Disclaimer: Sherwood Schwartz first lit the fire, not me.

Many thanks to Littlesoprano for being such an able and obliging beta-reader.

Blue Fire

"This bowl?"

The castaways turned. "Oh – OH!" cried Ginger.

For the jungle was lit by an unearthly blue glow, and out of that weird light stepped the luminous figure of the first mate, a glimmering bowl in his hands. "It's empty," said Gilligan, so accustomed to the light that he had not yet noticed it.

The Professor's formula was gone, the chance of rescue ruined. The Skipper spoke for all of them. "Oh, no!"

"Oh, no!" echoed Gilligan, who now finally saw the ghostly pallor of his own body. He dropped the bowl, holding up his glowing hands before his blazing eyes. "Oh, no! Skipper! Skipper, do something!" Wild with panic now, Gilligan took a step forward, but before he could take another he suddenly clutched at his stomach and doubled over. In a moment he collapsed to his knees, retching violently. What spewed on the sand before him shimmered with an eerie light, and he writhed like a giant glow worm on the ground as the Skipper's wrath turned to icy fear.

"Gilligan, little buddy!" He raced over and knelt beside his first mate, grabbing his heaving shoulders. His big hand clamped over Gilligan's glowing forehead. "Professor – he's like an ice-box! What was in that formula? It's not dangerous, is it?"

The Professor's face set like flint, but his pulse was racing. "We need charcoal, Skipper. Now."

The next few minutes were a chaotic blur. The Skipper wanted to carry Gilligan back to camp, but the young sailor moaned so much when lifted that in the end they simply built a campfire next to him, right there at the lagoon. The Skipper and Mary Ann stayed with him while the Howells and Ginger hurried back to camp with the Professor for first aid supplies.

In his hut, the Professor hastily lit several candles on his worktable. He grabbed his medical book down from the shelf as the Howells came hurrying in laden with blankets, a bucket of water and a black-streaked canvas bag. "We've got everything you asked for, Professor, but what on earth are we to do with all this charcoal?" asked Mr. Howell. "I hardly imagine poor Gilligan's in the mood for a barbecue right now."

"That's not the idea, Mr. Howell," said the Professor as he sat down and opened the index of his book. "You'll need to grind the charcoal into a fine powder and then mix it with water until its consistency is semi-liquid. Then spoon it down him. Fast."

Mrs. Howell looked helplessly from her husband to the Professor. "Well, I'm sure we'll try, Professor, but the poor boy can't keep anything down. It's worse than any sea sickness I've ever seen!"

"Indeed! The lad's worse off than if he'd downed my entire stock of brandy at one go," Thurston added. "At this rate there won't be anything of him left!"

"All the more reason why we need to get the phosphorus out of his system. The charcoal should absorb some of it. Now hurry back to the lagoon, both of you. Once I've found the specific antidote in my medical book, I'll get Ginger to help me gather the ingredients."

"Will do, Professor! Come along, Lovey." The wealthy couple hurried out.

By now the Professor had found the page he wanted. "Ah...Here it is: phosphorus poisoning. The antidote should be listed right after the symptoms." He read aloud, "Symptoms of acute or rapid phosphorus poisoning include burning in the throat, pain in the stomach, violent vomiting, coldness, prostration, and either convulsions or stupor. If ingested, there may be extensive damage to the mouth, throat, liver, lungs...dear God..." As he read his voice suddenly slowed as in a nightmare while he dragged a distracted hand through his hair. "...esophagus, nose and stomach. The accepted lethal dose is as little as...oh...oh, dear God." He drew in a sharp breath, staring at the printed page. After a moment, he read on a bit further. "Treatment: there is no known..." Again he paused, frozen. He kept reading the section over and over. "Oh, no. No. There has to be!"

The Professor turned back to search the index again as a cold miasma of fear sank over him. He found the page and read. No better. Back to the index. Again and again he searched, read, denied, and searched again. At last he slammed the book shut and went to the bookshelf, snatching down more volumes. A candle went flying onto the dirt floor as he hastily threw the books on the table . But all he read, no matter where, combined to make an everlasting funeral march of sepulchral black letters. Bleeding...burning...fatal...no known cure.

When Ginger eventually came in, the Professor didn't even look up. There was a clink as she set a pot of coffee and two cups on the table. "Mr. and Mrs. Howell told me you wanted me to stay and help you, Professor. Poor Gilligan! I'd certainly hate to try to eat charcoal soup! Well, I hope it settles his stomach soon. I've never seen anybody so sick!" She sighed and began to pour the coffee. "Anyway, I thought you might want something to keep you awake, Professor. Looks like we may be in for a long night."

The Professor didn't answer. He stared, unseeing, at his pile of books.

Ginger stopped pouring. "Professor? Is something wrong?"

"What have I done?" he whispered.

"Professor?"

"It's my fault," he murmured slowly. "All my fault."

Now Ginger felt the pall of that cold fear. She put down the pot and bent to look closely at the Professor, noticing the disarray of his table and his hair. One of her own red tresses tumbled out of place, and she pushed it back with nervous fingers. "What's your fault? I – I mean it's a shame Gilligan has a stomach ache, but you know Gilligan. He'll bounce back by morning. And even if you can't duplicate that formula, I just know you'll find some other way to rescue us."

"You don't understand. Gilligan isn't going to bounce back." The Professor stared straight ahead, dazed with horror. "He's going to die."

The words hit the air like a bomb. For a moment Ginger simply stared in stunned silence. Then she burst out. "What? Professor, you can't be serious!"

"I am completely serious."

