From the Publisher
"A fearsome and beautifully written book that can’t be put down or forgotten." —The New York Times
"Exciting and excellently written." —The New York Times Book Review
"With its serious intentions and light touch the story is, like the Tucks, timeless." —Chicago Sun-Times
"Rarely does one find a book with such prose. Flawless in both style and structure, it is rich in imagery and punctuated with light fillips of humor. The author manipulates her plot deftly, dealing with six main characters brought together because of a spring whose waters can bestow everlasting life. . . . Underlying the drama is the dilemma of the age-old desire for perpetual youth." —The Horn Book Magazine
"Probably the best work of our best children’s novelist." —Harper’s
"Natalie Babbitt’s great skill is spinning fantasy with the lilt and sense of timeless wisdom of the old fairy tales. . . . It lingers on, haunting your waking hours, making you ponder." —The Boston Globe
"This book is as shapely, crisp, sweet, and tangy as a summer-ripe pear." —Entertainment Weekly
"Beautiful and descriptive language is the strength of Babbitt’s fantasy about Winnie and her encounter with the Tuck family, who cause her—and readers—to ponder an important question: What would it be like to live forever?" —Booklist
Children's Literature - Ellen Welty
The quest for immortality is hardly a new theme in literature for children or adults. Before the world had ever heard of a horcrux, there were vampires, elves, ghosts, and a host of other mythological beings who lived forever. In most cases there are disadvantages to the immortal state. Nowhere is that more profoundly and simply demonstrated than in the story of the Tuck family, who unknowingly became immortal when they drank from a spring in the forest. Their realization of their immortality was slow, coming after injuries that should have been fatal but were not and the fact that none of them were older while their families and friends aged normally. Winnie Foster discovers their secret accidentally and goes home with them to learn why it is so important that the secret not be shared. Unfortunately, a strange man who had followed the Tuck family as they were taking Winnie home overhears the disclosure of their secret. He forces Winnie’s family to sign over the deed to the forest in exchange for telling them where Winnie is. In the ensuing altercation, the mysterious man is killed and Mae Tuck is arrested for the murder and sentenced to hang. Winnie helps break Mae out of jail but comes to a horrifying realization about what it would mean to be unable to die. This 40th anniversary edition has a foreword by Gregory Maguire and includes an interview with the author as well as beginning chapters of additional works by Ms. Babbitt. Reviewer: Ellen Welty; Ages 10 to 14.
Read an Excerpt
The road that led to Treegap had been trod out long before by a herd of cows who were, to say the least, relaxed. It wandered along in curves and easy angles, swayed off and up in a pleasant tangent to the top of a small hill, ambled down again between fringes of bee-hung clover, and then cut sidewise across a meadow. Here its edges blurred. It widened and seemed to pause, suggesting tranquil bovine picnics: slow chewing and thoughtful contemplation of the infinite. And then it went on again and came at last to the wood. But on reaching the shadows of the first trees, it veered sharply, swung out in a wide arc as if, for the first time, it had reason to think where it was going, and passed around.
On the other side of the wood, the sense of easiness dissolved. The road no longer belonged to the cows. It became, instead, and rather abruptly, the property of people. And all at once the sun was uncomfortably hot, the dust oppressive, and the meager grass along its edges somewhat ragged and forlorn. On the left stood the first house, a square and solid cottage with a touch-me-not appearance, surrounded by grass cut painfully to the quick and enclosed by a capable iron fence some four feet high which clearly said, “Move on—we don’t want you here.” So the road went humbly by and made its way, past cottages more and more frequent but less and less forbidding, into the village. But the village doesn’t matter, except for the jailhouse and the gallows. The first house only is important; the first house, the road, and the wood.
There was something strange about the wood. If the look of the first house suggested that you’d better pass it by, so did the look of the wood, but for quite a different reason. The house was so proud of itself that you wanted to make a lot of noise as you passed, and maybe even throw a rock or two. But the wood had a sleeping, otherworld appearance that made you want to speak in whispers. This, at least, is what the cows must have thought: “Let it keep its peace; we won’t disturb it.”
Whether the people felt that way about the wood or not is difficult to say. There were some, perhaps, who did. But for the most part the people followed the road around the wood because that was the way it led. There was no road through the wood. And anyway, for the people, there was another reason to leave the wood to itself: it belonged to the Fosters, the owners of the touch-me-not cottage, and was therefore private property in spite of the fact that it lay outside the fence and was perfectly accessible.
The ownership of land is an odd thing when you come to think of it. How deep, after all, can it go? If a person owns a piece of land, does he own it all the way down, in ever narrowing dimensions, till it meets all other pieces at the center of the earth? Or does ownership consist only of a thin crust under which the friendly worms have never heard of trespassing?
In any case, the wood, being on top—except, of course, for its roots—was owned bud and bough by the Fosters in the touch-me-not cottage, and if they never went there, if they never wandered in among the trees, well, that was their affair. Winnie, the only child of the house, never went there, though she sometimes stood inside the fence, carelessly banging a stick against the iron bars, and looked at it. But she had never been curious about it. Nothing ever seems interesting when it belongs to you—only when it doesn’t.
And what is interesting, anyway, about a slim few acres of trees? There will be a dimness shot through with bars of sunlight, a great many squirrels and birds, a deep, damp mattress of leaves on the ground, and all the other things just as familiar if not so pleasant—things like spiders, thorns, and grubs.
In the end, however, it was the cows who were responsible for the wood’s isolation, and the cows, through some wisdom they were not wise enough to know that they possessed, were very wise indeed. If they had made their road through the wood instead of around it, then the people would have followed the road. The people would have noticed the giant ash tree at the center of the wood, and then, in time, they’d have noticed the little spring bubbling up among its roots in spite of the pebbles piled there to conceal it. And that would have been a disaster so immense that this weary old earth, owned or not to its fiery core, would have trembled on its axis like a beetle on a pin.
TUCK EVERLASTING. Copyright © 1975 by Natalie Babbitt. All rights reserved.