The disciples shuffled silently into the sacred place. Around them, the towering shelves rustled with the pages of a thousand hallowed tomes. The altar was bathed in a soft, yellow light from the small frosted lamps; for candles were not allowed, and no-one was heretical enough to bring in a naked flame.
It was cold. The disciples were glad of their thick hooded robes, which kept them warm. The more restless ones shifted around nervously, occasionally glancing towards the altar, which was bare save for the podium with one of the Holy Books.
As last, the Head Librarian arrived. Immediately, the congregation was silent. The Head Librarian did not like loud noises in the sanctum. He was an elderly man, and he slowly made his way up the small flight of stairs until he stood at the podium. He cast a knowing eye upon the crowd before him, seeing the hundreds of faces looking up at him anxiously, expectant.
Smiling slightly, he reached into an inner pocket and withdrew the ceremonial reading glasses, placing them upon his crooked nose. Then he opened the Holy Book, and in a thin, wavering voice, began to read.
"The Book of Merriam-Webster, section P, entry 243," he read. "Perspicacity, noun, one: keenness of mental perception and understanding; discernment; penetration. Two: archaic, keen vision. Origin: 1540-50, earlier perspicacite, Late Latin..."
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Just an idea. Influenced a bit by Philip Reeve and his Mortal Engines universe, of which Scrivener's Moon I have just finished reading. He is an amazing writer with an amazing world, and he better finish writing the next book soon.
The definition is taken from Dictionary.com. The entry number is made up. No slights on religion were made in this short story. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental...
"The Future is something that sneaks up on us while we are busy doing other things."
The Edna Man
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