Tings are unraveling in the last installment of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's masterful trilogies set in a universe that manifests, in this volume especially, as a charged and skewed version of our own. Institutions are failing, or reassembling themselves along new and disturbing lines. An unseen force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Power is flowing away from states, and pooling in the offices of religious leaders, the coffers of business empires, the hands of mobs. "An element is at work, stealthily, gradually", says trader a merchant figure, keeping a observant eye on the Silk Roads from his place in an city cafe. "Aspects we thought were firm and strong are deteriorating and failing."
Key Puzzle and Lyra's Journey
Precisely what that force might be, and ways to oppose it, is the question that propels this final volume, which picks up where the previous book concluded. This is, by all accounts, Pullman's last venture into the intricately constructed, deeply captivating realm he first introduced 30 years ago, with the launch of His Dark Materials. It's a realm whose terrain corresponds to that of the real world, but whose past diverges and shifts with ours; where the individuals look and think and behave like us, but are paired by animal souls, essences in beast form; where the skies are teeming with witches and mythical beasts, but underneath, vehicles are taken and beverages is drunk, and mature scholars carry fancy shopping bags. Our heroine, whom we first introduced to as a young girl in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then saw again as a toddler in the prequel, the prequel with which Pullman began the series, is now a mature individual: still distinctly the spiky and determined main character of the earlier books, but older, more sorrowful, warier, less sure. This circumscription is intensified by her separation from her soul companion, her daemon – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
Pan's decision to depart in search of that childlike part of her which she appears to have shed (an trait which he symbolizes as her "creativity"), and her journey to reunite with him, were the incitements of the prior book, which chronicled the protagonist undertake a adventurous voyage across the continent and into the Caucasus, encountering with amazement and risk on the way. But from the outset, profound shifts were in action, and sinister powers at work. The Magisterium – the church's controlling power, and the author's deliciously chilling incarnation of strict, procedural malice – is under new leadership, and flexing its muscles. The antagonist – our protagonist's uncle, who holds responsible her for his sibling's death – has worked himself into the office of president of the Magisterium's ruling assembly, and is determined on using his newfound authority to broaden the religion's rule. Malcolm Polstead, who rescued baby Lyra to safety along a swollen Thames as an 11-year-old in the prequel, is now an university scholar with a secondary role in espionage: he is sent to Geneva to find out more about his intentions. And underlying all of this is the puzzle surrounding the scarce and valuable rose oil which seems somehow to be the cause of a societal and financial disturbance emanating out from that area. The oil is regarded by some as a commercial product, by alternate groups as a empirical or spiritual miracle, and by yet others – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a wellspring of darkness; an insult that must be destroyed. The issue of its source, what it stands for, and whether it should be eliminated or preserved is coming rapidly to the fore.
Like the original trilogy, Lyra's decisions, and her future, are revealed to be deeply entwined with the destiny of the world
In The Secret Commonwealth, these narratives ran largely in side by side. In The Rose Field, they merge. Similar to His Dark Materials, her actions and her fate are revealed to be deeply linked with the fate of the universe. Her private quest to reconnect with her daemon and rediscover her vision becomes the primary battleground in a larger war with an oppressive regime which, as these systems often attempt, is seeking to suppress independence of thinking, innovation and expression: all the personal, rebellious ways in which humans can be liberated.
Atmospheric Fissures and Ideological Conflicts
The book opens with the discovery of a collection of unusual cracks in the structure of the planet's atmosphere: windows that seem to lead to other worlds. A particular window seems to be the point of the much debated rose oil. The Magisterium, with its leader at its head, classifies these portals as a threat to the church's doctrine and aims to eradicate them. As the heroine begins to turn away from rigid rationalism and return to intuition, yet, her belief that these places must be defended – that what they stand for and what they provide is mysteriously crucial – increases. "The substance, or rose oil, or the vision, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we need it." The setting for a philosophical tussle between naivety and experience is set.
Narrative Pacing and Personal Evolution
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
