Silver moonlight lit the trail as the Professor and the Skipper carried the crates through the chirping, whistling jungle. "Be careful, Skipper," the Professor cautioned. "Many of these artefacts are fragile and all of them are absolutely irreplaceable."

"I guessed that. That's why I didn't let Gilligan carry them." The two men chuckled. "And speaking of Gilligan, maybe we'd better slow it down a bit, Professor. I don't want my little buddy to get lost."

They paused and listened. The Professor frowned. "Skipper, did you hear that?"

From far off came faint, frantic cries that were all too familiar. "Skipper! Skippererer!"

The Skipper tensed, ready to act. "Gilligan! We're up here, little buddy! What is it? What's wrong?"

"Skipper, help! He's trying to kill me, Skipper!"

The Skipper and the Professor stood transfixed, squinting into the gloom, as Gilligan came hurtling down the trail like a runaway train. Desperate to hide, he dropped the cutlass and flung himself at the Skipper with such force that the big sailor spun off balance and crashed into the professor. Both men instinctively threw out their arms, and watched in despair as the crates sailed through the air and smashed on the ground.

"Gilligan - those artefacts were priceless!" the Professor groaned, tearing at his hair.

Meanwhile, the Skipper was trying to disentangle his manic first mate from around his neck. "Safe in the ground for hundreds of years - until Gilligan found them! Gilligan, what on earth has gotten into you? Will you calm down?"

Gilligan was almost trying to climb the other man like a tree. As he stared, wild-eyed back down the trail, he babbled, "Pie--pie--the p-p-p-he's coming, Skipper! Help me!"

The Skipper, nearly choking, finally managed to wrestle Gilligan's arms from his neck. He grabbed one flailing arm firmly while the Professor grabbed the other. Both men were amazed at the panic-driven energy in Gilligan's wiry frame.

"Gilligan, what is the matter with you?" yelled the Professor. "What is so important that it's cost us our whole day's work and years worth of study?"

Gilligan's lips finally framed the words. "P-pirate! Pirate ghost! Back there! H-he tried to cut my head off!"

"A ghost? A pirate ghost?" The Skipper rolled his eyes and shook Gilligan. "Of all the--you mean you came crashing in here like this because you were afraid of your own shadow?"

"No! I'm not afraid of my shadow! My shadow doesn't have a great big sword! My shadow doesn't have an eye patch and a beard and ten pistols in his belt!"

The Professor gripped Gilligan's shoulders and tried to keep his own voice calm. "Gilligan, Gilligan, listen to me. I have told you time and time again that there are no such things as ghosts. They are figments of your imagination."

"He wasn't a fragment, he was the whole thing, boots and hat and all, and he knew my name and said it was my fault the cannibals ate him, and then he tried to--"

"Gilligan!" The Professor's voice was still soothing. "He knew your name because you internalized and anthropomorphosized your anxieties until they became a subconscious projection. Do you understand?"

"What?? And the Skipper says I can't speak the Queen's English!"

"Oh, Gilligan! It's perfectly clear! The Professor's saying that--" the Skipper paused, shaking his head a little. "Come to think of it, Professor, that was a little heavy on the syllables for me too. Could you maybe water it down a bit?"

The Professor nodded. "Look, Gilligan, if some real enemy were pursuing you, where is he? Why didn't he follow you up the trail?"

The Skipper nodded encouragingly as Gilligan looked back, breathing heavily. He seemed to relax a little as he saw no sign of any danger on the moonlit path.

The Professor continued in his soothing, rational tones. "You know yourself that you have a powerful imagination. You had pirates and headhunters on your mind: both disturbing subjects. It was dark, you were alone, and your imagination took over. You dreamt him up, Gilligan. That's all."

Gilligan hesitated a moment. "Are you sure, Professor?" He sounded as though he desperately wanted to believe it.

"I'm sure."

"Well then how come when I dream about Raquel Welch in a towel, she doesn't come and chase me around the clearing?"

The Skipper and the Professor both laughed. "At the speed you were going, little buddy, you probably outran her too!"

Even Gilligan managed a smile at that. He blushed and, looking down, caught sight of the cutlass. "Oh! That's the second time I nearly forgot it!" He quickly picked it up and brushed it off.

"What do you want that for, Gilligan?"

"Self-defense!" Gilligan said emphatically. "Just in case the next pirate or cannibal I meet isn't a dream!"

