Things are unraveling in the last installment of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's grand trilogies set in a universe that seems, in this volume especially, as a charged and slanted version of our own. Establishments are failing, or restructuring themselves along new and disturbing lines. An invisible force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Control is draining from states, and accumulating in the offices of theocrats, the treasuries of corporations, the grasp of mobs. "Some force is at work, very quietly, imperceptibly", says businessman a trader character, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his post in an Aleppo cafe. "Elements we thought were stable and solid are faltering and giving way."
Key Puzzle and The Protagonist's Path
Precisely what that something might be, and ways to oppose it, is the mystery that drives The Rose Field, which picks up where the previous book left off. This is, reportedly, the author's concluding excursion into the elaborately built, deeply captivating universe he first revealed in the distant past, with the launch of His Dark Materials. It's a realm whose landscape aligns with that of our world, but whose past veers and changes with ours; where the individuals appear and think and act like us, but are joined by daemons, souls in animal form; where the air are populated with sorceresses and legendary creatures, but below, transports are taken and beverages is consumed, and older academics carry fancy shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first introduced to as a child in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then revisited as a baby in the prequel, the prequel with which Pullman began the series, is now a young woman: still recognisably the spiky and persistent main character of the earlier books, but older, melancholic, more careful, less certain. This circumscription is heightened by her separation from her soul companion, Pantalaimon – but it was also, unexpectedly, the cause which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
Pan's decision to go off in pursuit of that childlike part of her which she may have forgotten (an quality which he represents as her "creativity"), and her quest to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of its predecessor, which chronicled the protagonist undertake a adventurous voyage across the continent and into the Caucasus, meeting with marvel and risk on the way. But from the outset, underlying forces were in motion, and malevolent elements at work. The religious council – the faith's governing authority, and Pullman's deliciously chilling incarnation of austere, procedural wickedness – is under new leadership, and flexing its muscles. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's relative, who faults her for his sister's death – has manoeuvred himself into the role of head of the authority's ruling assembly, and is set on using his newfound power to extend the religion's rule. Malcolm Polstead, who carried young the heroine to refuge along a overflowing Thames as an child in the prequel, is now an Oxford don with a secondary role in spycraft: he is sent to a key location to find out more about the antagonist's intentions. And underlying all of this is the enigma surrounding the scarce and valuable essential oil which seems in some way to be the origin of a social and financial crisis spreading out from that area. The oil is seen by some as a marketable good, by alternate groups as a empirical or esoteric phenomenon, and by yet others – the fanatical "highland figures" – as a wellspring of malevolence; an challenge that must be destroyed. The issue of its origins, its meaning, and if it should be eliminated or preserved is coming rapidly to the fore.
Similar to the original trilogy, the heroine's deeds, and her fate, are demonstrated to be inseparably linked with the future of the realm
In the previous volume, these storylines ran broadly in parallel. In the conclusion, they converge. Like His Dark Materials, Lyra's actions and her path are shown to be inextricably woven with the destiny of the universe. Her personal quest to rejoin with her daemon and recover her creativity becomes the primary struggle in a larger conflict with an authoritarian regime which, as such regimes often attempt, is striving to suppress independence of reason, creativity and art: all the personal, resistant ways in which individuals can be liberated.
Cosmic Openings and Moral Battles
The novel starts with the discovery of a series of unusual cracks in the makeup of the world's atmosphere: gateways that appear to lead to other worlds. One such window manifests to be the point of the much debated rose oil. The Magisterium, with the antagonist at its leadership, labels these openings as a challenge to the church's beliefs and endeavors to eliminate them. As the heroine begins to move from strict reason and revert to feeling, however, her conviction that these sites must be defended – that their meaning and their value is mysteriously essential – strengthens. "Dust, or the substance, or the creativity, or the Rose Field, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we need it." The scene for a Blakean tussle between naivety and knowledge is established.
Plot Rhythm and Personal Evolution
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
