He left at first light, before the farm hands were up, and got as far as the gate.
"Where are you going?"
Jory was sitting on the top bar of the gate in the mist, swinging his legs. Tam got the feeling he had been there a while.
"For a walk."
"Seth said rest."
"I'm resting. While walking. It's a new kind of resting. Very popular."
Jory looked at him, unconvinced. "Where are you walking?"
"The swamp."
"Can I come?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because there are rats in the swamp the size of dogs, and if one bites you, Gillie will drown me herself." Tam swung himself over the gate. The gate was harder than it should have been. Strength 1, he thought. Is that what that means? "Tell Seth I went for a walk. That's true, so it's not even lying."
"Will you bring me something?"
"If I catch anything, you can have a shrimp."
Jory brightened instantly. "Two shrimp."
"One shrimp, and you don't tell Seth where I went."
"Two shrimp and I don't tell Seth or Gillie."
"Deal," said Tam. He walked off down the track feeling as if he'd been robbed by a ten-year-old.
* * *
The swamp was an hour south. It felt like three.
The track along the river was hard-packed mud and stones, and he was barefoot. By the time Lozar's house went past on his left, smoking quietly in the dawn, his feet hurt. By the time he had crossed the bridge, they hurt a lot. He skirted the town and went past the church. He left through the little gate at the back of the graveyard, where a path ran south. After that, Lumbridge fell away behind him. The land got lower and wetter. The track turned into a path, and the path turned into a sort of suggestion between the reeds.
Then he smelled the sea.
Lumbridge Swamp lay flat and grey-green as far as he could see, all reeds and black pools, with a few twisted little trees. Mist sat on it in patches. Things plopped into the water as he passed. Away to the south and east, past the last of the reeds, there was a long grey line of sea, and the sound of small waves.
In the game, the swamp had been a few screens of muddy green, with rats, frogs, a couple of mines and a hermit. This one went on for miles. He could get lost in here and never be found. He kept the sea ahead of him and the town behind him, and he didn't take any shortcuts.
The fishing tutor was exactly where he should be.
He was an old man standing on a strip of firm ground where the swamp met the sea, with his hands behind his back. He was short and wide, with a white beard stained yellow around the mouth, a tarred blue coat, and a knitted cap. His face was brown and creased from a lifetime of wind. He was talking to his own left shoulder.
There was nothing on his left shoulder.
"Ahoy!" The old man saw Tam and waved. "Percy says ye look like a drowned rat, lad."
Tam looked at the empty shoulder. In the game, the fishing tutor had claimed to keep a parrot called Percy. Nobody had seen it. Players had joked about it for years.
There was still no parrot.
"Tell Percy he's very observant," said Tam. "I am, in fact, a drowned rat. Are you Finlay?"
"Finlay I am. Fishing tutor to all who come asking, and some who don't." Finlay squinted at him. "Ye've come to learn, then?"
"If you'll teach me."
"Ah, you've lost your net have you? Have another!" Finlay pulled a small net out of a sack at his feet and held it out. It was a square of knotted twine on a short wooden handle, about the size of a frying pan.
It would have been rude to refuse, and he wanted to see for himself. He held out his hand.
The net dropped through his fingers and landed on his foot. The old message hung in the air with his old name in it.
Finlay looked at his empty shoulder, as if asking Percy's opinion.
"It's my hands," said Tam. "Long story."
"Percy loves a long story."
"Maybe another day." Tam looked past him. Down by the water's edge, two more small nets hung over a post, swinging a little in the wind off the sea. "Are those yours?"
"Those?" Finlay waved a hand. "Those be there for whoever comes along. Nets get lost. Folk need one to learn on. So there they hang."
Finlay had handed him the first net, and it fell. Nobody had handed him these two. They just hung there. If his theory was right, one would stay in his hand.
Tam walked down to the post and lifted one off.
It stayed in his hand. He waited. It went on staying.
One more for the theory, he thought.
"Well, look at that," said Finlay. "Ye can hold that one, then."