The Skipper shook his head and patted Gilligan's shoulder. "Come on, little buddy. Let's get back to camp."

At his friends' urging Gilligan allowed himself to be lead up the trail, trying not to cast nervous glances behind him.

*************************

The sun had topped the mountains and was flooding the island in glorious colour when the Skipper emerged from his hut, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Mary Ann set a plate of pancakes in front of him as he sat down with the others at the breakfast table. "Skipper, you look exhausted! Here, let me get you some fresh coffee."

The Skipper rubbed his eyes again and smiled. "Thanks, Mary Ann. Say, what's this? Whipped cream on the pancakes?"

"Mary Ann's prepared crepes this morning. Isn't it wonderful?" gushed Mrs. Howell.

"Yes, Mary Ann, they're delicious!" said her husband. "So light and fluffy you'd think there was nothing inside them but air! Speaking of which...how's our little first mate's head doing this morning, Skipper?

The Skipper flashed him a look. "Very funny, Howell. He's still asleep. Boy, Professor, that concoction you brewed up for him last night really did the trick. I don't think he'd have closed his eyes for a minute otherwise."

"It was just a sedative, Skipper. It should wear off any time now."

Mary Ann brought the steaming pot of coffee from the campfire. "The Professor was telling us about what happened, Skipper. Poor Gilligan! All this started just because he found a pirate's sword?"

"Yes. The next thing we knew, my little buddy was convinced he'd seen a pirate's ghost!"

"By George, what a pity he couldn't have conjured up a galleon as well!" quipped Mr. Howell. "We could have weighed anchor and sailed for home!"

"Oh, Thurston, darling, don't make fun," Mrs. Howell reproached him.

"Sorry, Lovey."

"We'd never have set foot on a galleon. Far too stuffy and filled with nasty little mice. We'd have had to wait until they sent back a yacht."

"Oh, absolutely, my dear."

The Skipper rolled his eyes and ignored them. "Professor, I'm kind of worried about him. I mean, I know my little buddy's got an overactive imagination, but to dream up something in that kind of detail! I'm beginning to think he's been on the island too long!"

"Now, now, Skipper," said the Professor, "as I explained last night, there is a perfectly valid psychological explanation for what happened to Gilligan last night. He's not losing his mind, I assure you."

"Well, should we humour him about it? Or should we set him straight?"

"I'll handle it, Skipper. I don't profess to be a psychiatrist, but I do hold a Master's Degree in psychology. Just leave it to me."

"Don't look now," said Ginger. "Here he comes!"

The door to the crew's hut swung open and the first mate appeared, hopping hurriedly as he tied his shoelace. "Hi, everybody. Sorry I slept in, Mary Ann!"

Mary Ann smiled at him. "Oh, that's all right, Gilligan. Sit right here, next to the Skipper."

He smiled back at her. "Thanks, Mary Ann!" and forgot to look which way he was hopping. He hopped sideways, toppled over, and would have crashed into the table, had the Skipper not jumped up and caught him.

"Doop! Steady as she goes, there, Gilligan!"

They swung 'round wildly for a moment, before the Skipper slung Gilligan safely onto the bench.

Mr. Howell drew back, disapproving. "Egad, Lovey. I haven't seen such behaviour since the cocktail hour at the Oyster Bay yacht club!"

"And even then you waited until six o'clock, Thurston dear."

The Skipper resumed his place, sighing in exasperation. "Gilligan, don't weigh anchor until you've checked that all your rigging is secure! And that's an order!"

Gilligan grabbed the table to steady himself, looking a bit sheepish. "Aye-aye, sir...sorry, everbody."

Mary Ann appeared, with a fresh plate of pan cakes. "Here you go, Gilligan. You must be hungry, what will all the work you three did yesterday evening. The Professor told us you found some really interesting things."

The first mate shivered. "Yeah, we found some interesting things, all right."

"And I was able to salvage most of those artefacts, Gilligan, so there was no harm done," added the Professor.

"Oh...oh, that's good." But Gilligan didn't look relieved at all.

At a surreptitious nod from the Professor, the Skipper cleared his throat. "Now I want you to listen carefully, little buddy. The Professor has something very important to explain to you."

Gilligan raised his eyebrows. "Yeah? It's not the birds and the bees again, is it, Skipper? I thought you were going to tell me about that."

