Disclaimer: Sherwood Schwartz is the true evil genius behind Gilligan's Island and its enduring story of friendship.

Many thanks to Littlesoprano for betareading! As Wilbur thought in Charlotte's Web, "It is not often that one finds someone who is a good friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both."

Monkey in the Middle

Ginger looked out of the window, marvelling at the splendour that spread above their tiny camp. The late afternoon sky glowed a pale, creamy yellow, its light falling on the jungle and the distant mountains like a soft blanket. "It's going to be a lovely evening for a stroll on the beach. That sky is gorgeous."

The Professor, intent at his worktable, didn't look up. "Yes, the refraction of the sunlight at this latitude does produce a remarkable spectrum effect."

Ginger hardly knew whether to smile or sigh. "I wish you didn't have to go."

"Mmm? Oh!" Now he did look up, and saw where the actress stood at the window, the light slanting across her high cheekbones and fiery red hair. He broke into a self-conscious smile. "There'll be other lovely evenings, Ginger. That is, unless you've spotted a ship out there!"

She turned, returning his smile at last. "Sorry, Professor. No ship. I guess I was daydreaming a little." Gracefully she crossed the room to where a rack of test tubes sat on the laboratory table by the Professor's bamboo chemical apparatus. "I've got to admit I'm a little bit nervous, though; I've never been left in charge of an experiment before. I hope you don't come back tomorrow and find out I've ruined it." She carried over the rack and a little notebook to his worktable. "Gee – my high school science teacher never would have trusted me with this. He said I'd probably never pass the first unit test."

The Professor poured over her notes for a moment, then lifted the one of the test tubes to eye level. "Your science teacher was a very poor judge of aptitude, Ginger. Your observations are precise and detailed, and as for your measurements—"

Ginger flashed an impish grin. "Thirty-six, twenty-two, thirty-six?"

The Professor blinked a moment before nearly spilling the test tube in embarrassment. "Uh...well...I-I simply meant that the accuracy with which you've measured my formula is highly impressive. And despite the narrow circumference of these tubes, you didn't spill a single drop! Ginger, you have the hands of a surgeon."

The actress laughed in surprise and delight. "Professor! That's one of the nicest compliments any man's ever given me!"

"Really?" His playful tone delighted her even more. "I thought a great many men would have given you compliments."

"They have, Professor. But not many ever said I've got a great mind."

"Don't feel bad, Ginger," came a voice from the doorway. "Not many men ever say it to me, either!"

They looked up at the slim, red-shirted figure in the doorframe. "Gilligan!" said the Professor. "Come in! I was just about to go looking for you. Are you and the Skipper ready?"

The first mate nodded, slinging his duffle bag off his shoulder as he came in. A machete swung from his belt and a canteen was slung 'round his neck. "Kinda. I am, anyway."

"Oh? What's keeping the Skipper?"

"He's still giving Mr. Howell his last-minute orders and Mr. Howell's none too happy. He's making like we're leaving him to guard the Alamo, and the Mexicans are cooking their tamales right over the hill! But we'll be back by suppertime tomorrow, won't we?"

"Of course we will. But I would like to get going while it's still light."

"I'm ready when you are." Gilligan patted his duffle bag. "Thanks for sewing this new bag for me by the way, Ginger. It's real sturdy!"

Ginger looked down at the S.S. Minnow stamp on her white sundress and smiled. "You're welcome, Gilligan. It was the least I could do after I took your old one to make this dress."

"You sure did a nice job. Boy, I'll bet you could make a wedding dress out of a sail!"

"Oh, maybe someday." She sighed - just a little. "It's going to seem like a long night for the four of us without you men. And to think of the three of you climbing up that tall mountain! Are you sure it's safe?"

The Professor checked the other test tubes, swirling their liquid in the mellow light. "We're only hiking up the lower slopes, Ginger, not climbing. No picks or pitons or anything of that sort. We'll be fine, I assure you. Gilligan, you're sure you've got the rest of the equipment?"

