Things are falling apart in the last installment of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a world that manifests, here more than ever, as a energized and slanted version of our own. Institutions are weakening, or reassembling themselves along new and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Control is draining from authorities, and gathering in the halls of religious leaders, the vaults of conglomerates, the control of mobs. "An element is at work, very quietly, imperceptibly", says businessman Mustafa Bey, keeping a vigilant eye on the trade routes from his place in an city cafe. "Elements we thought were secure and solid are deteriorating and failing."
The Central Mystery and The Protagonist's Path
Exactly what that element might be, and methods to fight it, is the mystery that drives this final volume, which continues where The Secret Commonwealth concluded. This is, by all accounts, Pullman's final venture into the elaborately built, deeply captivating realm he first unveiled in the distant past, with the launch of the first trilogy. It's a world whose terrain maps on to that of this world, but whose past diverges and shifts with ours; where the people look and think and behave like us, but are paired by animal souls, essences in beast form; where the heavens are filled with enchantresses and gryphons, but underneath, buses are ridden and tea is consumed, and middle-aged academics carry fancy shopping bags. Our heroine, whom we first met as a child in the first trilogy, and then revisited as a baby in La Belle Sauvage, the origin story with which Pullman began the series, is now a mature individual: still recognisably the prickly and tenacious main character of the previous installments, but aged, melancholic, more cautious, less certain. This limitation is amplified by her separation from her animal guide, Pan – but it was also, ironically, the cause which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
Pan's decision to leave in search of that youthful part of Lyra which she may have forgotten (an quality which he epitomises as her "imagination"), and her mission to rejoin with him, were the catalysts of The Secret Commonwealth, which saw Lyra undertake a wandering journey across the continent and into the mountain region, facing with marvel and danger on the way. But from the start, profound shifts were in action, and darker forces at work. The Magisterium – the church's controlling power, and the author's brilliantly sinister incarnation of austere, bureaucratic evil – is under recent guidance, and flexing its muscles. The antagonist – Lyra's family member, who blames her for his sister's death – has positioned himself into the role of president of the church's ruling assembly, and is determined on using his newfound authority to expand the institution's control. A key character, who carried baby Lyra to refuge along a flooded river as an child in the prequel, is now an Oxford don with a secondary role in espionage: he is dispatched to a key location to learn more about the antagonist's plans. And behind all of this is the puzzle surrounding the uncommon and valuable botanical extract which manifests somehow to be the cause of a social and financial crisis rippling out from that area. The extract is seen by some as a tradeable good, by others as a research-based or mystical wonder, and by yet others – the zealous "men from the mountains" – as a wellspring of darkness; an challenge that must be obliterated. The dilemma of where it comes from, its meaning, and whether it should be eliminated or protected is becoming urgent.
Like His Dark Materials, our protagonist's deeds, and her destiny, are demonstrated to be inseparably entwined with the destiny of the world
In The Secret Commonwealth, these narratives ran largely in tandem. In The Rose Field, they merge. As in His Dark Materials, Lyra's movements and her fate are revealed to be inseparably entwined with the future of the world. Her individual quest to reunite with her daemon and rediscover her imagination becomes the key conflict in a wider conflict with an authoritarian government which, as such authorities typically do, is seeking to stifle autonomy of thought, innovation and culture: all the internal, defiant ways in which people can be liberated.
Atmospheric Fissures and Moral Battles
The story begins with the discovery of a series of strange openings in the fabric of the world's atmosphere: gateways that seem to lead to other worlds. A particular window seems to be the source of the highly contested botanical substance. The Magisterium, with Delamare at its head, designates these openings as a problem to the religion's doctrine and endeavors to destroy them. As our protagonist begins to shift from strict reason and revert to instinct, however, her belief that these sites must be protected – that their meaning and what they offer is somehow essential – strengthens. "Dust, or the extract, or the imagination, or the Rose Field, or no matter what we label it," she says, "it is necessary." The stage for a poetic tussle between innocence and maturity is established.
Narrative Pacing and Protagonist Growth
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
