But I still didn’t win the pony. So I continued drawing pictures of ponies and horses, making myself more miserable and Dad and Mother miserable as well, because they couldn’t afford to buy me a pony, much less stand the upkeep of one.”

Steve’s eyes met Pitch’s. “I’m telling you all this, Pitch, because it has an important bearing on what happened during the operation.” Steve gazed back at the fire again. “I remember that the doctor came to the house, and he found me in bed, shrieking for a pony. I saw him nod to Dad, and then Dad was telling me I could have a pony if I would only lie still. So I relaxed and thought how wonderful it was going to be to have my very own pony. It wasn’t long before the doctor’s nurse put something over my nose and mouth. It was the anaesthetic, but I didn’t know that. I breathed in the sweet, sickly odor, and I was still thinking of my pony when the fiery pinwheels started. I followed them round and round as they sped faster and faster. Soon they were going so fast that they no longer made a circle, but were one ball of fire. It came at me hard, bursting in my face.

“It was then that I first saw Flame. I didn’t name him Flame. The name just came with this horse, for his body was the red of fire. He was standing on the cliff—” Steve stopped and glanced behind him. “That cliff,” he added huskily. “Below, too, was the canyon and the rolling land beyond. All this …” His hand pointed to the canyon and then fell to his side. “It was all very vivid, Pitch—so vivid that when the operation was over I found that I had a red horse named Flame. Ponies no longer interested me, and when Dad brought up the subject of the promised pony, telling me that he hoped I’d understand why he couldn’t keep his word, I told him that it was all right, that I didn’t want a pony anyway. Then for months and months, every time I ran from the house, trotting to the park, I was riding a giant red stallion, the most wonderful horse in the world!

“I grew up,” Steve went on, “and put Flame aside along with my tricycle and scooter. But I never actually forgot him, Pitch,” he insisted. “I never forgot Flame, or the canyon and cliff. Then a few weeks ago your letter came—your letter with the picture of a place I’d thought an imaginary one for so many years!” Steve’s voice had risen and there was eagerness in it now as he turned toward Pitch. “How could I have seen this canyon ten years ago, Pitch? How could I, when I’d never heard of Azul Island until a few weeks ago when your letter came? That’s what brought me here, Pitch,” he confessed.

Pitch was silent for a long while after Steve had finished. And when he finally spoke it was with reluctance, as though what he had to say would have been better left unsaid. “But Steve, you did know of Azul Island.”

The boy’s eyes were bright as he said quickly, “I didn’t, Pitch! I couldn’t have known of Azul Island when I was only seven years old!”

“You knew of it when you were only five,” Pitch replied slowly. “Not by name, of course. Nor did I.”

“You! What did YOU have to do with it?”

Pitch was uncomfortable. “I was the one who told you about it,” he said, his eyes avoiding Steve’s.