Tings are falling apart in the concluding book of The Dust Trilogy, the second of Philip Pullman's masterful trilogies set in a world that appears, in this volume especially, as a charged and tilted version of our own. Organizations are failing, or reorganizing themselves along new and troubling lines. An hidden force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Power is draining from states, and gathering in the halls of religious leaders, the treasuries of conglomerates, the grasp of mobs. "Some force is at work, stealthily, imperceptibly", says trader a trader character, keeping a watchful eye on the Silk Roads from his post in an city cafe. "Things we thought were secure and solid are faltering and collapsing."
Key Puzzle and Lyra's Journey
Precisely what that something might be, and ways to oppose it, is the inquiry that animates the concluding book, which resumes where The Secret Commonwealth ended. This is, by all accounts, the author's final venture into the intricately constructed, deeply captivating universe he first unveiled in the distant past, with the publication of His Dark Materials. It's a world whose terrain maps on to that of our world, but whose chronicles diverges and shifts with ours; where the humans look and think and act like us, but are paired by external spirits, beings in beast form; where the air are populated with witches and legendary creatures, but underneath, transports are taken and tea is drunk, and mature academics carry luxury shopping bags. Our heroine, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then revisited as a baby in La Belle Sauvage, the introductory book with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a young woman: still recognisably the spiky and persistent protagonist of the previous installments, but more mature, more sorrowful, more cautious, more doubtful. This restraint is heightened by her split from her soul companion, Pan – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which made him desert her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
His choice to go off in pursuit of that youthful part of the heroine which she appears to have shed (an trait which he symbolizes as her "creativity"), and her quest to rejoin with him, were the catalysts of the prior book, which chronicled the protagonist undertake a adventurous trek across the continent and into the mountain region, encountering with marvel and danger on the way. But from the beginning, profound shifts were in motion, and darker forces at work. The religious council – the church's controlling power, and the author's brilliantly sinister representation of strict, procedural evil – is under fresh command, and asserting its power. Lyra's uncle – the heroine's relative, who holds responsible her for his sister's death – has manoeuvred himself into the office of head of the church's High Council, and is set on using his newfound influence to broaden the church's control. Malcolm Polstead, who carried infant Lyra to safety along a overflowing Thames as an young boy in the first book, is now an university scholar with a additional duty in intelligence work: he is sent to the city to discover more about his intentions. And behind all of this is the enigma surrounding the scarce and costly botanical extract which seems somehow to be the origin of a societal and economic disturbance rippling out from that area. The extract is viewed by some as a marketable commodity, by others as a research-based or mystical phenomenon, and by others still – the fanatical "men from the mountains" – as a wellspring of evil; an insult that must be eradicated. The dilemma of its origins, what it stands for, and if it should be removed or preserved is becoming urgent.
Like the original trilogy, Lyra's decisions, and her fate, are revealed to be deeply linked with the future of the world
In The Secret Commonwealth, these narratives ran largely in tandem. In this final book, they merge. Similar to the original series, the protagonist's actions and her destiny are shown to be inseparably woven with the future of the universe. Her personal mission to rejoin with her daemon and recover her imagination becomes the primary struggle in a wider battle with an controlling government which, as these systems typically do, is striving to quell autonomy of thought, innovation and expression: all the inner, rebellious ways in which people can be liberated.
Cosmic Openings and Ideological Conflicts
The novel starts with the finding of a set of strange cracks in the fabric of the world's sky: gateways that seem to lead to alternate realities. A particular opening seems to be the point of the fiercely disputed botanical substance. The church, with Delamare at its helm, classifies these windows as a threat to the institution's orthodoxy and endeavors to eliminate them. As our protagonist begins to turn away from rigid logic and back to instinct, nevertheless, her belief that these sites must be protected – that their meaning and what they offer is mysteriously crucial – strengthens. "The substance, or rose oil, or the creativity, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we label it," she says, "it is necessary." The setting for a Blakean tussle between innocence and maturity is prepared.
Story Tempo and Protagonist Growth
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