"Yup. The shovels are right outside, and the burlap bags."

"Good. Did you get the fresh water?"

"Uh-huh. Two big gourds full – but are we really gonna need it? The mountains are the wettest place on the island!"

The Professor nodded sagely. "For which we can be very thankful, Gilligan. That near-constant rainfall at the summits is what feeds our underground springs with fresh water. It's a vital part of the island's ecosystem, and its unique sub-climate makes it the perfect habitat for the fungi I'll be harvesting."

Gilligan frowned. "I thought you were looking for mushrooms."

Favouring Gilligan with a patient smile, the scientist replaced the last test tube in the rack. "Gilligan, mushrooms are fungi. Fungi is their Latin name."

"Oh yeah. Sorry, Professor." Gilligan perched on a stool by the Professor's table. "Must be great to speak something besides just English. I wish I could."

"Sometimes I believe you can."

"Huh?"

The Professor swung 'round on his stool to face the young sailor. "I'm completely serious. In fact, some time I'd like to take you with me when I'm out studying the fauna – the animals, I mean – here on the island. You could be of immense assistance to me."

Gilligan sat up, flushed with pride. "Sure, Professor. Any time. What do you want me to do?"

"You see this little metal disk?" With a pair of tweezers the Professor held up a tiny black circle the size of a button with even tinier hooks on each side.

"What is it?"

"It's a miniature transmitter. I intend to attach these to various animal species in order to study their migratory habits. Then I'll track them by means of this homing device." He showed Gilligan a disk of metal with a glass dome and vibrating needle on top.

"Looks like a yo-yo with a compass in the middle," said Gilligan. "Can you spin it?"

Ginger laughed. "Gee, Gilligan, I thought it looked more like a compact. The Professor let me help him put it together; you wouldn't believe how tiny all the little parts are."

"And because the transmitters are so tiny, they won't bother the animals," added the Professor. "I doubt the animals will even be aware of their presence."

Gilligan raised his eyebrows, impressed. "Sounds great, Professor. But where do I come in?"

"Well, many of the species on this island are too shy and secretive for human contact. But you never seem to have any trouble getting them to trust you." The Professor shook his head in wonder. "I wish you could teach me your secret."

"Me teach you something, Professor? Wow!" Gilligan was wide-eyed at the honour. "Gosh... I wish I knew my secret. I dunno; it just happens. Always has, as long as I can remember. But I'd be glad to help you."

"I'll be in your debt."

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. "Anybody order some breakfast to go?"

The Professor looked up. "Come in, Mary Ann. My, that smells wonderful!"

Mary Ann came in, her long black hair swept up as she always wore it when baking. Under her arm was a large bundle wrapped in a burlap sack.

"Oh, my gosh! Mary Ann, that can't be what my nose thinks it is, can it?" Gilligan nearly toppled off his stool as he sniffed the air like a bloodhound.

"That it is! Fresh baked bread from our first wheat crop." Mary Ann's brown eyes shone as she caressed the bundle. "Professor, that wild wheat you found makes the best flour I've ever worked with. And that new brick oven you built is amazing! It's like my mother's cast-iron range back home! I don't know how to thank you."

The Professor laughed. "Well, don't thank me alone, Mary Ann. The Skipper and Gilligan built it; I only designed it. By the way, Gilligan, how's the Skipper's foot doing? I know the bruise is nearly gone and he says it doesn't hurt anymore, but I hope he's not just being stoic."

"No, he's fine, Professor. He chased me halfway 'round the lagoon this morning when I caught his back beltloop with my fishhook."

"Good." The Professor wagged a finger at the first mate. "And I hope this will be a lesson to you not to try to take a sharp running turn while pushing a wheelbarrow full of bricks!"

"He's right, Gilligan!" said Mary Ann. "If the Skipper hadn't caught the wheelbarrow and pulled it the other way, you might have been buried!"

"I think the Skipper was gonna bury me anyway," said Gilligan with a nervous swallow. "Luckily he couldn't chase me. Anyway, don't remind him, huh?"

