IT was early in the morning, dew still wet on the grass, a cool wind blowing in from the farmlands. The young man standing by the old picket fence passed his hand through his thick hair and breathed in deeply the cool freshness of the morning.
“So good to be home,” he said quietly.

In his light brown eyes, though, there was a glint of sadness. He pushed open the picket gate that fell away on one hinge and walked up the path, bordered by frangipani trees, through thick, overgrown grass. In the not-too-far distance, he saw the house and, as he got closer, his heartbeats quickened. He stopped and inhaled deeply, a burning sensation in his throat as he looked at the house that had been home when he was a little boy.
A beautiful house, it had been from the colonial era, with the black water creek in its background and surrounded by lush green forests. The life and light of a home were gone, and it stood there, dull, forlorn and dilapidated. The long years of neglect and the changing weather had taken their toll.
“It’s as though you have been dying one day at a time, waiting for me to come back,” he said, choked with emotion. Tears filled his eyes as he remembered the love, laughter, comfort and happiness of family, the pleasant and relaxed atmosphere—until one fatal night took it all away.
His father and mother had been medium-scale farmers of cash crops and livestock, an inheritance from his father’s family that they managed efficiently. He had enjoyed riding in the tractor with his father when crops were harvested, and was excited at the birth of twin and triplet lambs.
Fun times were when his father would go up the creek in the boat to fish or bird-spot, and take nature walks in the forest with the family.
He had been ten years old, his sister six, and his younger brother five, when tragedy struck one late night. Never in the history of the house and farmlands had something of such horrific nature happened.
A loud, crashing sound had awakened Naren, then his mother’s muffled screams. He was unsure of what was happening, and trying not to be scared, he slowly opened his bedroom door and tiptoed to the top of the stairs. There were low, heavy voices coming from the living room and, going down a few steps, he almost gasped at the horrible scene.
His father and mother were down on their knees, surrounded by three masked men with guns.
“What are they doing?” he had cried silently, starting to tremble.
He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but saw his father shake his head and one of the men hit him with the gun. His mother was struggling as one man held her in a vice, his hand over her mouth. As a young boy then, he didn’t know what to think, what to do, and a dreadful fear entered his heart.
“Suppose they kill us all?”
He tiptoed quietly back up the stairs to his brother and sister’s bedroom and awoke them, his voice trembling with urgency.
“We have to escape. There are bad people downstairs.”
They were both groggy with sleep, but Naren got them to the back porch and, slipping the hammock off its hooks, he guided them to slide down, falling several feet to the ground. They had hurt themselves, but not badly, and limping, they ran to the sheep pen. The animals, thankfully, did not make any noise because they knew the children. Naren had cautioned them to stay hidden whilst he went looking for help. He rode his bicycle as fast as his young legs could, but just as he reached the picket fence, he heard a gunshot, then another. He fell off his bike, crying and screaming.
The masked intruders’ vehicle was parked right by the fence; the gate was padlocked. Fearing for his life now, Naren, with all the strength in his little body, picked up the bike and threw it over the fence. Then he climbed over and rode away before the men reached their vehicle. He threw his bike down and knocked on the first door, crying and breathless.
By the time villagers came out, the men had already left and they found his father’s body lying on the forest floor where they had dragged him, with two gunshot wounds. Naren had sunk down on his knees, hugging his father and crying uncontrollably. The men did not kill his mother, but she was so traumatised she became speechless.
The police, relatives and villagers scoured the back dam and other villages for the killers. As word spread, so did shock and disbelief.
Naren was hailed as a little hero for helping his siblings escape and hide, and seeking help.
Police investigations revealed that Naren’s father was set to testify against a rich landowner involved in cattle rustling, money laundering and other illegal activities. He had always been a man of principle and never condoned wrongdoing.
It had cost him his life and broken his home and family. A good soul gone, and the evil men who took his life, still to be found.
He was cremated on his farmland and his ashes scattered in the creek. Naren would sit on the bank of the creek for hours, hoping that maybe his father would come out of the water and come back to life. Nothing was the same again. His mother closed down the farm and sold all the working machinery, and after one year, she decided to leave with her children to live in the outside world. Naren didn’t want to leave, thinking of his father’s memories—that maybe his soul was still there—but he had to go with his mother because he was just a young boy.
The day that they left, he had stood by the creek and said, “I will come back one day, because this is home and the legacy must live on.”
Fifteen years later, he had grown up, tall and strong like his father, and had graduated with a degree in agriculture. His mother had remarried and, though he had not been happy with her decision, he took it in stride because she needed comfort and security for her children.
She had cried the day he left to return home, but she knew she had to let him go because that place was in his heart.
He smiled, just a little, and taking a deep breath said, “I’m back, Dad, I’m back.”
The house had gotten old and in disrepair, the farmlands overtaken by grass and shrubs, an old tractor parked under the wisteria tree, his bicycle braced on the sheep pen—all things of the past. However, what did not change and remained in timeless beauty were the creek, the forest, and the sounds of nature.
“Sanctuary from the outside world,” he expressed, joy surging into his heart.
And so, with the money he had saved up and part of his inheritance from his father, he began repairing the house and resuscitating the farmlands with new machinery. He implemented new initiatives, hired more farmhands, and soon the farm became the talk of the village.
“The little hero has returned,” they said. “And he is bringing back the farm to life.”
Justice, though, still had to be sought for his father, and although the case had gone cold, Naren retained a top criminal lawyer to reopen the case. There wasn’t much in the police report to work with, but Naren knew talking about the killers casually would travel on the grapevines, and someday someone who knew something would come forward.
And the truth would then reveal itself.
One evening, he was invited to a cocktail party at the rich landowner’s house. There he met his beautiful daughter, who welcomed him with a warm smile.
There were many people there he did not know, but who knew the story of his father, and were surprised the case had been reopened.
He just smiled pleasantly, and later, when he said “Good night” to the landowner’s daughter, she replied, “I’m sorry to hear how your father died.”
“Thank you, but quite coincidentally, that happened when he had to testify against your father.”
The smile left her face and Naren walked away with a satisfied smile.
“And so it begins.”