The Professor's eyes peeled open, and he stared into the darkness. The night was silent. He was laying on his bed, inside his hut, and he lay still. He listened. Nothing. Not a thing seemed out of place. So what had woken him up? He sighed, and watched as his breath rose up visibly into the air. And he realized, with a start, what it was. It was cold. Not simply chilly, but freezing.
He had seen his own breath.
He sat up, perplexed, and felt the cold night air sink inside his bones as the blanket fell off of him. What was going on? He could never remember it being so cold on the island, not even during winter. Curious and restless, he grabbed the blanket, draped it over his shoulders, and walked outside.
Oddly enough, it seemed to be warmer outside. The island air seemed just as it usually was - a nice, cool but comfortable breeze playing with the palm fronds. But although the atmosphere itself was warmer, the Professor still felt cold. It was as if the cold was no longer outside, but inside - as if the ice that had seeped into his bones was staying there, and was spreading, unchecked, through his entire body. He had swallowed Antarctica. A chill ran down his spine, quick and quiet, the way the silhouette in the background flashes briefly past the camera lens in a horror film. He shivered involuntarily, and drew the blanket closer. Troubled, with a blizzard of questions in his brain, he went silently to the communal table.
As he approached, he realized that there were two others there already. Ginger and Mary Ann were huddled together beneath a blanket. The Professor drew nearer, and the girls, hearing his footsteps in the sand, looked up simultaneously.
"Oh, Professor!" Ginger called. "Isn't it just freezing?" she asked, her big blinking eyes brimming with worry.
"It is very cold," the Professor agreed. Ginger gestured him to sit beside her, and he did so. The three fiddled around for a minute, and then they were all huddled together beneath two blankets.
"I don't understand," Mary Ann said quietly, her voice soft with concern. "Body heat is supposed to warm people up, but Ginger, you're not making me feel any warmer; in fact, you feel just as cold as I do."
"I'm not getting any warmth from you, either," Ginger pouted. "You feel like a living ice sculpture," she complained. But still she did not move away.
"I'm afraid that's how you feel as well, Ginger," the Professor commented. It was like sitting beside the wall of a glacier. But the Professor felt like ice himself, so it didn't seem to matter much.
"Oh, I thought we were in the South Pacific, not the South Pole!" Ginger lamented. Just then, the door to the Skipper and Gilligan's hut swung open, and the three shivering castaways watched as the Skipper moved toward them. He came within earshot, and they heard him sigh heavily.
"Boy, is it hot!" he exclaimed sincerely.
"Hot?!" the others echoed together, regarding the Skipper as if he had gone insane.
"Burning," the Skipper emphasized, and as he got closer, the others could see that he was indeed sweating. He pulled off his beloved captain's hat and used it as a fan, vigorously waving it back and forth, trying to cool himself down. He stopped short as he reached the communal table. He took in the three other castaways, huddled together beneath blankets, and still shivering. He gaped, speechless. The confusion on the shivering castaways' faces reflected his own.
"What… what are you all doing beneath those blankets?" he asked slowly.
"It's… freezing?" Mary Ann responded, equally as slowly. It sounded like a question. The Skipper blinked.
"You're all cold?" Three blanketed bobble-heads nodded back. "But… I don't understand. It's burning hot! I half expected the hut to spontaneously combust!"
"Our bucket of freshwater froze," Ginger informed him, her eyes wide. The Skipper said nothing. Both sides were in disbelief, but the evidence could not be denied. Mary Ann, Ginger, and the Professor were physically shivering. The Skipper was sweating, looking heated. He and the girls turned to look at the Professor, but the scholar was looking just as confused as they were. They could practically see the wheels turning in his brain, searching furiously for an answer, an explanation.
"Maybe," he began slowly, grasping at straws, "it really is cold on the island. It's cold, and the Skipper feels hot because he has a fever."
"I don't feel sick, Professor," the Skipper told him. But Mary Ann had jumped on the idea.
"Yeah, that's it!" she nodded excitedly. "The Skipper must have a fever. Three of us feel cold, and Skipper is the only one who doesn't!"
