"Ghost of A Chance"
"When you live on a haunted island, anything can happen."
--Gilligan, "Ghost A Go Go"
Sunset was always swift on the uncharted desert isle. Under the gold and lavender sky the mountains loomed like great shadows and the supple palms swayed in the faint breeze.
Deep in the jungle the Skipper, the Professor and Gilligan were lighting four tiki torches at the corners of a clearing. In the centre of the clearing was a wide, four foot deep pit flanked by a mound of fresh earth and three bamboo shovels. A tall native totem pole stood near the edge of the jungle, carven faces snarling.
The Skipper sat down on a large rock and took a grateful drink from the gourd at his feet. "Wow! Heh, heh. Not bad for a day's work! A little bit more digging and we'll probably reach China!"
Gilligan turned. "Really, Skipper?"
The Skipper sighed and rolled his eyes, perpetually amazed by his first mate's logic. "No, Gilligan. Not really."
From where he was examining a native pot, the Professor smiled without looking up. "It's called hyperbole, Gilligan."
"Well, whatever the place is called, how long do you think it'll take us to get there? I mean with the three of us digging – and maybe we could get Mr. Howell and the girls to take a turn—"
"Gilligan, you're a booby!"
Gilligan's face fell. "Well, maybe you're right, Skipper. Mr. Howell would say, 'Good heavens, a Howell to do manual labour? I mean really!'"
"Gilligan, that wasn't what I—"
"And besides, none of us speaks Chinese. How would we tell the people there we wanted to go back to the United States?"
The Skipper replaced the cap on the gourd and stood up. "Gilligan, you'd confuse them even if they spoke the Queen's English! I was just kidding! We're nowhere near China!"
"Well, what about the Hyperboles? Aren't they near Australia?"
The Professor set the pot near a pile of carefully wrapped native artifacts and strolled over. "Hyperbole simply means exaggeration, Gilligan. But it's no exaggeration that this is one of the greatest discoveries you've made on the island. We've found all kinds of useful pottery and primitive tools, and we'll be able to learn a great deal about the tribes that once lived here. I'm convinced this midden will prove a gold mine to us."
Gilligan frowned down at the pit. "Goldmine? I though you said a midden was a garbage dump, Professor."
"It is. But you see, Gilligan, you can learn all sorts of things about a person by examining his garbage."
The Skipper picked up two shovels and walked over. "Say, I guess that's true," he laughed. "A man with cigarette butts in his garbage must be a smoker, or a man with empty rum bottles must be a drinker!"
"And a man with as many coconut cream pie crusts as we have in our garbage must be a—"
"Gilligan…" came the warning growl.
"Gourmet," Gilligan finished, smiling nervously. He flinched as the Skipper thrust a shovel at him and pointed sternly into the pit.
"Dig," said the Skipper.
Gilligan jumped in, followed moments later by the Skipper. The old sea dog looked about them. "It'll be full dark in a few minutes. We'd better finish up soon, fellas."
"It gets dark here so fast," murmured Gilligan. "Like somebody didn't pay the electric bill. It's kinda spooky."
"It's simply due to our proximity to the equator, Gilligan," said the Professor, smiling. "Twilight is a result of the refraction of the sun's rays. The more obliquely the rays strike the earth, the further the light extends. Where we are, the rays strike at the perpendicular, and when the sun sinks, the effect is total darkness. There's nothing spooky about it."
Gilligan looked up at the dark clouds massing. "I hope the ghosts know that."
The crew bent their backs to the job of digging while the Professor began packing the wrapped artifacts into wooden crates. Around them the shadows deepened as the dark jungle rustled and whispered. In the torch flame the native totem glowered fiercely.
Gilligan's shovel suddenly struck something solid. He tapped at it for a few moments, then knelt down and brushed at the dirt. "Skipper? Professor? There's something metal down here!"
The Skipper and the Professor came over to watch as Gilligan scrabbled in the dirt with his fingers. After a few minutes he pried out a long, slightly curved blade with a basket hilt and held it up, brushing it off. "It's some kind of sword!" exclaimed Gilligan.
The Skipper was impressed. "It's not just a sword, little buddy! It's a cutlass! A sailor's cutlass!"
