Things are unraveling in the last installment of The Book of Dust, the second of the author's grand trilogies set in a realm that manifests, now more than ever, as a intense and skewed version of our own. Institutions are failing, or reassembling themselves along new and troubling lines. An hidden force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Control is flowing away from governments, and pooling in the halls of theocrats, the treasuries of corporations, the grasp of crowds. "An element is at work, stealthily, imperceptibly", says trader a trader character, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Aspects we thought were stable and solid are faltering and giving way."
Key Puzzle and Lyra's Journey
Exactly what that force might be, and ways to oppose it, is the inquiry that animates this final volume, which continues where The Secret Commonwealth ended. This is, by all accounts, the author's concluding venture into the intricately constructed, deeply captivating universe he first introduced 30 years ago, with the launch of Northern Lights. It's a world whose geography corresponds to that of our world, but whose past diverges and shifts with ours; where the people appear and think and behave like us, but are joined by animal souls, souls in creature form; where the heavens are teeming with witches and mythical beasts, but below, transports are ridden and beverages is sipped, and middle-aged academics carry Harrods shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first met as a child in the first trilogy, and then met once more as a baby in La Belle Sauvage, the origin story with which Pullman began this trilogy, is now a mature individual: still clearly the spiky and tenacious heroine of the prior volumes, but aged, melancholic, more careful, less sure. This circumscription is heightened by her separation from her animal guide, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the trigger which led him to leave her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
His choice to go off in pursuit of that childlike part of the heroine which she seems to have lost (an trait which he represents as her "vision"), and her mission to reunite with him, were the driving forces of The Secret Commonwealth, which saw the protagonist undertake a wandering trek across Europe and into the Caucasus, facing with amazement and peril on the way. But from the outset, deeper currents were in action, and sinister powers at work. The Magisterium – the church's governing authority, and the author's deliciously chilling incarnation of austere, administrative malice – is under fresh command, and flexing its muscles. Lyra's uncle – the heroine's family member, who blames her for his family member's death – has worked himself into the position of leader of the Magisterium's High Council, and is set on using his newfound influence to expand the church's control. Malcolm Polstead, who saved baby the heroine to refuge along a swollen Thames as an 11-year-old in the first book, is now an Oxford don with a sideline in intelligence work: he is sent to a key location to find out more about the antagonist's plans. And underlying all of this is the mystery surrounding the uncommon and valuable botanical extract which appears somehow to be the source of a social and financial disturbance rippling out from the region. The oil is viewed by certain groups as a tradeable commodity, by others as a scientific or esoteric phenomenon, and by yet others – the extremist "mountain dwellers" – as a source of evil; an insult that must be obliterated. The dilemma of where it comes from, what it stands for, and if it should be eliminated or safeguarded is escalating in importance.
As in the first series, our protagonist's decisions, and her destiny, are demonstrated to be inseparably linked with the future of the universe
In its predecessor, these plots ran largely in parallel. In the conclusion, they merge. Like His Dark Materials, her choices and her destiny are revealed to be deeply woven with the future of the world. Her private journey to rejoin with her soul and regain her creativity becomes the key battleground in a larger war with an oppressive system which, as these systems typically do, is attempting to quell freedom of thought, originality and culture: all the internal, defiant ways in which individuals can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Moral Battles
The book opens with the unveiling of a collection of strange fissures in the makeup of the planet's air: portals that look to give on to other worlds. An example of a portal manifests to be the point of the much debated botanical substance. The authority, with the antagonist at its leadership, labels these windows as a threat to the institution's doctrine and endeavors to destroy them. As Lyra begins to turn away from rigid rationalism and return to intuition, however, her belief that these sites must be protected – that their significance and what they offer is mysteriously crucial – increases. "The substance, or rose oil, or the imagination, or the field of roses, or whatever we call it," she says, "it is necessary." The stage for a philosophical tussle between purity and maturity is prepared.
Narrative Pacing and Protagonist Growth
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the