"But I feel fine," the Skipper protested, "except that it feels like I'm in the middle of the Sahara desert!" Mary Ann opened her mouth to respond, but just then-
"No! Please, don't!" The frantic cry carried down to the castaways from the Skipper and Gilligan's hut. "No!" repeated Gilligan's distraught voice. The castaways were struck still for a moment, and the blanketed castaways felt themselves grow even colder with fear.
"Gilligan!" the Skipper cried, breaking the paralysis, and he started to run towards the hut. But he had only taken two steps before Gilligan came stumbling out of the hut himself. The Skipper stopped short in surprise, and then started to continue towards his first mate, but the young sailor waved him back to the table. The Skipper walked slowly backwards, carefully watching his first mate hurriedly advance to the table. His heartbeat thrummed loudly in his ears. The castaways watched as Gilligan came closer. Soon, he stepped into view, and they were able to see that he was sweating as well, looking just as scorched as the Skipper.
"Sorry," he told them quickly, before anyone could say anything. The tone of his voice told them that his flushed face was due to embarrassment, as well as heat. "I had a dream that I was Hansel - and Mary Ann, you were Gretel - and we went into the jungle and found a house made of coconut and coconut cream and pineapple and banana and then the witch caught us and threw us in the oven!" he explained animatedly, without pausing for breath. He shivered, frowning, but not from cold. "I didn't mean to scream, sorry. I'm alright," he tacked on. The girls sighed in relief, and the Skipper sat down hard on the communal table bench.
"Gilligan," he scolded wearily, too hot to make the effort to swipe at Gilligan with his hat, "what are you trying to do, huh? Give me a heart attack?"
"Sorry, Skipper," Gilligan mumbled again, and he slumped onto the bench, next to his captain. "Anyway," he went on, "why is it so hot? I feel like I am in an oven." And then he frowned at the girls and the Professor. "And why are you all under blankets?" The Professor sighed, feeling just as weary as the Skipper, and ran a hand over his face. He opened his mouth to respond, but the sound that followed was Mr. Howell's booming voice.
"A hundred thousand dollars to the first person to make this dreadful heat go away!"
…..
"I got 'em!" Gilligan called, staggering over to the communal table with a pile of blankets in his arms. "We definitely don't need 'em, so you guys can take these," he told Ginger, the Professor, and Mary Ann.
"Oh, thank you, Gilligan!" Ginger responded. The Skipper, seated across from her, groaned loudly.
"Just seeing blankets makes me feel hotter," he grumbled. "I still don't understand how you all can be freezing, while we're over here burning up!"
"Well, we've already established that this is because of the plagues," Ginger said. "And with the plagues, anything could happen," Ginger shrugged. The Professor chose not to comment.
"Here, somebody take these blankets off me before I catch fire," Gilligan urged, holding the jumble of warm fabric out. Mary Ann untangled herself from the blankets she, Ginger, and the Professor were already covered in, and eagerly came up to the first mate, rubbing her arms against the cold. She reached out to take them, and Gilligan reached out to give them, and for a split second, their hands touched. The two castaways jumped apart, lightning fast, with cries of pain.
"Ouch!" Mary Ann yelped, her eyes welling with tears. Gilligan was hopping around, hissing with pain, holding his throbbing hand.
"Professor!" the Skipper cried, astonished. "What happened?" he asked, getting up to see to his first mate. "Why, he's burned!" the Skipper reported, bewildered, as he examined Gilligan's hand; there was an angry red mark where he and Mary Ann had come into contact with each other.
"Skipper, I don't know exactly how this is possible, but it appears that Gilligan was burnt in much the same way you can get 'burnt' from handling dry ice. And Mary Ann was burnt as well, from heat," he explained. But the explanation did not lessen his - or anyone's - surprise.
"You mean… Gilligan is hot enough to burn Mary Ann, and Mary Ann is cold enough to burn Gilligan?" Mr. Howell questioned.
"Yes, Mr. Howell, I'm afraid that's correct," the Professor said. "The difference in temperature between the two of them seems to be enough to cause such burns."
"I knew I was cold, but I didn't think I was that cold," Mary Ann said mournfully, maneuvering awkwardly back under the blankets using only one hand.
"I didn't think I was that hot," Gilligan added with a frown.
"Well, never mind that now, little buddy. I'm gonna go get some water and bandages for you two," the Skipper announced, getting up from the table and going back inside the hut.