The Professor had leapt into the pit by now and reached out a hand to touch the blade. "You're right, Skipper! Looks like mid-to-late eighteenth-century to me—Spanish steel and Toledo workmanship, if I'm not mistaken. And what a splendid state of preservation it's in! The oxidants in the soil have hardly touched it in two hundred years!"
Gilligan rubbed the dirt from the hilt and gasped. "Skipper, Professor, look!"
There on the basket hilt, wrought in iron, was the unmistakable sign of the skull and crossbones. "It's a pirate's sword! A real live pirate's sword! Right here on the island! Wow! You know, one of my ancestors fought pirates, Skipper!" Gilligan grinned and his eyes gleamed as he slashed the cutlass to and fro. "Take that, you scurvy swab! And that!"
"Careful with that thing, Gilligan," the Professor urged as he and the Skipper jumped back. "It's not a toy."
"You'll all hang from the yard-arm!" sang Gilligan, swinging the heavy blade in a figure-eight. "No more to roam the Spanish Main! Yikes!" He flinched as he dropped the sword and nearly lopped off his thumb.
"Little buddy, stop playing with that thing before you hurt yourself, and that's an order! And for your information, the Spanish Main was in the Caribbean, Gilligan. You're in the wrong ocean!"
"No I'm not, Skipper, he is! I mean, he was. His sword's here, isn't it?"
The Skipper raised his eyebrows and scratched his head under his captain's hat. "Well, you've got a point there. It's a pirate's sword, all right. Come to think of it, there were European ships in these waters about two hundred years ago: Captain Bligh, Captain Cook…maybe the pirates made it here too. Say, we did find that chest of cannonballs that one time, and it must have come off a ship. Maybe it was a pirate ship! And where there's a pirate ship, there's—"
"Treasure!" the three men shouted in unison, and dropped to their haunches to dig furiously.
After a moment the Professor unearthed a strange looking bamboo implement that looked like a garden weeder, and held it gingerly. "What's that, Professor?" asked Gilligan. "Looks like some kind of rake."
The Skipper, eyeing the implement, swallowed nervously. "Oh, my gosh! I saw those in a museum in Fiji. Boy, am I glad the tribe that made this isn't here now!"
"Why?" asked Gilligan. "Would they be mad because we've ripped up their garden?"
"It isn't a gardening tool, Gilligan," the Professor murmured. "It's a fork."
"A fork? What in the world would you eat with that?" Gilligan picked at some dull white objects peeping out of the dirt. "Oh, wait, I get it. Look at all these bones! Looks like they had a barbecue here…maybe that's what they used these forks for." He fingered part of a rib. "But that's funny. There's no animals on the island with ribs this big. And what's this?"
The Skipper and the Professor stared as Gilligan dug 'round a bowling-ball sized white object in the earth. He pulled it loose, shook the dirt from it, and gasped in horror.
In his trembling hands Gilligan held a human skull. The left eye socket was badly damaged, while above it the dome had been sliced off so that it resembled a bowl. "P-p-professor!"
The Professor dipped the wide pronged fork neatly into the top of the skull and let it rest. "That's what they used the fork for, Gilligan," he said quietly.
"Ah-ah-ah-ugh!" Gilligan's nervous fingers jiggled the skull until he dropped it in revulsion and dragged his fingers across his shirt. "Professor, I don't think we need any more garbage from this dump! Let's get out of here!" He was scrambling out of the pit like a gopher when the Professor caught his shirt.
"Gilligan!" he said soothingly, hanging on until the panicked young sailor finally turned around. "Gilligan, it's all right. There's nothing to be afraid of. This tribe is long gone by now and that poor fellow's been dead for hundreds of years. I didn't mean to upset you. Take it easy now." He released Gilligan and turned to the Skipper. "Skipper, Gilligan's right. We've got all we need for today. Why don't we head back to camp? The others will be getting anxious."
The Skipper nodded. "Right, Professor. Come on, Gilligan. We can finish this up tomorrow. Let's get going." With an effort he pulled himself out of the pit while the two slimmer men scrambled out more quickly. They loaded up the crates and were about to leave when the Skipper suddenly stopped. "Wait a minute! We can't go yet!"
"Why not?" asked the Professor.
"We can't leave an open pit like this all night. One of the others might fall in and hurt themselves."
