk several times spasticaly. His head was raised once more and his arms began to move freely as if he were stretching after a sleep. He simply turned and walked slowly back toward Blake with a blank expression, as if he were still not fully awake or unaware of what had just happened.

Even before Michael had reached the bike completely and was close enough for Blake to reach him, the circular object began to show its glowing underside once again. It gently, silently, lifted off the ground and Michael was awake enough to turn to see it lift up--ten, then twenty yards into the air. It paused and tilted again, as if a final signal, and in a second vanished straight up into the heavens, then out of sight.

"Michael? Are you . . ."

"Yeah. I think so. . ."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Very sure. That was amazing. Truly  amazing!"

"So . . . what . . ?"

"Did they tell me?"

"Yeah. For starters . . ."

"It would take me a week to tell you all I just learned, Blake."

"OK, so . . ."

"Let's get to the hotel. I need to write some of this down before I lose it."

Blake got onto the back of the bike as Michael started it. He knew it was not good to distract him or try to get him to relive any of what had just happened. But something inside him told him there would be plenty of time to learn of it. To hear what would be nothing short of some unexpected message about the stars—an epiphany shared with him from those Michael himself had always called the Star People.

* * *