Things are falling apart in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a universe that appears, here more than ever, as a charged and tilted version of our own. Institutions are weakening, or reorganizing themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An hidden force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Authority is flowing away from governments, and pooling in the chambers of religious leaders, the coffers of conglomerates, the control of crowds. "An element is at work, silently, imperceptibly", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a observant eye on the trade routes from his place in an city cafe. "Elements we thought were stable and solid are deteriorating and failing."
Key Puzzle and Her Quest
Just what that something might be, and methods to fight it, is the mystery that drives the concluding book, which resumes where its predecessor ended. This is, according to many, the author's concluding excursion into the elaborately built, endlessly enchanting realm he first revealed 30 years ago, with the publication of Northern Lights. It's a domain whose geography maps on to that of this world, but whose chronicles tacks and jibes with ours; where the humans look and reason and act like us, but are accompanied by animal souls, essences in beast form; where the skies are teeming with enchantresses and legendary creatures, but beneath those skies, transports are taken and drinks is drunk, and mature academics carry fancy shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first met as a child in the original trilogy, and then saw again as a toddler in La Belle Sauvage, the introductory book with which Pullman began this trilogy, is now a mature individual: still clearly the sharp and determined main character of the prior volumes, but more mature, more sorrowful, more cautious, less sure. This limitation is amplified by her division from her daemon, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which led him to leave her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
The daemon's resolve to depart in search of that innocent part of Lyra which she may have forgotten (an trait which he symbolizes as her "creativity"), and her mission to rejoin with him, were the incitements of its predecessor, which followed the protagonist undertake a picaresque trek across the continent and into the Caucasus, encountering with amazement and danger on the way. But from the beginning, profound shifts were in play, and sinister powers at work. The religious council – the religious governing authority, and the author's masterfully eerie representation of austere, administrative wickedness – is under recent guidance, and flexing its muscles. Lyra's uncle – the heroine's family member, who faults her for his family member's death – has positioned himself into the office of leader of the authority's ruling assembly, and is determined on using his recently acquired influence to broaden the church's dominium. Malcolm Polstead, who saved baby Lyra to security along a swollen river as an child in the prequel, is now an university scholar with a sideline in spycraft: he is dispatched to a key location to discover more about Delamare's plans. And behind all of this is the enigma surrounding the uncommon and precious botanical extract which appears in some way to be the cause of a societal and economic upheaval spreading out from Central Asia. The substance is regarded by some as a commercial product, by alternate groups as a scientific or mystical miracle, and by others still – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a source of darkness; an challenge that must be eradicated. The dilemma of its source, its meaning, and whether it should be removed or protected is becoming urgent.
Like the original trilogy, the heroine's actions, and her future, are demonstrated to be inseparably connected with the future of the realm
In its predecessor, these storylines ran largely in parallel. In The Rose Field, they converge. Similar to His Dark Materials, her movements and her path are revealed to be inextricably woven with the future of the realm. Her personal quest to reconnect with her daemon and rediscover her imagination becomes the key battleground in a wider battle with an authoritarian system which, as these systems often attempt, is attempting to suppress freedom of reason, innovation and art: all the personal, rebellious ways in which individuals can be free.
Atmospheric Fissures and Ideological Conflicts
The novel begins with the discovery of a series of unusual cracks in the makeup of the Earth's sky: windows that appear to lead to different dimensions. One such portal appears to be the point of the highly contested rose oil. The church, with the antagonist at its helm, labels these openings as a threat to the institution's orthodoxy and endeavors to eliminate them. As our protagonist begins to move from strict reason and revert to intuition, however, her belief that these sites must be defended – that their significance and what they provide is in some way crucial – strengthens. "Cosmic particles, or the extract, or the imagination, or the field of roses, or whatever we name it," she says, "we need it." The stage for a poetic struggle between innocence and maturity is prepared.
Plot Rhythm and Personal Evolution
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