Now Ginger, the Professor and Mary Ann all laughed. "All right, Gilligan," said the Professor. "And as for thanks, Mary Ann, we'll be thanked with every delicious bite we take." He took a long, appreciative whiff. "Mmm! I hope there's enough there for our supper tonight as well. I don't think the three of us will be able to wait until tomorrow morning!"

A voice broke in upon their happy sniffing. "Captain, this is desertion! Dereliction of duty! Did Custer abandon the settlers to the Indians? Did Shackleton abandon his men to the Eskimos?"

"Shackleton was at the South Pole, Howell! There are no Eskimos there!"

"Well, to the bloodthirsty penguins, then! A true leader doesn't abandon his charges!"

A large shadow darkened the doorway, and moments later the Skipper sailed in with the Howells in his wake. "Professor, will you tell Mr. Howell that he and the women aren't going to be massacred by savages while we're away?" Suddenly he blinked and his nose shot up like a seal's at a fresh fish. "Oh, boy! Am I dreaming? Fresh bread!"

"Sure is, Skipper," said Mary Ann. "Baked in my very own ov—" she stopped at the sight of Gilligan's pleading eyes. "...my very own recipe! You're taking it with you!"

"Wow! That's wonderful!"

Gilligan's look of pure gratitude warmed Mary Ann even more than the fresh loaves under her arm.

Meanwhile, Mr. Howell gave a most disgruntled snort. "Well, I do hope the cannibals are in the mood for crumpets and tea! It may distract them from the main course while the ladies and I make our getaway!"

"Tea? Oh, Thurston, that won't do at all." Mrs. Howell fidgeted with her parasol at the thought. "I hardly have enough jams and preserves left for the seven of us. If the cannibals come, I'll have to rearrange my whole menu!"

"My dear, if the cannibals come, we shall be the menu!"

The Professor laughed. "You can relax, Mr. and Mrs. Howell. The savage mind knows by instinct that it's safer to travel by high tide. Besides, this is the equatorial winter. Most of the time the winds make the waves far too choppy for the outriggers to navigate, so unless the savages have started using outboard motors, I'd say they'll be staying home for awhile yet."

"Oh," said Mr. Howell, looking somewhat mollified.

The Skipper pushed back his captain's cap and laughed. "Professor, I've got to hand it to you. You make it mighty easy for me to be Skipper around here."

"Glad to oblige, Skipper."

"Professor, you will hurry back, won't you?" urged Mrs. Howell. "You promised to begin your lecture series on Shakespeare for my Tuesday salons, and I've already made up the invitations."

"You're starting a salon, Mrs. Howell?" Gilligan's eyebrows rose. "Are we going to be able to hear the Professor over the hairdryers?"

"A salon is a sort of a gathering, dear boy," Mrs. Howell explained. "Where people drink and chat, and things of that sort."

"Oh," said Gilligan. "Kind of like Barnacle Bill's Bar back in Honolulu, huh, Skipper? Except I don't remember anybody giving lectures on Shakespeare there."

"I'll hurry back, Mrs. Howell. I promise," said the Professor.

"And you were going to show me the design for your coconut weather-detectors, old man," said Mr. Howell. "Sounded simply marvellous. I want to get in on the ground floor, you know."

Gilligan frowned, looking up at the ceiling. "But Mr. Howell, the Professor only has one—"

"Just a figure of speech, my boy." Mr. Howell smiled. "Means I'll make a million."

The Professor nodded. "Ginger's already been helping me prepare the glycerol formula, Mr. Howell. It should be ready in a few days." He stood up. "Well, Skipper, are we ready to get underway? Have you got everything?"

"Torches, rope, protective charms. I think so."

"Protective charms?" The Professor rolled his eyes and sighed. "Oh, Skipper! How long are you going to keep clinging to-"

"I know what you're going to say, Professor," said the Skipper quickly, holding up a silencing hand. "'Those silly superstitions!' But I say it's best not to take chances. After all, this isn't just any mountain ."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Gilligan fixed them both with a suspicious glare . "You guys just told me we were going to the mountains. You never said which one exactly."

