The rusted hinges twisted, releasing a shriek like a groan. Even wrapped in the roar of raging waves, it was sharp enough to make his teeth ache.
The entrance to the hold had been thrown open. The hatch flipped up, slammed heavily against the floor, bounced back, then settled again as cramped, hurried echoes spread out.
Half-crouching, William first lowered the lantern into the darkness below. The blackness was thick as slurry; the light barely reached the very last step before it could go no farther, its edges shrinking back with the flickering flame.
After waiting several breaths, the flame, though unsteady, showed no signs of weakening. He stretched his arm farther and extended it deeper ahead.
Firelight swayed across the bulkheads and steps, revealing damp yet distinct wood grain. There was no sign of rippling water or glinting reflections.
At least it wasn't flooded.
He drew back the lantern, gripped the edge of the hatch with his left hand, and cautiously placed one leg on the stairs. Slowly shifting his weight onto it, he waited until the creaking stopped before placing his other foot on the step below.
Steadying himself with his weight, he turned sideways and raised his hand, holding the light half an arm's length before his chest as he moved down one step at a time.
Only when his foot reached the final step did he cautiously release his left hand and lower his whole body into the hold.
He spread his legs and stood on the curved wooden boards.
The sensation was anything but steady. It was as though the deck were breathing, rising and falling faintly. Seawater slid along the hull, kept outside by the resin packed into its seams, yet its texture—that flowing texture—seeped in bit by bit, creeping up through the wood