Tings are falling apart in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the second of the author's masterful trilogies set in a world that manifests, here more than ever, as a charged and slanted version of our own. Establishments are weakening, or reorganizing themselves along unfamiliar and disturbing lines. An hidden force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Power is shifting from states, and accumulating in the offices of religious leaders, the treasuries of business empires, the grasp of mobs. "An element is at work, very quietly, gradually", says trader a trader character, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his place in an city cafe. "Elements we thought were firm and strong are weakening and failing."
The Central Mystery and Lyra's Journey
Exactly what that element might be, and methods to fight it, is the question that propels this final volume, which picks up where the previous book concluded. This is, reportedly, Pullman's final venture into the elaborately built, infinitely beguiling world he first unveiled 30 years ago, with the release of His Dark Materials. It's a world whose terrain aligns with that of this world, but whose chronicles tacks and jibes with ours; where the people appear and reason and behave like us, but are joined by animal souls, beings in animal form; where the skies are filled with sorceresses and legendary creatures, but below, transports are ridden and tea is consumed, and mature professors carry Harrods shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first introduced to as a young girl in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then revisited as a infant in La Belle Sauvage, the prequel with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a young woman: still recognisably the prickly and persistent main character of the previous installments, but older, more sorrowful, more careful, less sure. This restraint is heightened by her split from her daemon, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the trigger which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
His choice to go off in pursuit of that childlike part of Lyra which she may have forgotten (an trait which he represents as her "vision"), and her journey to reunite with him, were the incitements of the prior book, which followed the protagonist undertake a adventurous trek across the continent and into the Caucasus, meeting with marvel and peril on the way. But from the beginning, underlying forces were in play, and darker forces at work. The church authority – the church's governing authority, and Pullman's deliciously chilling representation of austere, procedural evil – is under fresh command, and showing its strength. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's family member, who blames her for his sibling's death – has manoeuvred himself into the role of president of the church's High Council, and is intent on using his fresh influence to expand the church's control. Another protagonist, who carried young the heroine to refuge along a flooded river as an child in La Belle Sauvage, is now an university scholar with a sideline in intelligence work: he is sent to Geneva to learn more about his intentions. And behind all of this is the mystery surrounding the scarce and costly rose oil which seems mysteriously to be the origin of a social and economic crisis emanating out from that area. The oil is viewed by certain groups as a marketable good, by different parties as a scientific or spiritual phenomenon, and by further factions – the extremist "men from the mountains" – as a source of malevolence; an affront that must be destroyed. The dilemma of its origins, its meaning, and whether it should be destroyed or preserved is escalating in importance.
Similar to His Dark Materials, our protagonist's deeds, and her destiny, are shown to be inextricably connected with the future of the realm
In the previous volume, these storylines ran broadly in side by side. In the conclusion, they converge. Like His Dark Materials, the protagonist's actions and her destiny are revealed to be inextricably woven with the future of the world. Her private journey to reconnect with her soul and regain her imagination becomes the key battleground in a broader battle with an controlling system which, as these systems typically do, is attempting to stifle freedom of thought, innovation and culture: all the internal, defiant ways in which people can be liberated.
Cosmic Openings and Moral Battles
The novel starts with the finding of a set of unusual openings in the makeup of the world's air: gateways that seem to give on to different dimensions. An example of a portal appears to be the origin of the highly contested rose oil. The authority, with its leader at its helm, classifies these windows as a problem to the church's doctrine and aims to eradicate them. As the heroine begins to move from inflexible rationalism and return to feeling, however, her belief that these places must be defended – that their significance and their value is mysteriously essential – increases. "Cosmic particles, or rose oil, or the vision, or the field of roses, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we require it." The setting for a poetic tussle between purity and knowledge is set.
Narrative Pacing and Personal Evolution
At over six hundred pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