The Professor glanced up at the Skipper. "He'll find out sooner or later, Skipper."

The Skipper twiddled his fingers evasively. "Ep...little buddy, I was going to tell you...once we got a little closer to it, that is."

The first mate was perched bolt upright now. "What? What's the big idea?" His eyes flew wide as he saw the answer in the Skipper's eyes. "Oh, no. Not that one!"

The Professor cut in before the Skipper could. "Yes, Gilligan. The one whose name, according to the native carvings, is the Whispering Mountain."

On came the fireworks.

"The Whispering Mountain?" Gilligan howled. "Skipper! What gives?"

"Little buddy, I didn't want to worry you."

"Didn't want to worry me? Thanks a lot!" Gilligan was clutching the seat of his stool as though he might shoot through the ceiling if he let go. "It's only the spookiest place on the island!"

"Spooky?" gasped Mary Ann. "What do you mean? What's up there?"

"Not what," murmured Gilligan in a sepulchral voice, looking up into the shadows. "Who."

"There's nobody up there, Mary Ann," said the Professor reassuringly. "There are signs that it was once home to an ancient tribe, but those people are long gone now."

"Yeah," Gilligan whispered, still looking around. "There should be one big sign up there now. 'No trespassing!'"

"Professor, is it dangerous?" gasped Ginger.

"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Howell. "I do hope you're all insured."

"From the sound of things, I don't believe I'd take them on as a risk," said Mr. Howell.

"Gilligan!" The Skipper lifted his hat for emphasis, and Gilligan shrank back. "Pipe down! You're scaring the troops!"

"You didn't do me much good either!"

The Skipper settled his cap back down, blustering. "Well... you don't have to worry, little buddy. We're only going a little ways up, and these charms of mine will make sure we're all safe."

"Common sense will make sure we're all safe," said the Professor with a wry smile as he retrieved a canvas bag from his bed and slung it around his neck.

The first mate didn't look at all convinced, but nodded reluctantly. "Okay, Professor. Just as long as we all come back that way."

The Skipper noticed the canvas bag. "What have you got in there, Professor? Doesn't look big enough to carry many mushrooms."

"Oh...uh...just a few extra utensils," said the Professor, turning away quickly as he picked up his duffle bag. "In case we have need of them. After all, it's a long walk back." The Professor bowed slightly and gestured to the door. "Well, Skipper? Shall you do the honours?"

The Skipper nodded and pushed the wooden door open. "Fall out, men!"

The castaways left the hut and gathered in the centre of the camp, where the setting sun was sinking now behind the mountains. There were murmurs, handshakes, hugs and pats on the back all 'round as the castaways all tried to look a little happier than they felt. Mr. Howell shook the Skipper's hand. "Well, keep an eye on these two, Captain. I'd be hard pressed to get along without my golf caddy or my best chess partner!"

"Will do, Mr. Howell!"

A moment later the Skipper thought an island goddess had materialized in his arms as Ginger gave him a fond kiss. "Hurry back, Skipper," she murmured, lowering her long black lashes. "You know how safe a girl feels with a big, strong man around."

The Skipper blushed to the roots of his hair and pushed back his cap as if to release the heat. "You bet I will, Ginger!"

Mrs. Howell laid a gentle hand against Gilligan's cheek. "That mountain's so dreadfully cold. You'll be warm enough, won't you, dear?"

"Sure, Mrs. Howell. I've got my blanket."

"But that's hardly sufficient! Are you sure you don't want my mink?"

Gilligan tried hard to keep a straight face. "Aw, thanks, Mrs. Howell. I don't think it's really my style, though. Besides, one of the mountain gorillas might try to get fresh with me!"

Mrs. Howell gasped, raising a gloved hand to her mouth. "Oh, I hadn't thought of that! You're right, Gilligan. Would you rather have my leopard stole? It has a lovely matching handbag."

