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I’m in the middle of class when it happens. The kids had thoroughly derailed me from the day’s lesson plan—to be fair, Erid is bigger on student-led education than the state of California ever was; when every Eridian has a perfect memory to begin with, there’s almost no concept of “teaching to the test.” That’s one of the things I like about teaching here.
Anyway, the class was about to get derailed again, because the entire sky lights up.
I’m not looking at the walls of the dome when it happens, but even with my interior classroom lights on, it’s still bright enough to startle me. My first thought is panic—something’s happened to the wiring, the lights are about to catch on fire (ok, so maybe the Eridians’ discomfort with oxygen iss starting to rub off on me), something is wrong. But there’s no accompanying explosive noises and the kids aren’t acting like anything out of the ordinary has happened. I can’t exactly ask them if anyone saw a flash of light.
Then a crash of thunder rumbles through the dome.
***
We almost never got thunderstorms in the bay area; getting a chance to watch a good one was always a treat. But I realize pretty quick that my students don’t feel the same way. A couple of them let out the Eridian equivalent of a shriek, while others crouch tight. Thunder must hit different when your entire body can hear. “Alright, guys,” I say, “that’s a new word for me. What do you call that sound just now?”
Usually the kids are excited when they get to teach me new words (it’s happening a lot less than it used to), but right now, they still seem a little shaky. Only a few raise claws. “Katydid,” I call, pointing to the one whose arm is the most upright. (Most of my students have Earth names. I talk to them a bit, give them a couple of choices and tell them what associations those names have for me, and see what they like. But I gave this one a nickname once and it stuck—they demanded to know if they looked more like a Katherine or a Katydid, and, well.)
I’m starting to be able to recognize Eridian root words. Katydid says something that sounds a bit like “earthquake-wind” and I mentally file that away as thunder. I’ll add it to my official database later. “And you knew the storm was coming, question?” they demand.
“What? No, I can’t predict the weather...” Generally, Erid is worse about weather forecasting—imaging from weather satellites not quite a thing here yet—but it’s not like the weather really affects me in my dome, so meteorology hasn’t been one of my priorities.
“You did,” Katydid insists. “You were calm when it happened, but earlier, your heart sped up. Usually happens when you’re startled,” they add.
“Oh, that was because—”
Oh!
***
Another bolt of lightning cracks the sky. This time I’m facing the right way, and I actually see it—a green fork that illuminates the area outside the dome’s xenonite walls for a split second. I’m seeing parts of Erid’s environment I’ve never seen before.
“Okay, yeah, you’re right,” I say. “And another one’s coming soon.”
Wait for it...
Boom. The kids huddle up again, but they bounce back faster this time. “Whaaaat? How, question?” asks George, without even raising their claw. I let it slide.
“Well, you tell me. You’re all scientists, I think you can work this one out.”
I’ve gotten better at understanding my students during group discussions. It used to be pure chaos. True thrums are still hopeless for me, and probably always will be, my ears just don't work that way. But by now I can make out bits and pieces of what each kid is saying.
“Teacher Grace has another sense we don’t know about, question?”
“It said we could figure it out, the answer won’t depend on something we have no way of guessing.”
Well, I hope that’s true. I realize that I haven’t taught them about thunder yet. I didn’t even know Erid had thunderstorms until today! But they’re old enough to know that level of topic, and if thunder is scary, then I’d guess the science behind it gets taught pretty early.
“...didn’t disorient it at all...”
“Makes sense, its hearing is bad.”
“Then how, question?”
“Thunder makes sound, not is sound, statement!”
Okay! They’ve got this!
***
It takes a bit more discussion, during which I learn a few more facts about Eridian lightning (or rather, “the electricity at center of the thunder”). While it’s less likely to start fires, it’s still known to melt and/or shatter stone, and being caught out in a thunderstorm is no joking matter. The sound can overwhelm an Eridian’s hearing, rendering them completely unaware of their surroundings for a brief time. Generally during a storm, activity pretty much stops while everyone waits it out.
“It’s really, really hot ... heat makes light!” Katydid works out. “Teacher Grace, you can light-sense thunder!”
“From that far away?” Luca asks skeptically.
“Teacher Grace can light-sense stars.”
“Not all the time, not from Erid,” I remind them. “But yes, you’ve got it! I can see thunder. And because light moves faster than sound...”
“You sense it before it happens!”
I don't correct them, after all, experiencing the sound is the important part of it happening to them. “Yes! In fact, my language has two different words for it, one for the electrical discharge itself and one for the sound it makes. Earth children have to learn that lightning and thunder come from the same thing! But now I have a question for you,” I continue. “Luca, you said ‘from that far away.’ How do you know how far away it is?” I don't say without seeing the lightning; I want to see if they can get there on their own. I have a suspicion they can.
“Far away thunder is more spread out,” Luca says. “Lasts longer, less intense.”
"Huh. Now that you mention it, it's like that on Earth, too,” I say. “But that’s not how humans usually judge how far away it is. Who wants to guess how we do it?”
A pause, then, “Oh! Oh!” Several claws wave in the air; I call on Hayward, who hasn’t spoken up yet.
Rather than answer the question, they get straight down to business. “Teacher Grace, raise hand to signal when you light-sense the next thunder.”
“You got it, kiddo.”
They all vibrate excitedly as they wait. Finally there’s another flash—a big one—and I raise my hand. Silence as they count out the time and—crack!
The storm is definitely closer now, but the kids don’t take long to recover. “I∀ℓℓλ meters!”
“I’ll take your word for the math,” I say.
***
We time a few more as the storm moves through. Eridian thunderstorms, I gather, are intense and fast-moving—at least in the inhabited areas; Katydid informs me that there are a couple of locations with storms all the time (probably an exaggeration, but you never know!) and nobody lives there. Maddie asks if I can show them the shape of thunder, so I go over to the whiteboard. (Technically, it's more like an etch-a-sketch, or maybe one of those magnetic doodle boards? Eridian classroom tech, anyway; it existed long before I got here. The nice thing about it is it works for both me and the kids, no adjustments needed.) I draw out the fractal shape of the last bolt that forked across the sky.
The storm’s still going when class ends, but it's moving away, quieter now. The parents who come to pick up their kids all seem a little more frazzled than usual, but the kids are chattering away happily. I catch a few sentences of George telling their parent—an engineer who I’ve met a couple of times working on the biodome—about an idea to use a light sensor to build a “thunder alarm.” I don’t really know how practical or useful that would be, but it’s always great to hear my students thinking creatively with what they’ve learned.
So much better than grading tests.
***
After I’m left alone, I override the day/night environmental controls and head outside. Instinct is telling me to stay off the beach during a thunderstorm, but with the dome overhead it’s perfectly safe. I lie back and admire the faint, fading flickers, enjoying the first natural light I've seen since coming to the surface.