Things are falling apart in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the second of the author's grand trilogies set in a universe that manifests, in this volume especially, as a intense and tilted version of our own. Organizations are crumbling, or restructuring themselves along unfamiliar and troubling lines. An invisible force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Power is shifting from governments, and gathering in the halls of theocrats, the vaults of conglomerates, the control of mobs. "An element is at work, stealthily, very subtly", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a watchful eye on the Silk Roads from his seat in an city cafe. "Aspects we thought were secure and solid are weakening and giving way."
Core Enigma and Lyra's Journey
Precisely what that element might be, and ways to oppose it, is the question that animates The Rose Field, which resumes where its predecessor concluded. This is, reportedly, the author's last venture into the elaborately built, deeply captivating universe he first introduced 30 years ago, with the launch of the first trilogy. It's a domain whose geography maps on to that of the real world, but whose chronicles diverges and shifts with ours; where the individuals look and reason and act like us, but are accompanied by daemons, essences in creature form; where the air are populated with enchantresses and mythical beasts, but below, transports are caught and tea is drunk, and mature professors carry Harrods shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first met as a young girl in the first trilogy, and then met once more as a infant in the first volume, the origin story with which the author began the series, is now a mature individual: still distinctly the spiky and tenacious heroine of the prior volumes, but older, melancholic, warier, less sure. This circumscription is intensified by her split from her animal guide, Pan – but it was also, unexpectedly, the cause which made him desert her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
Pan's decision to go off in quest of that youthful part of the heroine which she seems to have lost (an quality which he epitomises as her "creativity"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the driving forces of its predecessor, which saw the protagonist undertake a adventurous journey across Europe and into the mountain region, facing with amazement and danger on the way. But from the beginning, profound shifts were in motion, and sinister powers at work. The Magisterium – the church's governing authority, and Pullman's masterfully eerie incarnation of rigid, procedural malice – is under new leadership, and showing its strength. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's relative, who holds responsible her for his sister's death – has positioned himself into the office of head of the authority's governing body, and is determined on using his newfound power to extend the religion's control. Malcolm Polstead, who rescued infant the heroine to security along a swollen river as an 11-year-old in the first book, is now an Oxford don with a secondary role in espionage: he is assigned to the city to learn more about the antagonist's plans. And behind all of this is the puzzle surrounding the rare and precious botanical extract which appears somehow to be the cause of a social and financial crisis rippling out from that area. The oil is seen by certain groups as a tradeable good, by others as a empirical or spiritual phenomenon, and by further factions – the zealous "highland figures" – as a source of malevolence; an insult that must be obliterated. The issue of its source, its significance, and if it should be eliminated or safeguarded is becoming urgent.
Like the original trilogy, Lyra's actions, and her fate, are revealed to be inextricably linked with the fate of the world
In its predecessor, these narratives ran largely in side by side. In the conclusion, they come together. Like the original series, the protagonist's actions and her path are shown to be inextricably entwined with the future of the realm. Her individual quest to reunite with her soul and recover her creativity becomes the primary conflict in a larger battle with an authoritarian regime which, as these systems typically do, is seeking to quell independence of thought, innovation and culture: all the internal, rebellious ways in which people can be free.
Dimensional Rifts and Philosophical Struggles
The novel starts with the unveiling of a series of unusual openings in the fabric of the planet's sky: portals that seem to open into different dimensions. One such opening appears to be the origin of the fiercely disputed botanical substance. The church, with Delamare at its helm, designates these portals as a threat to the religion's orthodoxy and endeavors to destroy them. As our protagonist begins to shift from strict reason and back to feeling, however, her certainty that these places must be preserved – that their significance and their value is in some way crucial – strengthens. "Dust, or the substance, or the imagination, or the field of roses, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a philosophical struggle between innocence and experience is set.
Narrative Pacing and Personal Evolution
At over six hundred pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