"Apparently I'm fussy about nets."
"Arrr. Ye'll fit right in round here."
* * *
Finlay started to teach him, and Tam listened closely. Knowledge, it turned out, didn't fall through his fingers.
"Ye see where the water's dimpling? Little rings, like rain, only it ain't raining? That's shrimp, near the top. Ye go in low and sweep up under 'em, and ye don't splash about, or they're gone. And they move." Finlay pointed with his whole arm. "They swim about, so the good spots move with 'em. Ye can't be lazy. Ye see the rings stop, ye walk till ye find 'em again."
"Got it."
"Ye've not got it. Nobody's got it till they've missed fifty." Finlay grinned through his yellow beard. "Go on, then. Percy and me'll watch."
Tam waded in up to his shins. The water was so cold it made his teeth ache. He found the dimpling, and then something odd happened. His hands knew what to do. They lowered the net just under the surface, at a slant he hadn't chosen. They swept it up under the rings in one smooth pull, as if they had done it many times. He had never held a fishing net before today.
Nothing.
His hands did it again, just as well. Nothing. On the fifth try he caught a clump of weed and a very small crab, which pinched him.
In the game, you clicked the water and your character did the rest, he thought, sucking his thumb. Apparently he still does. And at level 1, you missed a lot. You did everything right, and the game rolled the dice anyway.
On the eleventh try, the net came up heavy, and for a heartbeat there was a grey, see-through shrimp in it, kicking. Then the net was empty, and something small and new sat in the first square of his inventory.
At the same moment, something small floated up at the edge of his sight and faded.
+10 Fishing.
Tam stood very still in the water.
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In the game, that was an experience drop: the little number that rose up every time you earned experience, so you could see exactly what you'd got for what. He had watched millions of them. He had stopped seeing them years ago.
He was seeing this one.
Ten, he thought. Ten Fishing for a shrimp. Same as the game. So experience was real here, and it came the game's way. And if he could see every drop, he could test anything. Do a thing, watch for the number. If no number rose, it didn't count.
"HA!" said Tam.
"Percy's very proud," Finlay called.
When Finlay turned to look at the sea, Tam took the shrimp out of his inventory to look at it.
It lay on his palm, raw and grey. It was perfectly still. A moment ago it had been kicking in the net. He hadn't touched it. It was simply dead.
In the game, the catch went straight into your inventory, he thought. You never even saw it in the net. Apparently that was true here too, with one extra heartbeat for the shrimp.
Sorry, he told it, a little late. He put it back, and a tiny grey picture of it sat in the first square.
He went back to the water.
He missed a great many, just as Finlay had said, though his hands did it right every time. But the misses got fewer as the morning went on.
On the ninth shrimp, the words came.
Congratulations, you just advanced a Fishing level. Your Fishing level is now 2.
They hung in the air in front of him. At the same time, something warm ran down both his arms and into his hands. When it was gone, the net felt lighter. His grip felt surer. It was a tiny change. He felt it anyway.
"Thank you," he told the empty air. "I'd like to thank my family, the river, and a parrot that doesn't exist."
The message didn't answer. Finlay, up on the bank, was arguing with his shoulder about the weather.
Tam was grinning so hard his face hurt. He had seen that message thousands of times. He'd seen it at level 99. He had never been this happy to see it.
* * *
Finlay was busy with his shoulder, which was lucky. Tam moved along the shore, around a bend, where Finlay couldn't see shrimp vanish out of his net. Then he fished and fished until the inventory was full.
It went faster than he expected. Two more Fishing levels came along the way. By the time the sun was high, there were twenty-eight shrimp in the grid, and the net was in his hand.
He swept the net up one more time, and there was a shrimp in it, a fat one, kicking. It didn't vanish. It stayed in the net, alive. He looked at the grid. There was nowhere for it to go.
He stood in the cold water and thought.
