The Box

Chapter one of Vampire Island

"Gilligan!" The skipper's voice boomed across the compound. "You're gonna miss dinner!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Gilligan swung his legs over the bench to sit next to Mary Ann. Her contribution was dried nuts and fruit that could be stored for years. The main course was lobster, with edible greens sauteed in Mr Howell's patented dressing. It had a suspiciously boozy taste. There was even a type of bread made from the "marrow" of hollow reeds.

Ginger wore her S S Minnow dress. "Gilligan, I suppose you'll go traipsing off on that mysterious project of yours tonight. You could get hurt out there in the dark."

"It's the only free time I have," he said. He swilled papaya juice from a reed cup. "I've got chores during the day."

Mr Howell cracked into a claw. "Remember, Gilligan—any precious stones or metals are community property. Ha haa! Nobody puts anything past the wizard of Wall Street!"

His wife patted his cheek. "Yes," she cooed, "you're a big strong finance man!"

That left only the professor, who saw the outings as a boyish lark. "I still think you should let us know where you'll be. If you were hurt, no one could come to your aid."

Converse turned to other matters in an early evening sea breeze. Gilligan offered to help clean up, but the girls shooed him off. He had a way of breaking things.

"Have a good time," the skipper said. "When you get back, try not to step on me when you climb into your hammock."

Everyone waved him goodbye as Gilligan set off with a lantern and shoulder bag of tools. During the hour-long trek, he was his own boss, not low man on the totem pole. This time of year was on the cool side, but the exertion kept him warm. Tonight was the moment of truth. He was going into the cave he'd found behind an overgrowth of shrubs. It was curious how no bats came flapping out when he stepped inside. Nothing presented until he reached a circular space in back.

A wooden crate sat on stones that raised the top to waist level. Rotting ropes had it securely sealed.

"Oh boy, pirate treasure!" His voice echoed flatly in the confined space. "Maybe I won't tell Mr Howell." His pocket knife made short work of the ropes. He didn't have time to lift the lid, because it banged open to disgorge a hissing, spitting fury. The girl drove him against the wall, where he slumped, her hand at his throat. Wild dark hair framed a face some would call pretty, if not for the burning, pinpoint pupils. Or the fangs. She looked at his neck, and Gilligan prepared to die. But she stood up and regarded him in a curious way. Her garb was a dingy white gown and slippers. She pointed at the crate, then changed into a large bat, zooming out into the night.

"No!" Gillian grabbed the lamp and gave chase. "You can't bite my friends!" He swung the light around, finally caught a glimpse of her in the dark. She wasn't headed for the compound at all, but clear across the island. Why hadn't she put the bite on him? She must be starved after all this time. Her target must be a nearby island, maybe even one she knew about. This was terrible! Now those vampires would be coming here. The skipper would say, "You've done it again!" as he hit Gilligan with his cap.

No, the only thing to do was return the following night with a cross and a mirror. He had to know why she'd spared him. Gilligan made the return trip with far less spring in his step. He paused to look at the compound's cozy huts, illumined by tiki torches that kept away night prowlers. The girl would be less than not impressed. The Gilligan of old would rush in shouting the alarm. They'd of course call him crazy. There was that time a bat had bitten him, and he just knew he'd become a vampire. That led to a terrible dream in which he'd done a thorough number on Mrs Howell. He still couldn't be near her without feeling guilty.

"Right," he muttered, dragging his feet toward his hut. "I'll do Ginger or Mary Ann instead." He smacked his forehead. "What am I saying?" He set the lantern on low, just enough to see for getting into his hammock.

He didn't expect to sleep after this. What if the girl came back? By rights, he should stand guard all night, armed with a cross and a torch. Yet there was one fact he couldn't shake: the girl knew he could pull the crate into the open, dump out the native soil. She was trusting him not to do that. Why? He remembered her pointing at the crate. Maybe it was her way of pledging him to silence. Tomorrow would tell. He'd go back before sunset, properly armed, and get some answers. First of all, as to what she'd done on that other island.

The skipper was shaking him. "Wake up, Little Buddy. It isn't like you to sleep in. You stayed out late, didn't you. Come on, we've got traps to build today."

Gilligan slipped out of the sling. At least the two of them were okay. "How are the others?"

"Just fine." The skipper splashed water on his face and combed his hair. "The girls found some turtle and gull eggs yesterday, so we're having a fine breakfast. Mary Ann made pancakes out of that reed pulp, and we have sweet sap to pour over it. Now—you make coffee while I build a fire."

Gilligan yawned and went out back to the outhouse, then washed hands in a rain bucket. Sometimes they benefited from things always washing ashore: clothes, utensils, and rare treats like coffee. It beat the poor substitute they made from ground nuts and shells.

Mrs Howell, wearing one of her crazy hats, was busy arranging flowers and fruit bowls to brighten the table. "Gilligan, dear boy, did you find anything on your nightly travels?"

"Why do you ask that," he said suspiciously. The dream image flashed back: his teeth in her neck.

She came to press a hand to his forehead. "You'd better have Nurse Ginger have a look at you. You're a little washed out."

He felt his neck. Had the girl tapped him after all? Presently, all were seated, in a good mood thanks to the fine repast. Though Gilligan didn't like coffee, the others relished theirs, enjoying the morning social hour.

Gilligan sprinkled real pepper on his eggs. "Skipper, let's get started on those traps. I wanna leave a little early tonight, while there's still some daylight left."

"I don't see why not," the skipper said. "Everybody needs a hobby. Right, Professor?"

The professor was always reading, even at meals. "Hm? Yes, I suppose so. Gilligan, if you find anything exotic up there, bring it back for me to study."

Gilligan tried not to choke. Imagine the strange girl's reception if she showed up here. Cue the scream, as a director would say. It was the only thing on his mind as the day wore on; lunch, more hard work at the lagoon, where he'd tripped and smashed a half-finished trap; and finally dinner. The girls made a clever rendition of trout almondine, without trout or almonds. Gilligan had fashioned a small crucifix, and borrowed one of the girls' mirrors, with a dire warning not to drop it.

"Don't worry," he told Mary Ann. "I won't look at it."

She laughed and gave him a little shove. "Oh, Gilligan!"

Buoyed by the banter, he set out for the cave, determined to be there when the lid opened. He had plenty of questions for the occupant.