The Professor scowled. "Hmmm. You're right; I hadn't thought of that. It's unlikely anyone would come out here tonight, but just in case anyone takes an early stroll tomorrow morning, it's best to be on the safe side."
"We're not going to fill in the whole pit?!" protested Gilligan, who wanted to get away as quickly as possible.
"No, no, little buddy. All you have to do is take the tiki torches and plant them in the middle. That way, anybody who comes along will see them before they reach the edge of the pit, and then they'll be safe."
Gilligan looked down at the barbecue pit with horror. "Me? Why me? Why do I have to do it?"
"Gilligan, these crates are too heavy for you to manage, and we want to get going before the others start to worry. Besides, you're pretty handy at climbing in and out of that pit. It won't take you long. We won't go too far ahead. Just follow the trail and you'll be fine."
"What? You mean you're not going to wait for me?" Gilligan yelped.
The Skipper smiled indulgently. "Gilligan, didn't you hear what the Professor said? Any danger that was here is long gone, and you know I'd never leave you here alone otherwise. And you've got your cutlass! Just run 'em through! Hang 'em from the yard arm! Ha, ha. See you in a few minutes, little buddy." With a chuckle, he and the Professor turned and disappeared into the jungle.
Gilligan stared longingly after them. He loved the island, but he loved night on the island better when he wasn't by himself. He sighed, frowned, and hitched up his shoulders. "Move the tiki torches, Gilligan," he muttered. "We won't get far." Hurrying over, he gripped one of the torches and grunted as he pried it loose from the ground. Quickly he carried it over to the pit, jumped down, and thrust it into the soft earth. As he climbed out to get the next torch he glanced toward the jungle.
Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed what seemed like a tall figure looming on the edge of the torchlight and started in terror before he realized it was the totem pole. Gilligan flinched at the weird faces grimacing wickedly at him. "Don't look at me like that," he muttered. "You're not getting me to stay for dinner." He moved quickly to replace the second and third torches, careful to avoid looking at the totem as he scurried back and forth.
He was about to climb out of the pit to grab the fourth when he saw the cutlass blade gleaming in the torchlight and bent to pick it up. "Oh yeah—better not forget you! You're the one lucky thing to come out of here!" He took a quick step backwards to admire it better.
C-c-c-crack! The young first mate gulped and looked down. There beneath his foot lay a pile of white shards where the skull had been. He crouched down, aghast.
"Gee, I'm sorry, mister! Looks like you lost your head all over again!"
With a cold whoosh, the torches above him went out. Gilligan froze, heart pounding, suddenly aware that he was not alone.
Then very near him a deep, guttural voice intoned, "Lost me head have I, Lord Gilligan? Well then – You'll be losing yours!"
Gilligan didn't even see the blow coming. Adrenalin and raw instinct hurled him over the sand as something swept down where his neck had been. He scrambled on all fours, still clutching the cutlass. "Skipper!" he shrieked.
"Stand still, ye high born bilge rat!" the booming voice shouted. "Ye damned dancing master! Stand and fight me, Gilligan!"
Gilligan vaulted to the edge of the pit and sprang over the edge as he heard another whoosh behind him. "Who are you?" he screamed. "H-how do you know my name?"
Impossibly, his pursuer had actually beaten him to the surface and now stood beneath the last torch that was still topside. At last Gilligan saw him: not in the light of the torch, for that had blown out too, but in the light of a pale, eerie glow that seemed to emanate from the figure itself. It was a tall, burly man, arms akimbo, grinning a wicked, gap-toothed grin. A three cornered hat was perched on top of a cruel, wild-haired, wild-bearded face that sported one dark, glinting eye and a patch where the left eye should have been. A wide-cuffed, wide-skirted coat was pulled back to reveal an array of knives and ancient pistols tucked into a deep belt. "Aaarh," he snarled.
It did not take a professor to realize what he was.
The apparition leered at Gilligan. "What ails ye, scum? Have ye forgot the witchdoctor and his curse, when the heathens on this forsaken isle ye chased me to made this me last port of call? Ye sent me here, Lord Gilligan, and now I'll send ye to hell!"
The figure started forward, but Gilligan was already flying down the path, shooting past breaking branches and screaming for the Skipper in all-out panic.
