Things are falling apart in the last installment of The Book of Dust, the next of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a world that seems, here more than ever, as a intense and tilted version of our own. Organizations are failing, or restructuring themselves along unfamiliar and disturbing lines. An unseen force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Power is draining from states, and gathering in the halls of religious leaders, the coffers of conglomerates, the hands of crowds. "Some force is at work, silently, gradually", says businessman Mustafa Bey, keeping a observant eye on the trade routes from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Things we thought were firm and strong are weakening and giving way."
Core Enigma and Lyra's Journey
Precisely what that force might be, and how to counteract it, is the question that animates the concluding book, which resumes where The Secret Commonwealth ended. This is, according to many, Pullman's last foray into the carefully crafted, endlessly enchanting world he first revealed in the distant past, with the launch of Northern Lights. It's a world whose geography corresponds to that of our world, but whose history tacks and jibes with ours; where the individuals appear and reason and act like us, but are accompanied by animal souls, essences in beast form; where the skies are teeming with enchantresses and gryphons, but underneath, buses are taken and drinks is drunk, and middle-aged academics carry fancy shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first met as a child in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then revisited as a baby in the prequel, the introductory book with which the author began this trilogy, is now a adult: still recognisably the sharp and persistent main character of the earlier books, but more mature, melancholic, more cautious, more doubtful. This circumscription is amplified by her separation from her soul companion, Pan – but it was also, paradoxically, the cause which led him to leave her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
The daemon's resolve to depart in search of that youthful part of Lyra which she appears to have shed (an aspect which he epitomises as her "vision"), and her journey to reunite with him, were the driving forces of its predecessor, which chronicled the protagonist undertake a adventurous trek across the continent and into the mountain region, facing with wonder and danger on the way. But from the beginning, profound shifts were in motion, and sinister powers at work. The church authority – the faith's ruling body, and Pullman's brilliantly sinister incarnation of rigid, bureaucratic evil – is under new leadership, and flexing its muscles. The antagonist – the heroine's family member, who faults her for his sister's death – has worked himself into the role of president of the authority's governing body, and is determined on using his recently acquired influence to broaden the religion's dominium. Another protagonist, who carried baby the heroine to safety along a overflowing Thames as an young boy in the prequel, is now an university scholar with a additional duty in intelligence work: he is sent to a key location to learn more about Delamare's aims. And underlying all of this is the puzzle surrounding the uncommon and valuable botanical extract which seems in some way to be the source of a societal and financial upheaval spreading out from Central Asia. The oil is viewed by certain groups as a tradeable commodity, by different parties as a empirical or mystical phenomenon, and by further factions – the zealous "men from the mountains" – as a source of evil; an affront that must be obliterated. The dilemma of its source, its meaning, and if it should be removed or preserved is becoming urgent.
Like His Dark Materials, Lyra's decisions, and her fate, are shown to be inextricably linked with the fate of the realm
In the previous volume, these storylines ran broadly in parallel. In the conclusion, they merge. Similar to the first trilogy, Lyra's actions and her fate are shown to be inseparably entwined with the fate of the universe. Her personal mission to reconnect with her soul and regain her creativity becomes the key conflict in a broader war with an oppressive government which, as these systems always have, is attempting to quell autonomy of thought, originality and art: all the personal, rebellious ways in which individuals can be liberated.
Dimensional Rifts and Philosophical Struggles
The novel begins with the unveiling of a collection of strange cracks in the makeup of the Earth's sky: windows that look to lead to alternate realities. An example of a window appears to be the source of the highly contested botanical substance. The church, with its leader at its leadership, designates these windows as a problem to the institution's beliefs and endeavors to eliminate them. As the heroine begins to shift from inflexible logic and return to feeling, yet, her belief that these places must be defended – that their significance and their value is in some way essential – strengthens. "Cosmic particles, or the substance, or the creativity, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we call it," she says, "it is necessary." The scene for a poetic struggle between naivety and maturity is prepared.
Story Tempo and Protagonist Growth
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