"But...but what about what you told the Howells to do? That charcoal medicine? Won't it be enough to help Gilligan?"

"With the damage to his esophagus and stomach, Gilligan probably won't be even able to swallow it. It's far too little, far too late." The Professor bit his knuckle, still staring into space.

"But..." Ginger had never seen the Professor act like this. "I don't understand. C-can't you look in your books again? Maybe there's something that you've missed!"

"What do you think I have been doing, Ginger!" His voice broke with anguish at last as the full tsunami of emotion hit. "Look for yourself! How could I have been so careless? I knew that phosphorus was poisonous! And do you know how poisonous?"

Ginger shook her head in mute horror.

"Neither did I, because I am an ignorant fool! The amount necessary to kill a man is less than an ounce. Gilligan ate more than ten times that amount!" The Professor shoved the books aside with such force that a few fell to the floor to lie splayed beside the snuffed-out candle. "It's hopeless, Ginger. He's literally being burned alive from the inside!"

"Oh, my God, no. It can't be true. It just can't be!"

"It is." The Professor's voice was inexorable. "It is, because I set a bowl of deadly poison on the table in the midst of Gilligan's food and didn't tell him what it was. I even said, 'Keep eating.' Gilligan trusted me...you all trusted me. And I've killed him."

For a few moments a terrible silence filled the little hut. Then Ginger, eyes glittering and throat choking, got the words out. "How... how long does Gilligan have?"

"Given the amount he consumed...I doubt he'll last until morning."

Ginger jerked as if shot. "And he'll be in pain the whole time?"

The Professor nodded as his eyes glazed over with despair. "Perhaps I could give him something to put him out of his pain now..."

Ginger gasped. "No! Professor, I can't believe you would even suggest such a thing! Have you lost your mind?"

The Professor looked as if he had. "Why should he suffer if there's nothing we can do?"

"You don't know that, Professor! You can't give up! Remember, the show must go on!"

The Professor stared at her, and in spite of himself, almost burst into hysterical laughter. "The show must go on? I beginning to think we've both lost our minds, Ginger! Gilligan is dying and you're spouting theatre clichés?"

Her eyes flashed blue fire. "It's no cliché, Professor! I've lived it!"

"You've what?"

"You heard me! When I'm standing on stage in front of hundreds of people and my costar's next line goes out of his head, I can't just leave him standing there with a blank look on his face, like you've got now. I've got to improvise. So do you!"

The Professor gestured wearily at his fallen books. "What can I improvise for this, Ginger? These books say there is no cure!"

"And the Skipper's navy charts say there is no island here! He still saved us!" Ginger bent and gripped the Professor's shoulder with soft, slender fingers that suddenly seemed to be made of steel. "Sometimes in middle of a play there's a prop I need but it just isn't there, because the prop girl's forgotten to put there. But I don't just stop! I use something else. Otherwise, the play's over!"

The Professor smiled sadly. "The play's the thing..."

"Now who's spouting clichés while Gilligan's dying?" The actress' bright eyes flared. "It's the same here as in the theatre, Professor. Everyone's counting on you. It doesn't matter if you're tired or sick or lost your nerve – you've got a job to do. When you're on stage you function as a group, or you fail as a group. On this island we all look out for each other - and no one gives up on anyone!"

The Professor sighed and struggled to his feet, but couldn't quite meet her eyes. "Ginger, please... I appreciate what you're trying to do. But this isn't the theatre. I haven't forgotten a line. I've cost us a human life." He swallowed, his vision blurring. "The life of one of the kindest, gentlest young men I've ever known..." He began to sink into his chair again, his hand over his eyes.

The Professor blinked as Ginger actually hauled him upright again and slapped him. "Wake up, Professor! There are seven lives at stake here! Every day we're on this island!" Those steel fingers gripped both his arms now. "Stop playing the tragic hero for one minute! Do you think only Gilligan's allowed to make mistakes? You're human too, for heaven's sake! What are you going to do when he dies: run away to the other side of the island? A lot of good that will do anyone!" That soft voice had become a roaring flame. "Do you think only actors have to step outside themselves? What do you think the staff at a hospital does? My sister is a nurse. When lives are at stake, she can't wallow in her own self-pity! She's got to stay focused, no matter what!"

Finally he looked up and met those incandescent eyes. They were blazing like St. Elmo's fire, and the Professor felt the cold ashes of his hope begin to smoulder. "Ginger, I – you're the first person who's ever said that to me."

"Said what?"

"That I'm allowed to make a mistake." He blinked, as though suddenly seeing clearly back through all the years of his life. "I've always been expected to be right, and now that I've been wrong, and so terribly wrong, I don't know what to do. I even suggested...that abomination I suggested a moment ago." He looked back at her again. "Forgive me, Ginger. And help me, please. Tell me what to do!"

Now the fire in her eyes was a refuge of tenderness and compassion. Her grip on his arms relaxed until only the softness of her touch remained. "Professor, if you could make one mistake, why couldn't you make two? Why couldn't you be mistaken about the cure?"

That ember of hope burned a little brighter. "Well, I...the odds are a million to one against, but it gives Gilligan a chance, at least." For a moment he looked back down at his books in dismay. "But if the answer isn't in my books..."

"Then improvise. Look somewhere else." She searched the dark ceiling, as though looking for an answer in the shadows. "What if we found more of this phosphorus, so you could study it here in your lab? Where did you get it?"

"From the rocks down by the beach, not too far from here." His brow lowered in thought. "Yes...perhaps if I could determine its particular properties, there might be a chance..."

She caught him by the hand. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's get going while there's still time!"