Tuck Everlasting
By NATALIE BABBITT
FARRAR, STRAUS AND GIROUX
Copyright © 2000
Natalie Babbitt and Betsy Hearne
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-374-48012-7
Chapter One
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.
Chapter Two
And so, at dawn, that day in the first week of August,
Mae Tuck woke up and lay for a while beaming at
the cobwebs on the ceiling. At last she said aloud,
"The boys'll be home tomorrow!"
Mae's husband, on his back beside her, did not
stir. He was still asleep, and the melancholy creases
that folded his daytime face were smoothed and slack.
He snored gently, and for a moment the corners of
his mouth turned upward in a smile. Tuck almost
never smiled except in sleep.
Mae sat up in bed and looked at him tolerantly.
"The boys'll be home tomorrow," she said again, a
little more loudly.
Tuck twitched and the smile vanished. He opened
his eyes. "Why'd you have to wake me up?" he
sighed. "I was having that dream again, the good
one where we're all in heaven and never heard of
Treegap."
Mae sat there frowning, a great potato of a woman
with a round, sensible face and calm brown eyes. "It's
no use having that dream," she said. "Nothing's going
to change."
"You tell me that every day," said Tuck, turning
away from her onto his side. "Anyways, I can't help
what I dream."
"Maybe not," said Mae. "But, all the same, you
should've got used to things by now."
Tuck groaned. "I'm going back to sleep," he said.
"Not me," said Mae. "I'm going to take the horse
and go down to the wood to meet them."
"Meet who?"
"The boys, Tuck! Our sons. I'm going to ride
down to meet them."
"Better not do that," said Tuck.
"I know," said Mae, "but I just can't wait to see
them. Anyways, it's ten years since I went to Treegap.
No one'll remember me. I'll ride in at sunset,
just to the wood. I won't go into the village. But,
even if someone did see me, they won't remember.
They never did before, now, did they?"
"Suit yourself, then," said Tuck into his pillow.
"I'm going back to sleep."
Mae Tuck climbed out of bed and began to dress:
three petticoats, a rusty brown skirt with one enormous
pocket, an old cotton jacket, and a knitted
shawl which she pinned across her bosom with a
tarnished metal brooch. The sounds of her dressing
were so familiar to Tuck that he could say, without
opening his eyes, "You don't need that shawl in the
middle of the summer."
Mae ignored this observation. Instead, she said,
"Will you be all right? We won't get back till late
tomorrow."
Tuck rolled over and made a rueful face at her.
"What in the world could possibly happen to me?"
"That's so," said Mae. "I keep forgetting."
"
I don't," said Tuck. "Have a nice time." And in
a moment he was asleep again.
Mae sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a
pair of short leather boots so thin and soft with age
it was a wonder they held together. Then she stood
and took from the washstand beside the bed a little
square-shaped object, a music box painted with roses
and lilies of the valley. It was the one pretty thing
she owned and she never went anywhere without it.
Her fingers strayed to the winding key on its bottom,
but glancing at the sleeping Tuck, she shook her
head, gave the little box a pat, and dropped it into
her pocket. Then, last of all, she pulled down over
her ears a blue straw hat with a drooping, exhausted
brim.
But, before she put on the hat, she brushed her
gray-brown hair and wound it into a bun at the back
of her neck. She did this quickly and skillfully without
a single glance in the mirror. Mae Tuck didn't
need a mirror, though she had one propped up on
the washstand. She knew very well what she would
see in it; her reflection had long since ceased to interest
her. For Mae Tuck, and her husband, and
Miles and Jesse, too, had all looked exactly the same
for eighty-seven years.
Chapter Three
At noon of that same day in the first week of August,
Winnie Foster sat on the bristly grass just inside the
fence and said to the large toad who was squatting a
few yards away across the road, "I will, though.
You'll see. Maybe even first thing tomorrow, while
everyone's still asleep."
It was hard to know whether the toad was listening
or not. Certainly, Winnie had given it good reason
to ignore her. She had come out to the fence, very
cross, very near the boiling point on a day that was
itself near to boiling, and had noticed the toad at
once. It was the only living thing in sight except for
a stationary cloud of hysterical gnats suspended in
the heat above the road. Winnie had found some
pebbles at the base of the fence and, for lack of any
other way to show how she felt, had flung one at the
toad. It missed altogether, as she'd fully intended it
should, but she made a game of it anyway, tossing
pebbles at such an angle that they passed through
the gnat cloud on their way to the toad. The gnats
were too frantic to notice these intrusions, however,
and since every pebble missed its final mark, the toad
continued to squat and grimace without so much as
a twitch. Possibly it felt resentful. Or perhaps it was
only asleep. In either case, it gave her not a glance
when at last she ran out of pebbles and sat down to
tell it her troubles.
"Look here, toad," she said, thrusting her arms
through the bars of the fence and plucking at the
weeds on the other side. "I don't think I can stand it
much longer."
At this moment a window at the front of the cottage
was flung open and a thin voice-her grandmother's-piped,
"Winifred! Don't sit on that dirty
grass. You'll stain your boots and stockings."
And another, firmer voice-her mother's-added,
"Come in now, Winnie. Right away. You'll get heat
stroke out there on a day like this. And your lunch
is ready."
"See?" said Winnie to the toad. "That's just what
I mean. It's like that every minute. If I had a sister
or a brother, there'd be someone else for them to
watch. But, as it is, there's only me. I'm tired of being
looked at all the time. I want to be by myself for a
change." She leaned her forehead against the bars
and after a short silence went on in a thoughtful tone.
"I'm not exactly sure what I'd do, you know, but
something interesting-something that's all mine.
