Tings are unraveling in the last installment of The Dust Trilogy, the next of Philip Pullman's masterful trilogies set in a universe that seems, in this volume especially, as a energized and skewed version of our own. Establishments are failing, or restructuring themselves along unfamiliar and troubling lines. An unseen force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Authority is flowing away from states, and accumulating in the halls of theocrats, the vaults of corporations, the control of rioters. "Some force is at work, stealthily, imperceptibly", says trader a trader character, keeping a vigilant eye on the ancient paths from his seat in an city cafe. "Aspects we thought were stable and durable are weakening and giving way."
Core Enigma and The Protagonist's Path
Exactly what that element might be, and ways to oppose it, is the mystery that drives this final volume, which picks up where its predecessor left off. This is, reportedly, Pullman's concluding foray into the elaborately built, deeply captivating realm he first revealed in the distant past, with the launch of the first trilogy. It's a domain whose geography aligns with that of our world, but whose chronicles diverges and shifts with ours; where the individuals look and reason and act like us, but are joined by daemons, essences in creature form; where the skies are teeming with witches and mythical beasts, but underneath, transports are taken and drinks is drunk, and mature academics carry fancy shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first met as a child in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then saw again as a infant in the prequel, the prequel with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a young woman: still clearly the prickly and determined heroine of the prior volumes, but older, sadder, warier, less sure. This restraint is heightened by her separation from her daemon, Pan – but it was also, paradoxically, the catalyst which made him desert her in the first place.
Interwoven Plots
Pan's decision to go off in pursuit of that youthful part of her which she seems to have lost (an aspect which he represents as her "creativity"), and her quest to reunite with him, were the incitements of its predecessor, which chronicled the protagonist undertake a picaresque journey across Europe and into the mountain region, encountering with wonder and risk on the way. But from the beginning, deeper currents were in play, and malevolent elements at work. The church authority – the church's governing authority, and Pullman's deliciously chilling incarnation of austere, procedural evil – is under fresh command, and flexing its muscles. The antagonist – the heroine's family member, who faults her for his sister's death – has positioned himself into the role of head of the church's governing body, and is intent on using his recently acquired authority to extend the institution's dominium. Malcolm Polstead, who carried infant the heroine to refuge along a flooded Thames as an young boy in the prequel, is now an Oxford don with a secondary role in intelligence work: he is sent to a key location to discover more about the antagonist's plans. And underlying all of this is the enigma surrounding the rare and valuable rose oil which manifests somehow to be the cause of a social and economic crisis rippling out from the region. The extract is regarded by some as a tradeable commodity, by alternate groups as a scientific or esoteric phenomenon, and by others still – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a origin of darkness; an insult that must be destroyed. The issue of where it comes from, its significance, and if it should be eliminated or safeguarded is escalating in importance.
Similar to the first series, the heroine's deeds, and her future, are revealed to be inseparably connected with the fate of the world
In the previous volume, these narratives ran mostly in side by side. In the conclusion, they merge. Like the original series, Lyra's movements and her fate are shown to be deeply linked with the destiny of the world. Her personal quest to reconnect with her soul and rediscover her vision becomes the key conflict in a broader war with an controlling system which, as such authorities often attempt, is striving to suppress freedom of reason, originality and expression: all the internal, rebellious ways in which people can be free.
Dimensional Rifts and Ideological Conflicts
The book begins with the finding of a set of curious openings in the fabric of the world's sky: gateways that seem to lead to other worlds. A particular opening appears to be the source of the much debated botanical substance. The church, with Delamare at its head, classifies these openings as a threat to the institution's beliefs and sets out to eliminate them. As Lyra begins to move from strict reason and back to intuition, however, her conviction that these places must be protected – that what they stand for and their value is somehow vital – increases. "Cosmic particles, or rose oil, or the vision, or the field of roses, or whatever we label it," she says, "we need it." The scene for a Blakean struggle between innocence and maturity is prepared.
Narrative Pacing and Personal Evolution
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
