The Visitors by Hineira Our home was an old home that had withstood the many moods of the way-ward weather. Once it was my grandfather's home, but as he grew too old to manage it he gave it to my father. My father had it renovated with the help of the Maori Affairs Department. Then it became our very own. The faults of our home were glaring and many, but when we complained to my father he firmly replied, “At least we have our own roof Live with relations of three generations and you'll soon realise how much better off you are now!” A passage ran right down the middle of our home, dividing it into two. On one side were the sleeping rooms and on the other were the living rooms. My brothers, as they grew older, said that the house was badly planned and I agreed fervently. The back door opened to the sea, restless, boisterous and smouldering when it chose, and that was where the passage ended. The front door looked to the graveyard, and that was where the passage started. I did not like the front door at night. It flew open suddenly to those omnipresent tombstones, and when the moon sharpened the whiteness of the stones against the dark of the night I was filled with terror at the sight of those ghostly things. No! I did not like the front door. My brothers had a different reason for their dislike of the house. Wind and rain often beat on our back door and forced their way in. And my brothers were ever at their mercy … “Put up a lean-to on this side of the door,” says my mother. “That will keep the rain out.”