Things are collapsing in the last installment of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a world that seems, here more than ever, as a intense and tilted version of our own. Institutions are failing, or reorganizing themselves along new and troubling lines. An unseen force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Power is draining from authorities, and accumulating in the offices of theocrats, the coffers of corporations, the control of mobs. "Something is at work, very quietly, imperceptibly", says businessman a trader character, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Aspects we thought were stable and solid are deteriorating and giving way."
Key Puzzle and Lyra's Journey
Exactly what that something might be, and methods to fight it, is the inquiry that propels the concluding book, which continues where the previous book concluded. This is, by all accounts, Pullman's last excursion into the elaborately built, infinitely beguiling world he first unveiled three decades past, with the publication of the first trilogy. It's a world whose landscape aligns with that of the real world, but whose history veers and changes with ours; where the humans appear and think and act like us, but are joined by animal souls, essences in animal form; where the heavens are teeming with witches and mythical beasts, but below, vehicles are caught and tea is consumed, and middle-aged professors carry Harrods shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first encountered as a child in the first trilogy, and then met once more as a toddler in the first volume, the introductory book with which Pullman began the series, is now a adult: still recognisably the prickly and tenacious heroine of the prior volumes, but older, melancholic, warier, more doubtful. This restraint is amplified by her separation from her animal guide, her daemon – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which made him desert her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
His choice to leave in pursuit of that childlike part of her which she seems to have lost (an aspect which he represents as her "imagination"), and her journey to reunite with him, were the incitements of the prior book, which saw Lyra undertake a wandering trek across the continent and into the Caucasus, facing with marvel and peril on the way. But from the start, underlying forces were in motion, and sinister powers at work. The religious council – the church's ruling body, and the author's deliciously chilling representation of rigid, procedural evil – is under fresh command, and showing its strength. The antagonist – the heroine's relative, who blames her for his sibling's death – has worked himself into the role of president of the Magisterium's governing body, and is set on using his newfound authority to broaden the church's rule. A key character, who carried baby Lyra to refuge along a flooded Thames as an child in the prequel, is now an academic with a sideline in spycraft: he is sent to a key location to learn more about his intentions. And behind all of this is the mystery surrounding the rare and precious essential oil which seems mysteriously to be the source of a social and economic disturbance rippling out from that area. The substance is seen by certain groups as a marketable commodity, by alternate groups as a scientific or esoteric miracle, and by further factions – the fanatical "men from the mountains" – as a wellspring of evil; an affront that must be destroyed. The question of its origins, its meaning, and if it should be removed or protected is coming rapidly to the fore.
As in the first series, our protagonist's deeds, and her future, are demonstrated to be inextricably connected with the destiny of the realm
In The Secret Commonwealth, these narratives ran largely in parallel. In this final book, they converge. As in His Dark Materials, the protagonist's choices and her path are revealed to be inseparably woven with the future of the realm. Her individual journey to reconnect with her companion and recover her vision becomes the primary battleground in a larger battle with an authoritarian government which, as these systems often attempt, is attempting to quell independence of thought, creativity and art: all the personal, rebellious ways in which humans can be free.
Atmospheric Fissures and Ideological Conflicts
The novel starts with the finding of a set of curious fissures in the fabric of the world's air: windows that look to open into alternate realities. One such opening appears to be the source of the fiercely disputed mystical extract. The Magisterium, with Delamare at its helm, designates these windows as a threat to the institution's orthodoxy and aims to eradicate them. As our protagonist begins to turn away from rigid logic and back to feeling, yet, her belief that these sites must be defended – that their meaning and their value is in some way vital – strengthens. "The substance, or rose oil, or the imagination, or the botanical realm, or whatever we name it," she says, "we require it." The setting for a philosophical struggle between naivety and maturity is established.
Story Tempo and Protagonist Growth
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
