Tings are unraveling in the last installment of The Book of Dust, the next of Philip Pullman's masterful trilogies set in a universe that appears, here more than ever, as a energized and tilted version of our own. Establishments are crumbling, or reassembling themselves along unfamiliar and troubling lines. An invisible force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Authority is flowing away from states, and accumulating in the halls of religious leaders, the treasuries of conglomerates, the hands of rioters. "Something is at work, stealthily, gradually", says trader a merchant figure, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his post in an Aleppo cafe. "Things we thought were stable and strong are faltering and giving way."
The Central Mystery and The Protagonist's Path
Just what that element might be, and methods to fight it, is the inquiry that propels The Rose Field, which resumes where its predecessor left off. This is, reportedly, the author's last excursion into the carefully crafted, deeply captivating realm he first unveiled 30 years ago, with the publication of Northern Lights. It's a realm whose geography corresponds to that of our world, but whose past veers and changes with ours; where the individuals look and reason and act like us, but are joined by external spirits, essences in animal form; where the skies are filled with sorceresses and legendary creatures, but beneath those skies, vehicles are caught and tea is sipped, and middle-aged professors carry Harrods shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first encountered as a 12-year-old in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then met once more as a infant in the first volume, the origin story with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a mature individual: still clearly the spiky and tenacious main character of the prior volumes, but older, melancholic, more careful, less certain. This limitation is heightened by her split from her animal guide, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
Pan's decision to go off in pursuit of that youthful part of the heroine which she appears to have shed (an quality which he epitomises as her "creativity"), and her quest to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of The Secret Commonwealth, which followed the protagonist undertake a wandering trek across the continent and into the Caucasus, facing with wonder and risk on the way. But from the beginning, underlying forces were in play, and darker forces at work. The church authority – the faith's governing authority, and Pullman's brilliantly sinister incarnation of austere, procedural malice – is under fresh command, and showing its strength. The antagonist – the heroine's relative, who holds responsible her for his sibling's death – has positioned himself into the office of head of the church's High Council, and is intent on using his recently acquired authority to broaden the religion's control. A key character, who rescued baby the heroine to safety along a swollen Thames as an young boy in the prequel, is now an Oxford don with a sideline in intelligence work: he is sent to a key location to find out more about his aims. And behind all of this is the mystery surrounding the uncommon and valuable essential oil which seems mysteriously to be the origin of a social and economic disturbance rippling out from that area. The oil is seen by certain groups as a tradeable good, by alternate groups as a scientific or mystical wonder, and by yet others – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a source of evil; an challenge that must be obliterated. The issue of its origins, what it stands for, and if it should be removed or safeguarded is becoming urgent.
Similar to the original trilogy, the heroine's actions, and her future, are revealed to be inextricably entwined with the fate of the world
In its predecessor, these storylines ran mostly in tandem. In this final book, they come together. As in the original series, her movements and her fate are unveiled to be inextricably entwined with the future of the universe. Her personal journey to reconnect with her companion and recover her creativity becomes the primary struggle in a wider war with an controlling regime which, as these systems often attempt, is striving to stifle independence of thinking, innovation and art: all the internal, defiant ways in which individuals can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Moral Battles
The novel opens with the finding of a collection of strange openings in the fabric of the world's air: gateways that seem to give on to other worlds. A particular window seems to be the origin of the highly contested rose oil. The Magisterium, with Delamare at its leadership, classifies these portals as a problem to the religion's beliefs and endeavors to eliminate them. As Lyra begins to move from strict logic and back to feeling, yet, her certainty that these places must be preserved – that what they stand for and what they offer is in some way crucial – strengthens. "Cosmic particles, or the substance, or the vision, or the field of roses, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we require it." The stage for a philosophical conflict between innocence and knowledge is prepared.
Story Tempo and Personal Evolution
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