On his old screen, this had been a little puzzle you solved in half a second: you dropped the worst thing, or you walked to the bank. Here, he didn't even know yet if a bank would have him. The general store was closer than the farm, but still most of an hour away. He had spent all twenty-eight squares on shrimp without thinking. There wasn't even room to put the net away.
What if he found something better on the way home? What if he needed a free hand?
He tipped the fat shrimp back into the sea. It flicked once and was gone.
Twenty-eight, he thought. For the first time, it felt small.
He waded out and sat on a clump of grass to rest his feet before the long walk. They were cut and bruised, and there was an hour of stones between him and the farm.
There were reeds everywhere, though. Long, tough green ones.
Sandals, he thought. How hard can it be?
In the game there were no reed sandals and no recipe for them. He wanted to know whether making something the game never had would count here. He cut a handful of reeds with his thumbnail, swearing a lot, braided and folded them, and tied them around his feet with more reeds. He watched the edge of his sight the whole time.
No number rose.
When he was done he had two lumpy green things that looked like birds' nests. He stood up and took a step. They didn't come apart. He took another, and grinned.
They lasted about a mile. Then the left one came apart in a puddle, and the right one went a few steps later. He was barefoot again, with bits of reed between his toes.
Okay, he thought. So I can make things the game never had. I'm just bad at it, and no number rose. Maybe nothing outside the game counts. He'd keep checking.
* * *
The rat found him at the edge of the swamp.
He heard it first, a scuffle and a squeak in the reeds to his right. He turned just as it came out.
It was a rat the size of a small dog. Its fur was grey and greasy, and its tail was as long as his arm. Its front teeth were yellow and as long as his thumb. It didn't hesitate. It came straight at him, low and fast, and bit him on the ankle.
Hitpoints: 9/10.
"OW!"
It hurt far more than he expected. It was a deep, tearing bite. He could feel blood running into the mud between his toes. He kicked out by pure instinct. His foot caught the rat in the ribs and knocked it sideways into the reeds.
It came straight back.
Giant rat, his brain supplied, uselessly. Level 3. Five hitpoints. Aggressive. Aggressive meant it attacked anyone who came close. Giant rats were the first thing the tutorial made you fight. You killed one with a bronze dagger in about ten seconds.
He did not have a bronze dagger. He had a fishing net.
He swung the net at it. The rat bit the net. He pulled. The rat held on, and for a moment they played tug-of-war, which he was losing. Then he let go with one hand and punched it on the nose.
It squealed and let go of the net. Then it bit his other ankle.
Hitpoints: 8/10.
"Stop biting me! I have one job today and it's shrimp!"
He backed up the path with the rat after him. It was much faster than he was. He was barefoot and half his attention was on not falling into a pool. His heart was going so hard he could hear it.
Think. A punch takes off one hitpoint, and a rat like this has five. That's five punches.
Five punches sounded like a lot of punches.
The rat lunged. He stepped to the side and it went past him, and he kicked it again. It rolled, came up hissing, and lunged again. This time he was ready. He punched straight down as it came, and caught it on the top of the head. It staggered.
He missed the next punch and skinned his knuckles on a root. The rat bit his hand.
Hitpoints: 7/10.
He didn't shout this time. He grabbed it by the loose skin behind its neck with his bitten hand and held it down against the path. Then he hit it as hard as he could.
It stopped moving.
He knelt in the mud with his hand still on it, breathing hard. After a while he let go and sat back.
Little numbers had been rising at the edge of his sight all through the fight, and he hadn't had time to look at them. He looked at the last few now, fading. Attack, every one, with a little Hitpoints beside each. Even for the kicks. He checked the combat panel, and the style that was lit was the first one, punch, where it had been since the first night.
The setting decides, he thought. I kicked the rat, and it still gave Attack XP. He'd test that again.
He was shaking. His ankles were bleeding and his knuckles were raw. His hand had two neat holes in it where the teeth had gone in. It had taken him maybe a minute to kill a level 3 giant rat, and that minute had been the most frightening of his life. Of either of his lives.
Seven, he thought, looking at the number. Seven left. And that was a rat.