Gilligan bit his tongue like a hero. "I'll be fine, Mrs. Howell. Honest."

At last Mary Ann came to his rescue as she tied the ends of the burlap bag into a sling and slid it over Gilligan's head and arm like a backpack. "Here's the bread, Gilligan. Promise me you won't eat it all before you even get there!"

"I promise, Mary Ann. The Skipper'd keel haul me!"

The farm girl smiled briefly, but her expression grew serious as she looked up at Gilligan, her small brown hand resting on his chest. "I'm glad the Skipper's going with you, Gilligan; he'd never let anything happen to you. You be careful." She reached up and kissed him briefly on the lips, squeezing his arm as if she didn't mean to let him go. After a moment she drew back. "You're not scared," she said in gentle surprise.

He shrugged shyly. "I'm a lot scared. But the Professor says these mushrooms are real important, so... I'll see it through."

"I know you will." She squeezed his arm one last time. "Come back soon."

The last to say goodbye to the Professor was Ginger; as she approached him he began to enumerate instructions on his fingers. "Now Ginger, uh, don't subject the formula to any unnecessary agitation; it'll upset the chemical balance."

"I know, Professor." She moved a little closer to him.

"And keep it out of direct sunlight as much as possible."

"I'll remember."

His fingers began to shake just a little. "And be sure to check the ph factor every—"

Gently she pushed his hands apart with a spray of creamy plumeria flowers that she'd picked up from the table. "You can depend on me, Professor."

There was nothing between them but the flowers now, and their heady scent mingled with Ginger's perfume. "Oh...oh...yes, of course."

The beautiful starlet leaned forward and kissed him, driving every scientific equation from the Professor's head. "And I can depend on you, can't I?" she whispered afterwards.

It took the Professor a moment to remember basic vocabulary. "Wh-why - for what?"

"To come back. I need you." For a moment Ginger lowered her eyes, fingering the flower's fragile petals. "I mean...we all do. We'd be lost without you." She looked back up as she tucked a flower into his breast pocket. "Promise me, Professor?"

He patted his pocket and smiled. "Scout's honour."

The women and Mr. Howell stepped back as the Skipper, Gilligan and the Professor gathered up the rest of their gear. At last the three men turned and started off down the jungle trail, waving as they went. "Take care! We'll see you soon!"

"Goodbye!"

After the men disappeared, the four remaining castaways stood for awhile as the soft evening breezes stirred the palm fronds and the dark clouds began to gather in the east. One by one the birds fell silent; only the far off roar of the wide, dark ocean made any sound.

"Awfully quiet, isn't it?" murmured Mary Ann.

"I'm so glad you're here with us, Thurston," said Mrs. Howell, taking her husband's arm. "Do you think it's true, what the Professor said, about the cannibals?"

"Of course, Lovey." Mr. Howell cupped a hand to his ear. "I say – is that an outboard motor I hear?"

"Mr. Howell!" cried Mary Ann. "One more comment like that and there'll be no fresh bread for you tomorrow!"

Mrs. Howell tapped him with her parasol. "Oh, Thurston! Shame on you!"

The millionaire had the grace to blush. "Forgive me, darling. Only joshing. Well, ladies, I for one don't care for being idle while the other men are off on their noble venture. Why don't we retire to our hut and have some convivial music on the radio, and then you can all try to beat me at gin-rummy: winner take all!"

The women nodded gratefully. As they moved towards the Howell hut, Ginger looked back towards the jungle, hugging herself as if cold. "The Whispering Mountain," she murmured. "What did Gilligan mean, 'no trespassing'? Are they walking into some kind of danger?"

The others paused for a moment. "The Professor says there's no danger," said Mary Ann.

"And the Professor is always right, Ginger, my dear," said Mr. Howell. "He'll tell you so tomorrow night."

Ginger gave a longing sigh as she looked up to where the line of the mountains brooded in the darkening distance. "Oh, I hope so."