Things are unraveling in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the second of the author's magisterial trilogies set in a universe that manifests, now more than ever, as a intense and skewed version of our own. Organizations are weakening, or restructuring themselves along unfamiliar and disquieting lines. An hidden force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Control is flowing away from authorities, and pooling in the halls of theocrats, the coffers of conglomerates, the hands of rioters. "Something is at work, very quietly, gradually", says businessman a trader character, keeping a vigilant eye on the Silk Roads from his post in an city cafe. "Things we thought were secure and solid are weakening and giving way."
The Central Mystery and Her Quest
Precisely what that force might be, and methods to fight it, is the question that drives the concluding book, which continues where its predecessor concluded. This is, reportedly, Pullman's concluding venture into the carefully crafted, infinitely beguiling universe he first revealed in the distant past, with the launch of the first trilogy. It's a world whose terrain maps on to that of the real world, but whose chronicles tacks and jibes with ours; where the humans appear and reason and act like us, but are paired by external spirits, essences in animal form; where the skies are teeming with sorceresses and gryphons, but underneath, vehicles are ridden and tea is consumed, and mature professors carry Harrods shopping bags. Our heroine, whom we first met as a young girl in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then saw again as a infant in La Belle Sauvage, the prequel with which Pullman began this trilogy, is now a young woman: still distinctly the sharp and determined heroine of the prior volumes, but older, sadder, more careful, less sure. This circumscription is heightened by her division from her daemon, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the trigger which made him desert her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
Pan's decision to leave in search of that childlike part of Lyra which she appears to have shed (an quality which he symbolizes as her "creativity"), and her quest to rejoin with him, were the incitements of the prior book, which chronicled Lyra undertake a picaresque trek across Europe and into the mountain region, encountering with amazement and risk on the way. But from the start, deeper currents were in play, and sinister powers at work. The church authority – the faith's controlling power, and the author's brilliantly sinister representation of austere, administrative evil – is under recent guidance, and showing its strength. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's uncle, who blames her for his sibling's death – has manoeuvred himself into the position of president of the church's High Council, and is determined on using his recently acquired influence to broaden the church's control. Malcolm Polstead, who saved young Lyra to refuge along a swollen river as an young boy in the prequel, is now an academic with a additional duty in spycraft: he is sent to the city to find out more about Delamare's aims. And behind all of this is the mystery surrounding the rare and costly botanical extract which appears in some way to be the cause of a social and economic upheaval rippling out from the region. The oil is viewed by various factions as a tradeable product, by alternate groups as a scientific or spiritual wonder, and by yet others – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a source of malevolence; an affront that must be destroyed. The issue of its origins, what it stands for, and whether it should be removed or preserved is coming rapidly to the fore.
As in the original trilogy, our protagonist's decisions, and her destiny, are shown to be deeply entwined with the fate of the realm
In the previous volume, these plots ran largely in parallel. In The Rose Field, they converge. Like His Dark Materials, Lyra's actions and her destiny are unveiled to be deeply woven with the fate of the world. Her private journey to reconnect with her soul and rediscover her imagination becomes the central battleground in a larger battle with an oppressive government which, as such authorities always have, is seeking to quell autonomy of thinking, innovation and expression: all the personal, resistant ways in which individuals can be independent.
Dimensional Rifts and Moral Battles
The novel begins with the unveiling of a collection of unusual fissures in the structure of the Earth's atmosphere: portals that look to open into other worlds. An example of a opening manifests to be the origin of the much debated botanical substance. The Magisterium, with the antagonist at its leadership, labels these openings as a problem to the religion's doctrine and aims to eradicate them. As Lyra begins to move from inflexible rationalism and back to instinct, nevertheless, her certainty that these places must be defended – that their significance and what they provide is mysteriously essential – increases. "The substance, or the substance, or the creativity, or the field of roses, or whatever we name it," she says, "it is necessary." The setting for a poetic conflict between innocence and knowledge is prepared.
Narrative Pacing and Personal Evolution
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
