‘Tent assemble!’
I’m standing in the pouring rain, listening to the sound of Dad arguing with the tent pegs. The bright yellow fabric of the flysheet flaps in the wind – our only chance of staying dry tonight is in danger of flying away.
Dad always does this when things don’t work – starts talking at stuff like he thinks it’s going to listen to him. The instructions said this pop-up tent would only take two seconds to assemble. Open bag, unpack and watch your smart tent spring to life! But whoever wrote the instructions hadn’t met my dad. When he tipped the bag open, the tent just seemed to fall to pieces and Dad’s spent the last ten minutes shouting at the bits. I don’t think he realizes this smart tent isn’t voice-activated.
‘It’s no use,’ Dad says, scrambling to hold on to the canvas. ‘It looks like we’re going to have to assemble this ourselves. Grab hold of that pole, Jake.’
I look down at the tangle of poles, ropes and pegs scattered on the ground.
‘Which one?’
‘That one,’ Dad says, letting go of the flysheet for a moment to point down at one of the poles.
Bad idea.
In an instant, the bright yellow canvas is whipped away by the wind.
‘I’ll get it!’ I shout, scrambling to grab hold of the flysheet as it flaps just out of reach. Behind me, I hear Dad groan in despair.
We started to pitch our tent at the very edge of the field, out of sight of all the fancy tents and caravans. But as the wind gusts again, its bright yellow fabric is whirled away into the trees. I chase after it, dodging past branches as I dive into the woods.
‘Wait for me!’ Dad shouts.
For a second, the flysheet snags on a tree branch, but as I reach out to grab it the wind whips the tent away again. It soars upwards and onwards, out of sight, and my heart sinks into my squelching trainers.
I trudge on through the gloom of the forest. Trees, trees and more boring trees – this is turning into the worst trip ever. At least it isn’t raining any more under the cover of the leaves and maybe, if the tent’s gone missing, we can just get back in the car and go home.
Then I spot a flash of yellow in a gap through the trees. Hurrying forward, the trees start to open out and I see the flysheet in the middle of a clearing. The wind’s died down now, leaving the bright yellow canvas draped in a tent-like shape. At first I think that the tent must have popped itself up at last, but as the canvas gently flaps I catch a glimpse of something metallic underneath. It looks like it’s caught on something.
Reaching the centre of the clearing, I pull back the flysheet and then gasp in surprise as I see what’s underneath.
It’s a UFO.
A flying saucer.
Actually, it looks more like an intergalactic iron – the black metallic form of the spaceship curving in a triangular shape. And where the handle should be, there’s a dome-like cockpit instead, made out of the same impenetrable black metal.
Then I see the notice fixed to the side of this spaceship and breathe out a sigh of relief.
PLEASE DO NOT CLIMB, SIT ON OR DEFACE THE UFO SCULPTURE. THIS IS A WORK OF ART.
FOLLOW THE FLYING SAUCER TRAIL TO FIND OUT MORE.
Still holding the bright yellow flysheet, I take a step back, trying to work out why anyone has left a sculpture of a flying saucer in the middle of the woods. Looking around I spot a post with an arrow pointing the way to the trail but, before I can investigate this, I hear the sound of my dad calling from the trees.
‘Jake!’
I turn round to see him enter the clearing. With a shocked expression on his face, Dad looks from the flysheet to the flying saucer and then back again. Beneath the shade of the leaves, it almost looks like he’s turning green . . .
‘Don’t worry,’ I quickly say, worried that he’s about to be sick. ‘It’s just a sculpture – not some kind of alien invader.’
‘I knew that,’ Dad replies defensively, the green tinge slowly fading from his cheeks. ‘I was just a bit surprised, that’s all. Not that there’s anything wrong with an alien invader . . .’
Dad’s voice trails into silence as he stares at the sculpture, his blue-green gaze glinting with a faraway look. He opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else, but then the eerie sound of a siren suddenly echoes through the trees.
‘Come on,’ Dad says with a shake of his head, grabbing hold of the flysheet and motioning for me to follow him. ‘It’s starting.’