He looked at the body. In the game it would have dropped a bone and a scrap of raw meat, and vanished. Here, it just lay there, a dead rat in the mud with its teeth showing.
In the game, you buried bones to train Prayer, the skill that let you call on the gods for help in a fight. Higher up, a single prayer could stop one whole kind of attack, swords or arrows or spells, from most monsters. For a man with one life, that was worth a lot.
The rat was full of bones. It would probably fit in one square of his inventory, if he had a square to spare, which he didn't. But he could try something else.
The mud at the edge of the swamp was soft. He scooped out a hole with his hands, put the whole rat in, and pushed the mud back over it. Then he watched the edge of his sight.
Nothing rose.
He waited. Still nothing.
Huh, he thought. Maybe it had to be bones here too.
To get bones out of a rat, he'd need a knife.
He added it to the list, picked his net up out of the mud and started home with it in his hand.
On the walk, he kept checking the number.
Hitpoints: 8/10.
Then nine, then ten, within a few minutes of walking. His ankles still ached, but those bites had healed before he was halfway home. By the time he reached the bridge, the holes in his hand had closed to pink, shiny marks. Healing used to be only a number creeping back up. Here, he could watch his own skin close.
He didn't think other people healed like that. He'd have to be careful who saw.
* * *
He got back to the farm in the middle of the afternoon. Nobody was in the kitchen. The fire in the big hearth had burned down to a deep red glow, which was perfect.
On the way home he had snapped a long, thin stick off a wild willow by the track. Nobody had given it to him, so it stayed in his hand all the way. Now he threaded four shrimp onto it and held them over the coals. His hands held the stick at just the right height and turned it at just the right pace.
All four burned.
They went from grey to pink to black while his hands turned them, perfectly. He pulled them off, crumbly and stinking, and stared at them.
Right, he thought. Level 1 Cooking. Naturally. In the game you burned about half of everything, starting out. No number had risen for the burnt ones. Burnt food gave no experience.
He tried again. His hands did exactly what they had done before. Two burned. Two turned a perfect pink and curled up tight, and the smell of them made his stomach growl. Two little numbers rose and faded, one for each good shrimp.
+30 Cooking.
He cooked the rest, a few at a time. Halfway through the third batch, the words came again.
Congratulations, you just advanced a Cooking level. Your Cooking level is now 2.
"You're welcome," he told it. "I'm doing it all for you."
The warmth went down his arms. By the end, three more Cooking levels had come, and he hardly burned any.
He put each good batch in his inventory as it came off the stick, still hot, and threw the burnt ones on the fire. When he was done, he had seventeen cooked shrimp in his inventory and a kitchen that smelled like the seaside.
Then he sat down on the hearth stone and took one back out, and ate it.
It was salty and sweet. It was the second-best thing he had eaten, after Seth's stew. A cooked shrimp healed three hitpoints. He wondered what that would mean here, the next time something bit him, and decided he would rather not find out soon.
The door banged, and Jory came in at a run. He stopped dead in the middle of the kitchen and sniffed.
"Shrimp," he said.
"Shrimp," Tam agreed. He turned his back for a moment, took two out of his inventory, and held them out on his palm. "Two shrimp. As agreed. And you didn't tell Seth."
He half expected them to fall through Jory's fingers. Jory took them, and they didn't. So giving works, Tam thought. It's only being given things that's broken.
"I didn't tell anybody." Jory ate the first one whole. "Where are the rest?"
"Sold out," said Tam. "Very popular. Big demand."
Jory looked at the black bits still smoking in the fire, and at the pink marks on Tam's ankles. For once, he didn't ask anything. He just sat down on the hearth stone next to Tam and ate his second shrimp slowly, to make it last.
Tam had fourteen cooked shrimp left in his inventory. In the game, food never went off by itself. A shrimp you caught on your first day was still good a year later. But a real shrimp, kept in a warm pocket, would stink by tomorrow, and he didn't know if the inventory kept things fresh.