Things are falling apart in the concluding book of The Dust Trilogy, the second of Philip Pullman's masterful trilogies set in a realm that seems, now more than ever, as a intense and tilted version of our own. Establishments are crumbling, or reassembling themselves along new and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Power is flowing away from states, and gathering in the chambers of religious leaders, the vaults of business empires, the control of rioters. "An element is at work, stealthily, very subtly", 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 solid are weakening and collapsing."
The Central Mystery and Lyra's Journey
Precisely what that element might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that drives the concluding book, which continues where the previous book left off. This is, reportedly, the author's final venture into the elaborately built, infinitely beguiling universe he first unveiled in the distant past, with the publication of Northern Lights. It's a world whose landscape maps on to that of our world, but whose past veers and changes with ours; where the individuals look and reason and behave like us, but are joined by daemons, essences in creature form; where the skies are populated with enchantresses and gryphons, but below, transports are taken and beverages is consumed, and middle-aged scholars carry fancy shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first introduced to as a young girl in the original trilogy, and then met once more as a baby in the prequel, the prequel with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a adult: still distinctly the spiky and tenacious heroine of the earlier books, but more mature, sadder, warier, less certain. This circumscription is amplified by her split from her soul companion, her daemon – but it was also, paradoxically, the cause which led him to leave her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
The daemon's resolve to go off in search of that youthful part of Lyra which she may have forgotten (an trait which he symbolizes as her "creativity"), and her mission to reunite with him, were the driving forces of The Secret Commonwealth, which followed the protagonist undertake a adventurous voyage across Europe and into the Caucasus, meeting with amazement and risk on the way. But from the outset, deeper currents were in motion, and sinister powers at work. The Magisterium – the faith's controlling power, and Pullman's deliciously chilling incarnation of austere, administrative wickedness – is under new leadership, and flexing its muscles. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's family member, who blames her for his family member's death – has manoeuvred himself into the office of president of the authority's ruling assembly, and is intent on using his newfound influence to expand the religion's control. Malcolm Polstead, who carried young Lyra to refuge along a swollen Thames as an 11-year-old in La Belle Sauvage, is now an academic with a secondary role in spycraft: he is sent to Geneva to learn more about the antagonist's intentions. And behind all of this is the enigma surrounding the uncommon and valuable essential oil which appears somehow to be the source of a social and economic crisis emanating out from that area. The oil is regarded by various factions as a tradeable product, by different parties as a empirical or esoteric phenomenon, and by yet others – the fanatical "men from the mountains" – as a source of malevolence; an insult that must be eradicated. The dilemma of its source, what it stands for, and if it should be destroyed or safeguarded is escalating in importance.
As in the original trilogy, the heroine's deeds, and her future, are demonstrated to be deeply connected with the fate of the realm
In The Secret Commonwealth, these storylines ran largely in tandem. In The Rose Field, they converge. Similar to the first trilogy, Lyra's movements and her path are revealed to be deeply linked with the future of the world. Her personal journey to reconnect with her soul and recover her vision becomes the primary conflict in a wider war with an controlling regime which, as these systems often attempt, is striving to stifle autonomy of thinking, innovation and culture: all the internal, resistant ways in which humans can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Moral Battles
The story begins with the unveiling of a collection of unusual openings in the structure of the Earth's air: portals that look to lead to different dimensions. One such opening seems to be the point of the highly contested rose oil. The church, with Delamare at its head, classifies these portals as a problem to the church's doctrine and aims to eliminate them. As the heroine begins to shift from rigid logic and return to intuition, yet, her belief that these places must be protected – that their meaning and what they provide is mysteriously vital – grows. "The substance, or rose oil, or the imagination, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we label it," she says, "we need it." The scene for a Blakean tussle between innocence and experience is prepared.
Narrative Pacing and Protagonist Growth
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
