The Distant Threshold
Act I The fields of County Leitrim were named for the dead, a cartographic ghost that haunted every acre of the border. Eamon O'Casey sat in the reading room, the air heavy with damp wool and old paper, his hands trembling over a shears that had once cut thistle like silk. He was sixty-four, and the winter was closing in like a fist, threatening to kill the last of his medicinal herbs before he...
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