Something that would make some kind of difference
in the world. It'd be nice to have a new name, to
start with, one that's not all worn out from being
called so much. And I might even decide to have a
pet. Maybe a big old toad, like you, that I could keep
in a nice cage with lots of grass, and ..."
At this the toad stirred and blinked. It gave a heave
of muscles and plopped its heavy mudball of a body
a few inches farther away from her.
"I suppose you're right," said Winnie. "Then
you'd be just the way I am, now. Why should you
have to be cooped up in a cage, too? It'd be better if
I could be like you, out in the open and making up
my own mind. Do you know they've hardly ever let
me out of this yard all by myself? I'll never be able
to do anything important if I stay in here like this. I
expect I'd better run away." She paused and peered
anxiously at the toad to see how it would receive this
staggering idea, but it showed no signs of interest.
"You think I wouldn't dare, don't you?" she said
accusingly. "I will, though. You'll see. Maybe even
first thing in the morning, while everyone's still
asleep."
"Winnie!" came the firm voice from the window.
"All
right! I'm coming!" she cried, exasperated,
and then added quickly, "I mean, I'll be right there,
Mama." She stood up, brushing at her legs where
bits of itchy grass clung to her stockings.
The toad, as if it saw that their interview was over,
stirred again, bunched up, and bounced itself clumsily
off toward the wood. Winnie watched it go. "Hop
away, toad," she called after it. "You'll see. Just wait
till morning."
Chapter Four
At sunset of that same long day, a stranger came
strolling up the road from the village and paused at
the Fosters' gate. Winnie was once again in the yard,
this time intent on catching fireflies, and at first she
didn't notice him. But, after a few moments of watching
her, he called out, "Good evening!"
He was remarkably tall and narrow, this stranger
standing there. His long chin faded off into a thin,
apologetic beard, but his suit was a jaunty yellow
that seemed to glow a little in the fading light. A
black hat dangled from one hand, and as Winnie
came toward him, he passed the other through his
dry, gray hair, settling it smoothly. "Well, now," he
said in a light voice. "Out for fireflies, are you?"
"Yes," said Winnie.
"A lovely thing to do on a summer evening," said
the man richly. "A lovely entertainment. I used to
do it myself when I was your age. But of course that
was a long, long time ago." He laughed, gesturing in
self-deprecation with long, thin fingers. His tall body
moved continuously; a foot tapped, a shoulder
twitched. And it moved in angles, rather jerkily. But
at the same time he had a kind of grace, like a well-handled
marionette. Indeed, he seemed almost to
hang suspended there in the twilight. But Winnie,
though she was half charmed, was suddenly reminded
of the stiff black ribbons they had hung on the door
of the cottage for her grandfather's funeral. She
frowned and looked at the man more closely. But his
smile seemed perfectly all right, quite agreeable and
friendly.
"Is this your house?" asked the man, folding his
arms now and leaning against the gate.
"Yes," said Winnie. "Do you want to see my father?"
"Perhaps. In a bit," said the man. "But I'd like to
talk to you first. Have you and your family lived here
long?"
"Oh, yes," said Winnie. "We've lived here forever."
"Forever," the man echoed thoughtfully.
It was not a question, but Winnie decided to explain
anyway. "Well, not forever, of course, but as
long as there've been any people here. My grandmother
was born here. She says this was all trees once,
just one big forest everywhere around, but it's mostly
all cut down now. Except for the wood."
"I see," said the man, pulling at his beard. "So of
course you know everyone, and everything that goes
on."
"Well, not especially," said Winnie. "At least,
I
don't. Why?"
The man lifted his eyebrows. "Oh," he said, "I'm
looking for someone. A family."
"I don't know anybody much," said Winnie, with
a shrug. "But my father might. You could ask him."
"I believe I shall," said the man. "I do believe I
shall."
At this moment the cottage door opened, and in
the lamp glow that spilled across the grass, Winnie's
grandmother appeared. "Winifred? Who are you
talking to out there?"
"It's a man, Granny," she called back. "He says
he's looking for someone."
"What's that?" said the old woman. She picked up
her skirts and came down the path to the gate. "What
did you say he wants?"
The man on the other side of the fence bowed
slightly. "Good evening, madam," he said. "How
delightful to see you looking so fit."
"And why shouldn't I be fit?" she retorted, peering
at him through the fading light. His yellow suit
seemed to surprise her, and she squinted suspiciously.
"We haven't met, that I can recall. Who are you?
Who are you looking for?"
The man answered neither of these questions. Instead,
he said, "This young lady tells me you've lived
here for a long time, so I thought you would probably
know everyone who comes and goes."
The old woman shook her head. "I
don't know
everyone," she said, "nor do I want to. And I don't
stand outside in the dark discussing such a thing
with strangers. Neither does Winifred. So ..."
And then she paused. For, through the twilight
sounds of crickets and sighing trees, a faint, surprising
wisp of music came floating to them, and all
three turned toward it, toward the wood. It was a
tinkling little melody, and in a few moments it
stopped.
"My stars!" said Winnie's grandmother, her eyes
round. "I do believe it's come again, after all these
years!" She pressed her wrinkled hands together,
forgetting the man in the yellow suit. "Did you hear
that, Winifred? That's it! That's the elf music I told
you about. Why, it's been ages since I heard it last.
And this is the first time you've
ever heard it, isn't it?
Wait till we tell your father!" And she seized Winnie's
hand and turned to go back into the cottage.
"Wait!" said the man at the gate. He had stiffened,
and his voice was eager. "You've heard that music
before, you say?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Tuck Everlasting
by NATALIE BABBITT
Copyright © 2000 by Natalie Babbitt and Betsy Hearne.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.