"Thanks, Skipper," Gilligan replied, sitting down at the table with a sigh. "Always this hand…" he mumbled sourly.
"Gee, it was bad enough that we're either too hot or too cold; now we can't even touch each other!" Ginger fretted.
"How perfectly dreadful!" Mrs. Howell cried. "Thank goodness my darling Thurston and I are both the same temperature," she added gratefully, lovingly patting her husband's cheek.
"Yes, dear," he returned with a smile, just as the Skipper came back. He set a bucket of water on the table and laid bandaging down next to it. Gilligan eagerly stuck his hand in the bucket - and pulled it right back out again.
"Yow!" he exclaimed, shaking his hand crazily, sending water droplets flying. "It's hot!" he shouted, and his voice went up several octaves on the last word.
"Hot?!" the Skipper gasped. He stuck his finger in the bucket - and pulled it back just as quick as Gilligan had. "Hot!" he exclaimed in agreement. "Any hotter, and it'd boil!"
"Skipper," the Professor cut in urgently. "Did you get that water from your hut?" he asked.
"Why, yes," the Skipper answered with a nod. The Professor snapped his fingers in understanding, and Ginger gasped as well, seemingly having followed the same line of thought.
"Of course!" she breathed. "The huts! That's why Mary Ann and I came out here; our hut was freezing! Oh, it makes sense! I was wondering how this plague was going to happen, because it says that half of us will be condemned to fire, and half of us to ice. Except that's not possible, because we have seven people - we can't be divided in half. But of course, we live in four different huts - so half of them are condemned to fire, and half of them to ice!"
"Wow, Ginger, you're right!" Gilligan interjected. "It makes a lot more sense than my guess. I thought that the Skipper would just be counted as two people." And then he cringed under the Skipper's pointed glare.
"Mr. and Mrs. Howell," the Professor continued, "is your hut hot as well?"
"Terribly," Mrs. Howell informed him. "We moved our money outside of our hut, in case the hut caught fire."
"That's great!" the Professor exclaimed.
"It's great that they moved their money?" Gilligan asked, confused.
"No, it's great that their hut is hot!" the Professor clarified excitedly.
"It is?" the Skipper asked doubtfully, exchanging baffled glances with his first mate.
"Yes!" the Professor maintained. "Don't you see? If our huts are freezing cold, and your huts are burning up, we should go into each other's huts! Perhaps that will help warm us up and cool us down!"
"Oh, Professor, you're a genius!" Ginger proclaimed.
"How marvelous!" Mrs. Howell celebrated.
Similar cries of praise and excitement issued from all the castaways, and they scrambled around, making their way to others' huts as quickly as possible while trying not to run over each other. The Skipper exuberantly steered himself and Gilligan towards the girls' hut, overjoyed at the idea of a solution to this particularly unpleasant plague.
"I can't believe it!" he enthused.
…..
"I can't believe it," the Skipper sighed sadly.
The castaways were back around the communal table once again. The idea of switching huts had proved unsuccessful, and the bitter taste of disappointment lingered on the castaways' tongues.
"It was the weirdest sensation," Mary Ann spoke up. "I could tell it was hot inside the hut… but I still felt cold."
"Oh, it's useless," Ginger moaned ruefully. "I guess this is another plague we'll just have to ride out, like the darkness."
"I'd take darkness over this any day," the Skipper grumbled.
"I'd give my many millions if it would end this plague now," Mr. Howell declared, yawning hugely - a yawn Mrs. Howell repeated immediately.
"Thurston, I'm dreadfully tired," she told him with a sigh.
"Tired?" came Mary Ann's muffled voice from a lumpy bundle of blankets. Only her eyes were visible through the small opening in the heavy cloth. "No way I could sleep like this!"
"Heat makes people lethargic," the Professor explained knowledgeably. As if to prove the Professor's point, Gilligan, who had been leaning on his elbow with his eyes closed, shifted; his elbow dropped over the edge of the table, and his head slammed down to hit the bamboo surface. He popped his head up immediately, eyes wide and dazed.
"Huh? You say somethin', Skipper?" he asked, disoriented, blinking owlishly at his captain.
"No, Gilligan," the Skipper replied lightly, amused.
