Tings are collapsing in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a world that seems, now more than ever, as a charged and tilted version of our own. Establishments are crumbling, or reorganizing themselves along unfamiliar and disturbing lines. An hidden force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Power is draining from states, and gathering in the offices of religious leaders, the vaults of business empires, the hands of crowds. "Some force is at work, silently, gradually", says merchant Mustafa Bey, keeping a watchful eye on the ancient paths from his place in an city cafe. "Elements we thought were stable and durable are faltering and collapsing."
Core Enigma and Her Quest
Exactly what that force might be, and methods to fight it, is the mystery that drives this final volume, which picks up where the previous book concluded. This is, by all accounts, Pullman's last venture into the intricately constructed, endlessly enchanting world he first unveiled three decades past, with the launch of His Dark Materials. It's a domain whose geography corresponds to that of the real world, but whose chronicles tacks and jibes with ours; where the people look and think and behave like us, but are joined by external spirits, beings in animal form; where the heavens are teeming with sorceresses and legendary creatures, but below, vehicles are taken and tea is drunk, and middle-aged academics carry luxury shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first encountered as a child in the original trilogy, and then saw again as a toddler in the prequel, the introductory book with which the author began the series, is now a adult: still clearly the prickly and persistent protagonist of the earlier books, but more mature, melancholic, more careful, more doubtful. This restraint is amplified by her division from her animal guide, Pan – but it was also, paradoxically, the trigger which led him to leave her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
The daemon's resolve to go off in pursuit of that childlike part of Lyra which she seems to have lost (an aspect which he represents as her "creativity"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the incitements of the prior book, which saw the protagonist undertake a wandering trek across Europe and into the Caucasus, encountering with amazement and danger on the way. But from the start, profound shifts were in play, and darker forces at work. The Magisterium – the church's governing authority, and the author's deliciously chilling representation of austere, procedural wickedness – is under new leadership, and asserting its power. The antagonist – our protagonist's relative, who faults her for his family member's death – has worked himself into the position of president of the Magisterium's governing body, and is determined on using his recently acquired authority to expand the religion's rule. Malcolm Polstead, who rescued baby Lyra to refuge along a swollen Thames as an young boy in the prequel, is now an academic with a additional duty in spycraft: he is sent to Geneva to find out more about Delamare's plans. And beneath all of this is the puzzle surrounding the scarce and costly rose oil which manifests mysteriously to be the origin of a societal and economic crisis rippling out from Central Asia. The substance is regarded by certain groups as a marketable commodity, by others as a research-based or mystical wonder, and by further factions – the fanatical "highland figures" – as a origin of malevolence; an affront that must be obliterated. The dilemma of its source, what it stands for, and whether it should be eliminated or preserved is escalating in importance.
Similar to the original trilogy, Lyra's deeds, and her fate, are revealed to be inextricably linked with the destiny of the world
In the previous volume, these narratives ran broadly in parallel. In this final book, they come together. Like the original series, her actions and her fate are unveiled to be inextricably linked with the destiny of the realm. Her private journey to reconnect with her daemon and regain her imagination becomes the primary struggle in a wider war with an authoritarian regime which, as such authorities always have, is striving to stifle freedom of reason, creativity and culture: all the inner, defiant ways in which people can be liberated.
Dimensional Rifts and Ideological Conflicts
The novel begins with the unveiling of a collection of unusual fissures in the structure of the Earth's sky: portals that appear to lead to alternate realities. One such window seems to be the source of the highly contested botanical substance. The authority, with Delamare at its head, labels these windows as a threat to the religion's beliefs and aims to eradicate them. As Lyra begins to move from inflexible reason and revert to intuition, however, her belief that these places must be protected – that what they stand for and what they provide is somehow essential – increases. "Dust, or the extract, or the vision, or the field of roses, or no matter what we name it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a poetic struggle between naivety and experience is set.
Narrative Pacing and Protagonist Growth
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
