Tings are unraveling in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's grand trilogies set in a universe that appears, here more than ever, as a intense and slanted version of our own. Institutions are failing, or reorganizing themselves along unfamiliar and disquieting lines. An invisible force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Control is draining from governments, and pooling in the chambers of theocrats, the vaults of corporations, the grasp of crowds. "An element is at work, silently, very subtly", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a vigilant eye on the ancient paths from his post in an city cafe. "Elements we thought were firm and strong are weakening and giving way."
The Central Mystery and The Protagonist's Path
Precisely what that element might be, and how to counteract it, is the question that animates the concluding book, which continues where The Secret Commonwealth concluded. This is, according to many, the author's final foray into the carefully crafted, endlessly enchanting universe he first introduced three decades past, with the launch of the first trilogy. It's a domain whose landscape maps on to that of this world, but whose history veers and changes with ours; where the people look and think and behave like us, but are accompanied by external spirits, souls in beast form; where the air are populated with enchantresses and gryphons, but underneath, transports are ridden and drinks is sipped, and middle-aged academics carry Harrods shopping bags. Our heroine, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the first trilogy, and then saw again as a baby in the first volume, the prequel with which the author began the series, is now a mature individual: still recognisably the prickly and tenacious protagonist of the previous installments, but aged, more sorrowful, more cautious, less certain. This circumscription is amplified by her split from her soul companion, her daemon – but it was also, unexpectedly, 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 Lyra which she appears to have shed (an quality which he symbolizes as her "vision"), and her journey to rejoin with him, were the catalysts of the prior book, which followed the protagonist undertake a adventurous trek across the continent and into the Caucasus, encountering with marvel and peril on the way. But from the beginning, underlying forces were in play, and malevolent elements at work. The Magisterium – the church's governing authority, and the author's deliciously chilling representation of rigid, procedural evil – is under recent guidance, and asserting its power. The antagonist – the heroine's family member, who holds responsible her for his sibling's death – has positioned himself into the office of president of the church's ruling assembly, and is intent on using his recently acquired influence to expand the religion's dominium. A key character, who saved baby the heroine to refuge along a overflowing river as an child in the prequel, is now an academic with a secondary role in spycraft: he is dispatched to a key location to discover more about Delamare's aims. And beneath all of this is the enigma surrounding the scarce and valuable rose oil which appears mysteriously to be the origin of a social and financial upheaval spreading out from the region. The extract is viewed by various factions as a marketable commodity, by others as a research-based or spiritual wonder, and by others still – the fanatical "highland figures" – as a wellspring of darkness; an challenge that must be eradicated. The issue of its origins, what it stands for, and if it should be removed or safeguarded is becoming urgent.
Like the first series, our protagonist's deeds, and her future, are revealed to be inextricably entwined with the future of the world
In its predecessor, these storylines ran largely in side by side. In the conclusion, they come together. Similar to the first trilogy, Lyra's movements and her destiny are unveiled to be inseparably entwined with the fate of the universe. Her individual journey to reunite with her daemon and recover her creativity becomes the central conflict in a wider conflict with an authoritarian system which, as such authorities typically do, is seeking to quell autonomy of thinking, innovation and expression: all the personal, resistant ways in which individuals can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Philosophical Struggles
The story starts with the finding of a series of strange fissures in the makeup of the planet's air: windows that look to give on to other worlds. One such opening appears to be the point of the fiercely disputed botanical substance. The church, with its leader at its head, designates these portals as a threat to the institution's orthodoxy and aims to eliminate them. As our protagonist begins to shift from inflexible logic and return to intuition, nevertheless, her belief that these places must be defended – that their meaning and their value is somehow essential – increases. "Cosmic particles, or rose oil, or the imagination, or the Rose Field, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a Blakean struggle between innocence and maturity is set.
Story Tempo and Character Development
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
