Things are falling apart in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's masterful trilogies set in a world that appears, in this volume especially, as a energized and tilted version of our own. Organizations are weakening, or restructuring themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Control is draining from governments, and accumulating in the chambers of theocrats, the vaults of conglomerates, the control of crowds. "Some force is at work, very quietly, gradually", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a watchful eye on the Silk Roads from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Aspects we thought were firm and solid are deteriorating and failing."
Core Enigma and Lyra's Journey
Just what that force might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that animates the concluding book, which resumes where its predecessor concluded. This is, reportedly, Pullman's last foray into the elaborately built, infinitely beguiling universe he first unveiled 30 years ago, with the launch of Northern Lights. It's a realm whose geography aligns with that of this world, but whose past tacks and jibes with ours; where the humans appear and think and act like us, but are accompanied by daemons, essences in animal form; where the air are filled with enchantresses and legendary creatures, but beneath those skies, transports are ridden and beverages is sipped, and older academics carry fancy shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first met as a young girl in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then saw again as a toddler in La Belle Sauvage, the origin story with which Pullman began the series, is now a adult: still clearly the spiky and determined main character of the earlier books, but aged, melancholic, more cautious, more doubtful. This circumscription is heightened by her division from her soul companion, Pan – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
Pan's decision to depart in quest of that innocent part of Lyra which she may have forgotten (an trait which he represents as her "imagination"), and her mission to rejoin with him, were the catalysts of its predecessor, which followed Lyra undertake a adventurous voyage across the continent and into the mountain region, meeting with amazement and risk on the way. But from the outset, profound shifts were in motion, and malevolent elements at work. The church authority – the religious ruling body, and Pullman's brilliantly sinister representation of rigid, bureaucratic wickedness – is under recent guidance, and flexing its muscles. Marcel Delamare – Lyra's relative, who blames her for his sister's death – has manoeuvred himself into the position of head of the church's ruling assembly, and is determined on using his newfound power to broaden the institution's control. A key character, who carried baby the heroine to refuge along a swollen river as an young boy in the prequel, is now an academic with a sideline in spycraft: he is assigned to the city to learn more about the antagonist's intentions. And beneath all of this is the enigma surrounding the uncommon and precious botanical extract which appears somehow to be the cause of a societal and economic disturbance spreading out from Central Asia. The oil is regarded by various factions as a tradeable good, by different parties as a research-based or mystical wonder, and by further factions – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a source of darkness; an challenge that must be destroyed. The dilemma of its source, what it stands for, and whether it should be destroyed or preserved is coming rapidly to the fore.
Like the first series, Lyra's decisions, and her future, are demonstrated to be inseparably connected with the future of the universe
In The Secret Commonwealth, these plots ran mostly in tandem. In The Rose Field, they merge. Similar to His Dark Materials, her choices and her destiny are shown to be deeply entwined with the destiny of the universe. Her private mission to reunite with her daemon and recover her imagination becomes the central struggle in a broader battle with an authoritarian government which, as such regimes often attempt, is attempting to stifle freedom of thought, innovation and expression: all the internal, resistant ways in which humans can be liberated.
Cosmic Openings and Moral Battles
The story starts with the unveiling of a set of unusual openings in the structure of the Earth's air: portals that appear to give on to different dimensions. A particular opening appears to be the point of the fiercely disputed botanical substance. The church, with its leader at its helm, labels these windows as a threat to the church's doctrine and endeavors to destroy them. As the heroine begins to shift from inflexible logic and back to instinct, however, her belief that these places must be protected – that their significance and what they offer is mysteriously crucial – strengthens. "Cosmic particles, or rose oil, or the creativity, or the Rose Field, or whatever we label it," she says, "we need it." The scene for a Blakean conflict between purity and experience is set.
Narrative Pacing and Protagonist Growth
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
