Tings are collapsing in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the second of the author's grand trilogies set in a realm that manifests, here more than ever, as a energized and slanted version of our own. Establishments are weakening, or reassembling themselves along unfamiliar and disquieting lines. An hidden force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Authority is shifting from states, and accumulating in the halls of religious leaders, the vaults of corporations, the control of rioters. "Some force is at work, silently, imperceptibly", says merchant Mustafa Bey, keeping a observant eye on the trade routes from his seat in an Aleppo cafe. "Things we thought were stable and durable are deteriorating and failing."
Core Enigma and The Protagonist's Path
Precisely what that something might be, and ways to oppose it, is the question that animates the concluding book, which continues where the previous book left off. This is, according to many, the author's final foray into the carefully crafted, infinitely beguiling realm he first unveiled in the distant past, with the publication of Northern Lights. It's a domain whose landscape corresponds to that of our world, but whose chronicles veers and changes with ours; where the individuals appear and reason and act like us, but are joined by animal souls, beings in animal form; where the air are populated with witches and legendary creatures, but underneath, transports are ridden and drinks is sipped, and mature scholars carry fancy shopping bags. Our heroine, whom we first met as a child in the original trilogy, and then met once more as a toddler in the prequel, the introductory book with which Pullman began this trilogy, is now a young woman: still recognisably the prickly and persistent heroine of the previous installments, but older, sadder, warier, more doubtful. This limitation is intensified by her separation from her animal guide, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which made him desert her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
His choice to leave in quest of that childlike part of her which she may have forgotten (an quality which he epitomises as her "imagination"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of its predecessor, which saw Lyra undertake a picaresque trek across the continent 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 church authority – the church's governing authority, and Pullman's deliciously chilling embodiment of austere, procedural malice – is under recent guidance, and flexing its muscles. Marcel Delamare – Lyra's relative, who blames her for his sister's death – has positioned himself into the office of leader of the Magisterium's High Council, and is intent on using his recently acquired influence to expand the institution's control. Another protagonist, who saved young Lyra to safety along a overflowing Thames as an 11-year-old in the prequel, is now an Oxford don with a secondary role in spycraft: he is dispatched to Geneva to discover more about the antagonist's plans. And beneath all of this is the enigma surrounding the scarce and valuable essential oil which appears in some way to be the origin of a societal and financial disturbance rippling out from the region. The extract is regarded by certain groups as a marketable commodity, by others as a scientific or mystical wonder, and by further factions – the fanatical "highland figures" – as a source of evil; an insult that must be eradicated. The issue of where it comes from, its significance, and whether it should be destroyed or preserved is becoming urgent.
As in the first series, our protagonist's deeds, and her future, are shown to be inseparably connected with the fate of the universe
In its predecessor, these storylines ran broadly in tandem. In the conclusion, they come together. Similar to His Dark Materials, Lyra's actions and her destiny are shown to be inseparably woven with the destiny of the universe. Her private journey to reconnect with her soul and recover her imagination becomes the central battleground in a wider battle with an controlling regime which, as these systems often attempt, is attempting to stifle independence of thought, creativity and culture: all the personal, defiant ways in which individuals can be independent.
Dimensional Rifts and Ideological Conflicts
The book starts with the unveiling of a collection of unusual cracks in the structure of the planet's sky: windows that appear to lead to alternate realities. An example of a window seems to be the origin of the fiercely disputed mystical extract. The church, with the antagonist at its helm, labels these openings as a problem to the church's doctrine and endeavors to eradicate them. As Lyra begins to turn away from inflexible reason and revert to feeling, however, her certainty that these sites must be protected – that their significance and their value is in some way vital – grows. "The substance, or the extract, or the vision, or the field of roses, or whatever we label it," she says, "we require it." The setting for a philosophical tussle between innocence and knowledge is prepared.
Plot Rhythm and Protagonist Growth
At over six hundred pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
