She shakes it clear, hoping up into the saddle and bounding for the door. Out they fly, the barn door crashing open. She doesn’t care it the noise w...kes her parents or the farm hands, she is free. Out past the large oak tree she rides. Out past the fence built to keep in any stray cattle or horses they bound past. Out into the greater pasture into the soft moonlight of the quarter moon she glides upon the back of her magnificent steed.She wishes she could just ride forever, leave her whole life. Her identity was more intangible. It was the sense of a shared tradition and what had been until recently a shared nationality. She'd never troubled herself about her Jewish heritage when she'd actually lived in Israel. It was only after she'd abandoned the nation of her birth to radioactive dust and vengeful Palestinians that she'd become concerned about what it meant to be Jewish.So what was she now doing, travelling south to the outskirts of London on a dilapidated horse-drawn coach with. More

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