Things are unraveling in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's masterful trilogies set in a universe that manifests, now more than ever, as a intense and slanted version of our own. Establishments are failing, or reorganizing themselves along new and troubling lines. An hidden force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Authority is draining from states, and pooling in the chambers of theocrats, the vaults of corporations, the hands of mobs. "An element is at work, stealthily, gradually", says trader Mustafa Bey, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his seat in an city cafe. "Aspects we thought were firm and solid are weakening and giving way."
Key Puzzle and Lyra's Journey
Precisely what that force might be, and methods to fight it, is the mystery that animates this final volume, which picks up where the previous book concluded. This is, reportedly, the author's final venture into the carefully crafted, infinitely beguiling universe he first unveiled three decades past, with the launch of the first trilogy. It's a realm whose geography maps on to that of the real world, but whose history tacks and jibes with ours; where the individuals appear and think and behave like us, but are accompanied by external spirits, beings in creature form; where the skies are populated with enchantresses and mythical beasts, but below, buses are taken and beverages is consumed, and mature scholars carry luxury shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first met as a child in the original trilogy, and then saw again as a toddler in the prequel, the origin story with which the author began this trilogy, is now a adult: still distinctly the prickly and determined protagonist of the prior volumes, but more mature, more sorrowful, more careful, less certain. This circumscription is intensified by her separation from her daemon, Pantalaimon – but it was also, paradoxically, the cause which led him to leave her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
His choice to leave in quest of that innocent part of Lyra which she appears to have shed (an quality which he epitomises as her "creativity"), and her quest to rejoin with him, were the incitements of its predecessor, which saw Lyra undertake a wandering voyage across Europe and into the mountain region, facing with marvel and risk on the way. But from the start, deeper currents were in play, and malevolent elements at work. The religious council – the religious controlling power, and Pullman's brilliantly sinister representation of austere, bureaucratic malice – is under new leadership, and asserting its power. Marcel Delamare – the heroine's relative, who faults her for his sister's death – has positioned himself into the role of leader of the Magisterium's ruling assembly, and is determined on using his newfound power to extend the church's control. A key character, who saved young the heroine to security along a overflowing Thames as an 11-year-old in the first book, is now an university scholar with a additional duty in spycraft: he is sent to Geneva to find out more about his aims. And beneath all of this is the enigma surrounding the scarce and valuable rose oil which seems somehow to be the origin of a societal and financial crisis spreading out from Central Asia. The extract is regarded by certain groups as a marketable commodity, by alternate groups as a research-based or mystical phenomenon, and by others still – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a origin of evil; an challenge that must be eradicated. The dilemma 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, Lyra's deeds, and her destiny, are shown to be inextricably connected with the destiny of the realm
In the previous volume, these plots ran mostly in tandem. In the conclusion, they come together. As in His Dark Materials, Lyra's actions and her fate are revealed to be deeply entwined with the fate of the world. Her personal journey to reunite with her daemon and rediscover her vision becomes the key battleground in a broader battle with an controlling government which, as such authorities often attempt, is seeking to suppress independence of thinking, innovation and expression: all the inner, resistant ways in which humans can be liberated.
Cosmic Openings and Moral Battles
The book starts with the discovery of a series of curious cracks in the makeup of the planet's air: portals that appear to give on to different dimensions. A particular opening seems to be the source of the much debated rose oil. The authority, with the antagonist at its helm, designates these portals as a threat to the church's orthodoxy and sets out to eradicate them. As the heroine begins to shift from inflexible rationalism and revert to intuition, nevertheless, her certainty that these sites must be protected – that their significance and what they provide is somehow essential – increases. "Dust, or rose oil, or the imagination, or the botanical realm, or whatever we call it," she says, "we need it." The scene for a Blakean struggle between naivety and maturity is established.
Story Tempo and Personal Evolution
At over six hundred pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