"Oh, okay," Gilligan mumbled, and then slammed his head back down onto the table with a snore. A half-hearted giggle issued from Mary Ann's blankets.
"Anyway, what about food?" the Skipper asked. "I, for one, am far too hot to do anything, even eat."
"I'm too cold to do anything," Ginger supplied.
"I doubt that any of us will be in any mood to enjoy our food at all - not while we're like this," the Professor declared. "However, when it nears sunset today, we should eat something, no matter how hot or cold we are. We don't want to starve ourselves."
"You're right, Professor," the Skipper agreed. And then he yawned.
"Oh, don't fall asleep on us, too, Skipper," Ginger pleaded. "Mary Ann, the Professor, and I will be the only ones awake soon," she pouted.
"Actually, Ginger is right; you shouldn't fall asleep," the Professor informed the Skipper and the Howells. "I know you're all tired, but if you fall asleep, you'll just get even more lethargic. Plus, you need to be awake to keep yourselves hydrated."
"Hydrated? What, with our hot water?" the Skipper asked distastefully. The Professor frowned, thinking.
"Of course!" he cried suddenly, slapping his hand down onto the table, and Gilligan shot up once again, startled awake. "I bet the water in the freshwater trough is still at a normal temperature! After all, it's not in any of our huts."
"Oh, boy!" Gilligan cheered, suddenly wide awake, and he stood up, licking his lips eagerly. "I'll go get some," he told them. And he grabbed the bucket of hot water off the table and started off.
…..
Gilligan approached the communal table with the recently-filled bucket of water, pleased with its satisfyingly normal temperature, and took in the other castaways, blanketed and non-blanketed respectively. They were all leaning into the center of the table, apparently intent on their conversation. The Skipper had a stick in one hand, and was using it to periodically make a dash in the sand - Gilligan suspected he was keeping score. As he neared the table, he heard Mr. Howell's triumphant voice.
"Cuba to Aruba!" he sung out, grinning, and the Skipper leaned over to make another tick in the sand.
"Timbuktu to Waterloo!" Mary Ann put in excitedly. Another tick.
"Hawaii to Kauai," Gilligan put in helpfully, setting the bucket on the table, along with a bamboo ladle and some cups.
"Sorry, little buddy, I got that one already," the Skipper told him. "And thanks for the water," he added, grabbing a cup. Mr. and Mrs. Howell followed suit.
"You're welcome," Gilligan smiled. And then: "Austin to Boston." The Skipper, drinking deeply from his cup, merely handed Gilligan the stick. The first mate grinned and looked down to the makeshift scoreboard, with the letters "TH" for Mr. Howell, "LH" for Mrs. Howell, "S" for Skipper, "P" for the Professor, "G" for Ginger, and "M" for Mary Ann. The Professor was in the lead with five points. The Skipper and Mr. Howell were tied with three, and Ginger, Mrs. Howell, and Mary Ann were in a three-way tie with two points each. Gilligan added another G to Ginger's to differentiate between them, then put another G on the board, adding one point beneath it. He sat up, handed the stick back to the Skipper, and got a cup of his own.
"Canton to Scranton," Gilligan supplied, before gulping the fresh, cool water down. The Skipper leaned over to mark the score, and barely sat up again before Gilligan spoke again. "Shanghai to Molokai." The first mate filled his cup once again and put it to his lips, again pausing to put in "Marrakesh to Bangladesh."
"Gee, Gilligan, you're really good at this!" Mary Ann praised.
"Thanks, Cancún to Cameroon."
"Bali to Mali!" Mr. Howell interjected. "I'm determined to win this!"
"Not so fast, Howell," the Skipper rejoined smugly. "Nigeria to Siberia."
"Marseilles to Paraguay," the Professor jumped in.
"Oh, Thurston, I can't think of anything!" Mrs. Howell fretted, as Ginger burst out "Samoa to Genoa".
"Romania to Albania!"
"Tripoli to Tennessee!"
…..
"I said that one already!" cried the Skipper, indignantly.
"I don't think so, Captain," Mr. Howell denied calmly. "I didn't hear it."
"Well just because you didn't hear it, doesn't mean I didn't say it!"
"Uh, Skipper…" Gilligan cut in.
