Things are unraveling in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the next of Philip Pullman's grand trilogies set in a universe that seems, here more than ever, as a energized and slanted version of our own. Establishments are weakening, or reassembling themselves along new and disquieting lines. An invisible force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Authority is flowing away from states, and gathering in the halls of theocrats, the vaults of conglomerates, the control of crowds. "An element is at work, very quietly, gradually", says merchant Mustafa Bey, keeping a watchful eye on the Silk Roads from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Elements we thought were secure and durable are weakening and collapsing."
Core Enigma and Her Quest
Precisely what that element might be, and methods to fight it, is the inquiry that drives the concluding book, which resumes where the previous book left off. This is, according to many, Pullman's final venture into the intricately constructed, deeply captivating world he first unveiled 30 years ago, with the publication of Northern Lights. It's a realm whose landscape maps on to that of the real world, but whose past diverges and shifts with ours; where the people appear and think and act like us, but are joined by animal souls, essences in creature form; where the heavens are teeming with witches and mythical beasts, but beneath those skies, transports are ridden and drinks is sipped, and older scholars carry fancy shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first encountered as a young girl in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then met once more as a toddler in the first volume, the introductory book with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a adult: still clearly the sharp and determined heroine of the earlier books, but aged, sadder, warier, less sure. This limitation is heightened by her division from her animal guide, Pantalaimon – but it was also, paradoxically, the trigger which led him to leave her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
His choice to leave in quest of that childlike part of the heroine which she may have forgotten (an aspect which he symbolizes as her "vision"), and her journey to reunite with him, were the driving forces of its predecessor, which saw Lyra undertake a wandering trek across Europe and into the Caucasus, meeting with marvel and risk on the way. But from the outset, deeper currents were in action, and malevolent elements at work. The religious council – the church's governing authority, and Pullman's brilliantly sinister incarnation of austere, administrative wickedness – is under fresh command, and asserting its power. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's uncle, who faults her for his sister's death – has manoeuvred himself into the role of head of the Magisterium's governing body, and is set on using his fresh authority to extend the religion's dominium. Malcolm Polstead, who saved young the heroine to security along a flooded river as an 11-year-old in the prequel, is now an Oxford don with a additional duty in spycraft: he is dispatched to a key location to find out more about Delamare's intentions. And beneath all of this is the puzzle surrounding the uncommon and costly essential oil which appears in some way to be the origin of a social and economic upheaval rippling out from that area. The oil is seen by some as a marketable commodity, by alternate groups as a research-based or esoteric wonder, and by others still – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a origin of darkness; an affront that must be obliterated. The question of where it comes from, its significance, and if it should be removed or protected is coming rapidly to the fore.
Similar to the original trilogy, our protagonist's actions, and her destiny, are shown to be deeply connected with the destiny of the universe
In its predecessor, these storylines ran mostly in side by side. In The Rose Field, they come together. As in the first trilogy, Lyra's actions and her path are revealed to be inextricably linked with the fate of the realm. Her individual mission to reconnect with her companion and rediscover her vision becomes the primary battleground in a broader battle with an controlling system which, as such regimes often attempt, is attempting to stifle freedom of reason, creativity and art: all the personal, rebellious ways in which humans can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Ideological Conflicts
The book begins with the unveiling of a set of curious fissures in the makeup of the world's atmosphere: portals that seem to lead to alternate realities. An example of a opening seems to be the origin of the fiercely disputed botanical substance. The authority, with Delamare at its head, designates these windows as a challenge to the religion's orthodoxy and endeavors to destroy them. As our protagonist begins to turn away from inflexible rationalism and revert to feeling, yet, her belief that these locations must be preserved – that what they stand for and what they provide is mysteriously essential – increases. "Cosmic particles, or the substance, or the vision, or the Rose Field, or no matter what we label it," she says, "it is necessary." The scene for a Blakean tussle between innocence and knowledge is established.
Narrative Pacing and Protagonist Growth
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
