Things are collapsing in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a realm that manifests, now more than ever, as a intense and slanted version of our own. Organizations are failing, or reorganizing themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An hidden force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Control is draining from states, and pooling in the offices of religious leaders, the coffers of conglomerates, the hands of rioters. "Some force is at work, very quietly, very subtly", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a watchful eye on the ancient paths from his post in an city cafe. "Elements we thought were firm and strong are weakening and giving way."
Key Puzzle and The Protagonist's Path
Just what that element might be, and ways to oppose it, is the question that animates this final volume, which resumes where the previous book left off. This is, according to many, Pullman's last excursion into the elaborately built, endlessly enchanting world he first introduced in the distant past, with the launch of Northern Lights. It's a world whose terrain aligns with that of this world, but whose history tacks and jibes with ours; where the humans look and reason and behave like us, but are paired by external spirits, beings in creature form; where the skies are filled with enchantresses and mythical beasts, but below, vehicles are ridden and drinks is consumed, and middle-aged professors carry Harrods shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the first trilogy, and then saw again as a toddler in the prequel, the introductory book with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a mature individual: still distinctly the spiky and persistent heroine of the previous installments, but older, more sorrowful, more careful, less certain. This limitation is amplified by her split from her animal guide, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the cause which led him to leave her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
The daemon's resolve to go off in quest of that youthful part of Lyra which she appears to have shed (an trait which he represents as her "creativity"), and her quest to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of its predecessor, which saw the protagonist undertake a wandering voyage across the continent and into the mountain region, encountering with marvel and peril on the way. But from the beginning, deeper currents were in play, and sinister powers at work. The Magisterium – the religious controlling power, and the author's deliciously chilling representation of rigid, procedural evil – is under new leadership, and flexing its muscles. Marcel Delamare – Lyra's relative, who faults her for his sibling's death – has positioned himself into the position of leader of the Magisterium's governing body, and is intent on using his recently acquired power to extend the institution's dominium. Malcolm Polstead, who rescued baby the heroine to security along a flooded river as an child in the prequel, is now an academic with a sideline in intelligence work: he is assigned to a key location to discover more about the antagonist's plans. And behind all of this is the mystery surrounding the uncommon and valuable rose oil which seems somehow to be the source of a social and economic upheaval spreading out from that area. The oil is viewed by certain groups as a marketable commodity, by different parties as a empirical or spiritual miracle, and by yet others – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a source of evil; an insult that must be eradicated. The dilemma of its origins, what it stands for, and whether it should be destroyed or protected is becoming urgent.
As in the first series, Lyra's actions, and her future, are demonstrated to be inextricably entwined with the destiny of the world
In The Secret Commonwealth, these storylines ran broadly in tandem. In this final book, they come together. Similar to the first trilogy, the protagonist's movements and her path are revealed to be inseparably woven with the destiny of the universe. Her private quest to reunite with her companion and recover her creativity becomes the central struggle in a wider war with an oppressive system which, as such authorities always have, is attempting to quell autonomy of thought, innovation and art: all the personal, rebellious ways in which people can be free.
Dimensional Rifts and Moral Battles
The story opens with the unveiling of a series of unusual cracks in the fabric of the world's sky: portals that seem to give on to alternate realities. An example of a window manifests to be the origin of the highly contested mystical extract. The Magisterium, with its leader at its head, designates these portals as a challenge to the institution's doctrine and aims to eliminate them. As Lyra begins to shift from rigid rationalism and back to instinct, yet, her belief that these sites must be defended – that their significance and their value is mysteriously essential – strengthens. "Cosmic particles, or the extract, or the vision, or the botanical realm, or whatever we label it," she says, "it is necessary." The setting for a Blakean tussle between innocence and maturity is set.
Plot Rhythm and Character Development
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
