An Orange Cat Oracle of Absurdity Story
The Oracle was sitting on a driftwood log just above the high-tide line when the matter first came up.
It was a calm morning. The sea was busy polishing pebbles. A light breeze wandered along the beach collecting interesting smells. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull was shouting at another seagull about ownership rights to a suspicious-looking sandwich.
A tourist approached the Oracle carrying a bucket, a camera, and an expression of deep concern.
“Oracle,” she said, “I think someone knows my passwords.”
The Oracle nodded gravely.
“Of course they do.”
The tourist blinked.
“What?”
The orange cat adjusted his towel-cloak.
“The seagulls.”
“The seagulls?”
“The seagulls.”
The tourist looked around.
Several seagulls were standing nearby pretending not to listen, which is the traditional way seagulls listen to absolutely everything.
The tourist folded her arms.
“Are you saying seagulls know my passwords?”
The Oracle looked shocked.
“My dear human, I am saying they know everyone’s passwords.”
One of the seagulls immediately looked away and started examining a shell with exaggerated innocence.
The tourist laughed.
“That’s ridiculous.”
The Oracle sighed.
Humans always said that.
They had called pothole portals ridiculous. They had called driftwood inflation ridiculous. They had even called rain-scented receipts ridiculous.
History had eventually proven that humans were not especially qualified to judge ridiculousness.
The Oracle jumped down from the driftwood log and began pacing.
“Have you ever wondered,” he asked, “why seagulls spend so much time watching people?”
“They’re looking for food.”
“That’s what they want you to think.”
The tourist frowned.
“What are they actually doing?”
“Research.”
The sea made a thoughtful swishing noise.
Even the waves seemed interested.
The Oracle continued.
“Every day millions of humans sit outdoors using phones, tablets, laptops, and other password-generating devices. They type things. They say things. They forget things. Meanwhile, seagulls are everywhere.”
The tourist considered this.
There were, in fact, seagulls everywhere.
On the beach.
On the rocks.
On lamp posts.
On boats.
On bins.
One was currently standing on a sign that specifically requested that nobody stand on it.
“They couldn’t possibly remember all that information,” she said.
The Oracle smiled.
“Individually? No.”
He pointed at the flock.
“Collectively? Absolutely.”
The tourist looked uncertain.
The Oracle lowered his voice.
“You have heard of cloud storage?”
“Yes.”
“Seagulls have cloud storage too.”
The tourist stared.
“The clouds?”
“The actual clouds.”
The tourist opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again.
“The clouds store passwords?”
“Not intentionally. The clouds simply hold them until needed.”
A nearby wave rolled onto the shore.
“I’ve always suspected that,” it whispered.
The Oracle nodded politely.
“Thank you, wave.”
The tourist rubbed her forehead.
“How would a seagull even upload information into a cloud?”
The Oracle looked delighted.
“Excellent question.”
He pointed upward.
A seagull immediately flew overhead.
“You see?”
“No.”
“Exactly.”
The Oracle sat down in the sand.
“Humans imagine clouds are merely weather. This is because humans spend very little time flying.”
“Humans don’t fly.”
“Which explains why they misunderstand clouds.”
The tourist had to admit that this was difficult to argue with.
The Oracle continued.
“Every evening the seagulls gather. They exchange observations. Who dropped chips. Who bought ice cream. Who forgot sunscreen. Who uses ‘beachlover123’ for absolutely everything.”
The tourist suddenly looked nervous.
The Oracle raised an eyebrow.
“Ah.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
The Oracle glanced at a nearby seagull.
The seagull quickly looked away.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
The tourist swallowed.
“My password isn’t beachlover123.”
The Oracle nodded.
“Of course not.”
There was a long pause.
“It isn’t beachlover124 either.”
The Oracle nodded again.
The tourist looked alarmed.
“How do you know that?”
The Oracle pretended to become extremely interested in a pebble.
The pebble wisely remained silent.
By now several seagulls had gathered nearby.
They were standing in a loose semicircle.
Officially they were doing nothing.
Unofficially they appeared to be taking minutes.
The Oracle stood.
“The real question is not how they know your passwords.”
“It’s not?”
“No.”
“What is the real question?”
The Oracle pointed dramatically toward the horizon.
“Why do they know your passwords?”
The sea grew quiet.
Even the gulls seemed surprised.
The tourist waited.
The Oracle lowered his voice.
“Protection.”
“Protection?”
“Naturally.”
The tourist stared at him.
The Oracle sighed.
“Humans leave all sorts of important things lying around. Phones. Wallets. Sunglasses. Towels. Half-finished sandwiches.”
The seagulls nodded at the last item.
“Someone has to keep track of everything.”
“Not the seagulls.”
“Especially the seagulls.”
The Oracle began walking along the shoreline.
The tourist followed.
“So you’re saying seagulls are helping us?”
“More or less.”
“Then why do they steal food?”
The Oracle looked puzzled.
“They charge administration fees.”
This seemed, unfortunately, completely consistent with seagull behaviour.
The Oracle stopped beside an old piece of driftwood.
The driftwood had once been part of a forest hundreds of kilometres away and therefore considered itself quite worldly.
“Tell her,” said the Oracle.
The driftwood creaked thoughtfully.
“The gulls maintain records.”
The tourist jumped.
“The driftwood talks?”
“Only when it has something useful to say.”
The driftwood seemed pleased.
“We all have jobs,” it said. “The waves manage arrivals. The wind handles rumours. The clouds store temporary information. The gulls maintain the archives.”
The tourist looked from the driftwood to the Oracle.
Then to the seagulls.
Then back again.
“You expect me to believe all this?”
The Oracle considered the question carefully.
“No.”
“No?”
“Humans never believe important things immediately.”
The tourist thought about that.
It sounded annoyingly reasonable.
At that moment a young boy ran across the beach.
“I can’t get into my tablet!” he shouted.
“My password doesn’t work!”
Several seagulls exchanged meaningful glances.
One of them took off.
The Oracle watched it disappear toward the clouds.
“What is it doing?” asked the tourist.
“Checking the records.”
A few minutes later the gull returned.
It landed beside the boy.
The gull squawked three times.
The boy stared.
Then his eyes widened.
“Oh!”
He ran off happily.
The tourist’s jaw dropped.
“What just happened?”
The Oracle shrugged.
“Password recovery.”
The tourist looked at the gull.
The gull looked very pleased with itself.
“That’s impossible.”
“Most useful things are.”
The breeze drifted past carrying the smell of salt and distant fish and mysteries that had not yet happened.
The tourist sat down in the sand.
She was no longer entirely certain that seagulls didn’t know everyone’s passwords.
To be honest, she wasn’t entirely certain of anything anymore.
The Oracle sat beside her.
For a while they watched the waves.
Above them, dozens of seagulls circled lazily beneath the clouds.
Keeping records.
Maintaining archives.
Charging occasional sandwich-based administration fees.
Finally the tourist spoke.
“If seagulls really know all our passwords, should we be worried?”
The Oracle thought for a moment.
“No.”
“Why not?”
The orange cat smiled.
“Because if they wanted to take over the world, they would have done it years ago.”
The tourist looked up at the flock.
The flock looked back.
For a brief moment she had the distinct feeling that they knew far more than they were admitting.
Then one of them stole a chip from an unattended picnic and flew directly into a beach umbrella.
The moment passed.
The Oracle nodded.
“Fortunately,” he said, “they remain seagulls.”
And that, everyone agreed, was probably for the best.
The End