"Not now, Gilligan."
"But Skipper!"
"Not now, Gilligan. Really, someone must have heard me say it! Do you remember Professor?" The Professor's answering shrug was accompanied by another insistent "Skipper!" from Gilligan.
"Mary Ann, do you remember?"
"Sorry," she shrugged sympathetically.
"But Skipper, really you should-"
"Ginger, how about you?"
"Skipper!"
"Sorry, Skipper, I wish I could say I did. We've all been spouting off so many places that-"
"Skipperrr!"
"-I can't remember who said what, let alone what's been said or not."
"Skipperrr!"
"What, Gilligan?" the Skipper finally snapped. The first mate slumped slightly in relief at finally being acknowledged. He sighed shortly, a little exasperated huff, and then pointed immediately to the hut he and the Skipper shared.
"Our hut's on fire." This remark produced immediate and appropriate alarm. The castaways sprang into action, their heat or their cold respectively ignored for the moment, and ran to put the fire out. Buckets of water were filled and emptied, changing hands quickly and efficiently, and soon, the small flames that had sprung up around the hut were extinguished.
As exhausted as the flames, the castaways sprawled on the sand together, watching the black smoke fade away into the purple sky. The sun was setting, and a cool breeze blew around them, fiddling with their hair and messing with their clothes. The Professor sighed deeply, relaxed by the gentle breeze and the island sounds.
"Well, I'm glad all those fire drills paid off," he smiled slightly.
"Oh, yes, Professor," Ginger murmured. "You always have such great ideas. Those drills sure came in handy."
"Yes, you were quite right about forcing us to participate, Professor," Mrs. Howell told him.
"That's right, Lovey," Mr. Howell smiled smugly. "They couldn't have done it without a little Howell help." The others chuckled lightly.
"Oh, this breeze feels perfectly wonderful! So nice and cool," Mrs. Howell commented aloud.
"It sure does," Mary Ann agreed happily. "That fire sure heated things up a lot."
There was a beat of silence as the castaways processed the last bit of conversation. And then they slowly sat up as one, eyes wide, like a septet of Draculas arising from their coffins.
"The breeze is cool," Mrs. Howell repeated slowly.
"The fire was hot," Mary Ann repeated.
And then the castaways cheered - loudly and exuberantly. Mrs. Howell was no longer hot; Mary Ann was no longer cold. The plague was over. Eventually, the cheering began to quiet a little, and then one particularly loud cheer suddenly stopped abruptly.
"Wait a minute," Gilligan said, somewhat hoarsely. "Why am I cheering? I still feel hot."
"What?" the Professor asked him, eyebrows raised high.
"Hey, yeah," the Skipper put in. "I'm still hot, too," he said.
The other castaways looked at each other in confusion, all shaking their heads. The rest of them were back to splendidly normal temperatures. So why not the Skipper and Gilligan?
"Well, maybe… Maybe it'll just take a minute to kick in," Mary Ann suggested. They all waited in silence, until finally the Skipper began shaking his head, and Gilligan mimicked the movement.
"I'm not getting any cooler, Mary Ann," Gilligan informed her with a frown. "In fact, I think I'm getting hotter."
"Hotter?" Mr. Howell echoed, looking slightly alarmed. "Well, on the bright side, we have the buckets of water ready if you two catch fire as well."
"I think we might," the Skipper chuckled half-heartedly. He was only half kidding.
"Do you really feel that hot?" the Professor asked them, reaching out a hand toward Gilligan's forehead, the closest of the two.
"Burning," the Skipper nodded, as Gilligan ducked out of the way of the Professor's hand with a pout. A look from the Skipper stilled him, and the Professor successfully felt the first mate's forehead. A look of concern crossed his face, and a look of understanding crossed Ginger's face simultaneously. She gasped, and they all turned to look at her.
"Burning!" she repeated. "That's it! It's the next plague already!" she cried, distressed. "Eight shall be the numbered days in which Two Souls must burn!"
"Eight?!" the Skipper and Gilligan gasped together, exchanging looks of dread. The other castaways' eyes were wide, filled with horror and worry and sympathy. No one had anything to say to that, except for Mrs. Howell.
"Oh, how dreadful!" she cried, and the remark was eerily accurate.
