Fire: Chapter Eleven

A COTTAGE FULL OF PYTHONS

Shannon jumped a mile. Michael started to laugh. Shannon shot him a look, then started towards the door. It was only then that she realized she could no longer hear the rain.

Shannon drew back the deadbolt and lifted the latch. She turned around quickly, just in time to see Michael dash into her bedroom and slam the door shut.

"Michael!" she hissed. "Get your butt out here!" but there was no response. For a moment she thought she could hear a burst of hysterical giggling, which was quickly muffled.

The heavy oak door swung open, and Shannon found herself looking directly at the middle of someone's chest. She craned her neck upwards to find a face. It was John Cleese. He was silhouetted against a brightening sky - the rain had stopped and the air smelled freshly-washed. She suddenly realized how stuffy and hot it was inside the croft.

"I'm sorry, Miss," he began, politely but with an edge of panic, "but have you seen..." He was interrupted by a sudden mass of three or four bodies cramming themselves into the narrow doorway. "We've lost a friend," yelled a shorter figure, who Shannon recognized as Terry Jones. "E's buggered off" came a retort from the back, and Shannon immediately knew Eric Idle's voice.

"Come in, please..." she stammered. They tumbled into the room all at once, like a handful of assorted chess pieces: tall ones, short ones, dark ones, fair ones. Terry, John and Eric were dressed in semi-medieval outfits - long-sleeved tunics and brown leggings, and they all seemed to be talking at the same time, jostling each other in the cramped lobby of the cottage. Shannon looked to the door where a lone, tall figure stood silently leaning against the open door, examining the contents of his unlit pipe with a curious intensity. He looked up finally, and appeared to be regarding the others with detached amusement. His voice, though not raised, seemed to boom over the confused babble of the others. "Come out, Michael," he intoned, with quiet authority. "I can hear you giggling from here." Graham Chapman took out his faithful progger from his top pocket and proceeded to tamp down his tobacco.

Shannon blushed to her hair-roots. She was only just realizing that she had a cottage full of Pythons. "

He's here?!" Terry Jones demanded, bobbing from foot to foot, and then the unintelligible babble started up again.

"Yes, Michael's here, he's alright..." Shannon stammered. "I um....found him..." and she trailed off. She wasn't quite sure how to explain. She breathed a sigh of relief as the bedroom door opened a crack and Michael's sheepish face peered out. "Hey, gang" he snickered.

"You bastard!!!" Terry shrieked, in a Mrs. Ratbag voice, and made to go for Michael's throat, but was stopped by John, who grabbed his collar as though he was a rabid doberman. "Now, we'll have none of that," he snapped in his impeccable upper-class tones. John crossed the room in a single stride, followed closely by Terry and Eric, who were huddled together like rats in an aquaduct. "Michael Palin, where in the bloody hell do you think you've been? The shoot started an hour ago and we've been looking for you since 10 o'clock this morning. There's no excuse you can come up with that could POSSIBLY...." Michael visibly shrank in the doorway, cringing before the steadily advancing Pythons. Shannon took a deep breath and stepped in front of the herd.

"Guys, I'm sorry but there's something you have to know..." She could see Graham, still propping up the doorway, clicking his lighter into the bowl of his pipe and puffing steadily. He didn't even look up. "Michael's been hurt. I mean..." Shannon hesitated a moment, swayed a little, then continued in what she hoped was a sensible voice. "I mean...when I found him, he was...." she looked Terry square in the eyes. "He was almost dead."

You could have heard a pin drop. Terry's jaw dropped open, and John and Eric stared at each other, then at Michael, who had slinked into the room and plumped himself down in a chair. He wasn't giggling anymore. Graham stood motionless at the back of the cottage, then began slowly nodding to himself as he puffed some more on his pipe.

Suddenly Shannon felt as though she had been caught under the wheels of a tractor-trailer. The questions were coming thick and fast. Everyone was jabbering at the same time and she almost expected the Spanish Inquisition to come leaping out of a cupboard. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Michael, his head in his hands. He looked very tired. She knew what she had to do. Dashing to the kitchen table, she grabbed her whistle out of her backpack and blew down on it hard. Everything stopped. Blissful silence descended on the room. "Now LISTEN! All of you!" Shannon barked in her sergeant-major voice. "When I found him, he was face down in the lake. He'd been drowned for at least two or three minutes, plus, he had hypothermia. I had to give him first aid. Now, he's had a good rest, and I think he's okay, but you need to get him to a doctor. I would have called an ambulance, but I'm not on the phone, my car's buggered up, and I had to..." her voice was lost in a fresh volley of hysteria, until a booming, regal voice from the back of the room jolted everyone to attention. "SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP!"

It was Graham. He elegantly peeled himself away from the door and strode into the room. He puffed a couple of times as the others turned and gawped at him. "Sounds to me," he said firmly, "like this young lady saved Michael's life. I think we owe her a debt that none of us can ever possibly hope to repay." Michael gazed up at Graham, who gave him a paternal smile and said gently, "Come on, mate. We'd better get you to a doctor." Graham paused, puffed sagely and then said, "Just a minute - I AM a doctor!" and he bent to take Michael's pulse. His brow furrowed just a tiny bit and he sucked on his pipe thoughtfully. "Hmm. Better get you to the hospital stat, old fruit."

Something in Graham's manner snapped John, Terry and Eric out of their collective funk. Terry and Eric helped Michael up, while John hurtled outside and started up their battered BBC Land Rover. Shannon began to feel sick in the pit of her stomach. Michael meekly allowed Terry and Eric to help him into the back seat of the 4x4 - he looked very pale. What had she done? She should have got him to hospital somehow - she shouldn't have - they shouldn't have - she could feel the unmistakable rise of panic into her throat. A soft voice startled her out of her jumble of thoughts and she jumped. "What's your name, love?" It was Graham. "Er...Shannon...Shannon Reilly...is he going to be okay? Please tell me...I thought I did everything right...I'm trained in CPR...there was nothing more I could do..."

Graham smiled down at her through a curling halo of smoke. "You did a great job, Shannon. He's young and tough as old boots, I'm sure he'll be okay. I'd like you to come with us, though, to tell the hospital what happened." "Of course," replied Shannon. But she could tell from the tone of Graham's voice and the way he kept looking at Michael, that there was something he was not telling her.

They all clambered into the Land Rover, and Shannon found herself scrunched up between Terry and Eric. John was driving, and Michael was in the back seat with Graham in attendance. Terry had his hand clapped over his mouth and looked as though he was fighting back tears. Eric stared straight in front, his mouth a tight line. Shannon felt ill. She couldn't even turn around to look at Michael. What had she been thinking? What had she done?