The Skipper coughed, embarrassed. "No, Gilligan, not the birds and the bees-"

"Well, if you'd rather have the Professor explain it, that's okay with me," said Gilligan affably. "He probably knows way more about it than you do."

"Gilligan, I'll have you know I know plenty about the birds and the bees! Why, when I was in the Navy I - ep - ep - " The Skipper sputtered to a stop as he remembered the presence of the ladies. "Oh, hurry up and tell him, Professor!"

The Professor assumed his most calming, reassuring voice. "Gilligan, I simply wanted to reiterate what I said to you last night: that you did not witness a manifestation of the supernatural."

"I know that, Professor. I witnessed a ghost. A pirate ghost!"

"Gilligan! Pipe down and let the Professor explain!"

Gilligan winced. "Aye-aye, sir."

"Gilligan, I'm not trying to tell you that you didn't see a ghost. I think you probably did."

The Professor was completely in earnest. The other castaways gasped and looked at each other in consternation. Gilligan drew back as if bitten. "I did?" he squeaked.

"Yes. But I'm also trying to tell you that there are no such things as ghosts, and there was no ghost there for you to see."

Gilligan shook his head, flummoxed. "Professor, I know you and the Skipper tried to explain it to me last night, but either the island is haunted, or I'm going crazy! That's some choice!"

"Now, Gilligan, neither of those alternatives is the case. What happened to you last night was perfectly predictable, and I blame myself for allowing it to happen. I should have realized that leaving you alone in the jungle might cause you to succumb to the Wendigo Syndrome."

"The Wendigo Syndrome?" said Gilligan. "What's that, Professor? Sounds like a new dance."

"Or good name for an Alfred Hitchcock movie," said Ginger.

"Well, you wouldn't be far off, Ginger," the Professor replied. "The Wendigo comes from the mythology of our native Indians. They believed it was a terrible monster in the forest that drove men mad with fear. It was their way of explaining how such an environment, especially a nocturnal one, can make us so hypersensitive to stimuli that we create illusory phenomena."

The Skipper blinked. "Come again, Professor?"

"It's really very simple, Skipper. It has to do with the fact that we are a diurnal mammalian species."

Mrs. Howell frowned. "I don't know about the rest of you, Professor, but Thurston and myself are Episcopalian."

"Not to mention Republican," her husband added.

"Dad told us we were Irish American," said Gilligan.

The Professor cut in before anyone else could. "Diurnal means that we are active in daylight, and sleep at night. Human beings feel much safer in daylight because we process the majority of our information through vision, and we especially depend on our eyes to warn us of danger. In the dark, we know we've lost our best advantage. And a dark forest is especially frightening, because it can hide many predators. Even if there is no danger, our ancient survival instincts can cause our imagination to overact to the point that we are literally afraid of our own shadow."

Mary Ann nodded in understanding. "So that's what happened to Gilligan? He was alone in the jungle at night and started seeing things?"

The Professor nodded. "Yes. There have been similar cases all over the world, from Scandinavia to Japan. So you see, Gilligan, you're not becoming unhinged, and you didn't see a monster. You just overreacted to some very frightening surroundings."

"Oh." Gilligan said slowly. "So I just...scared myself, is that all?"

"Sure, little buddy," beamed the Skipper. "But now with all of us here on this beautiful sunny morning, you can see it was just your imagination, can't you?"

Gilligan looked around at the brilliant sky, the gently fanning palms, the blue-green mountains in the distance, and then back at the bountiful table and smiling faces of his friends. The terrors of the night before seemed to fade into a dream.

"I guess you're right, Skipper," Gilligan relaxed at last. He hefted a jug of mango juice as though to pour a toast. "Don't worry, everybody. No more pirates for me!"

He started to pour the juice into his cup when a deep, dreadfully familiar voice snarled, "Sure, I wouldn't be bettin' me life on that!"

Gilligan froze. He was afraid to move, let alone look up. Juice sloshed over the rim of the brimming cup and splashed onto the table.

"Gilligan, my boy, your cup runneth over," Mr. Howell remarked, frowning slightly.

The Skipper steadied the jug before his pant leg got drenched. "Gilligan! What are you trying to do, float a boat in there?"

"Look at me, ye cowardly dog!"

At last Gilligan looked up, eyes saucering, at the tall, terrible shape of the ghostly buccaneer glowering down at him from right behind the Skipper's chair.