Tings are unraveling in the concluding book of The Book of Dust, the next of Philip Pullman's grand trilogies set in a universe that manifests, here more than ever, as a energized and slanted version of our own. Institutions are crumbling, or restructuring themselves along new and troubling lines. An invisible force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Control is flowing away from authorities, and accumulating in the chambers of religious leaders, the coffers of conglomerates, the hands of mobs. "Some force is at work, very quietly, very subtly", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a vigilant eye on the Silk Roads from his post in an Aleppo cafe. "Things we thought were stable and solid are deteriorating and collapsing."
The Central Mystery and Lyra's Journey
Just what that something might be, and methods to fight it, is the mystery that animates the concluding book, which resumes where The Secret Commonwealth left off. This is, reportedly, Pullman's last foray into the elaborately built, endlessly enchanting realm he first introduced 30 years ago, with the launch of the first trilogy. It's a world whose terrain corresponds to that of the real world, but whose history veers and changes with ours; where the people appear and reason and behave like us, but are accompanied by external spirits, souls in animal form; where the skies are teeming with enchantresses and mythical beasts, but below, buses are caught and beverages is drunk, and middle-aged scholars carry fancy shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the original trilogy, and then revisited as a baby in La Belle Sauvage, the introductory book with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a mature individual: still recognisably the sharp and tenacious main character of the previous installments, but more mature, melancholic, more careful, less sure. This limitation is intensified by her division from her animal guide, Pan – but it was also, unexpectedly, the catalyst which made him desert her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
His choice to leave in quest of that youthful part of Lyra which she seems to have lost (an trait which he represents as her "imagination"), and her mission to reunite with him, were the driving forces of The Secret Commonwealth, which saw Lyra undertake a picaresque trek across the continent and into the mountain region, encountering with wonder and danger on the way. But from the start, profound shifts were in motion, and malevolent elements at work. The Magisterium – the church's governing authority, and Pullman's masterfully eerie incarnation of rigid, procedural malice – is under fresh command, and showing its strength. The antagonist – the heroine's family member, who faults her for his family member's death – has worked himself into the position of president of the authority's High Council, and is determined on using his recently acquired authority to broaden the church's control. Another protagonist, who saved young Lyra to safety along a flooded Thames as an young boy in the prequel, is now an university scholar with a additional duty in spycraft: he is sent to the city to learn more about his plans. And behind all of this is the mystery surrounding the rare and costly essential oil which manifests in some way to be the cause of a societal and economic disturbance emanating out from that area. The extract is regarded by certain groups as a marketable good, by alternate groups as a research-based or esoteric wonder, and by others still – the extremist "highland figures" – as a wellspring of darkness; an affront that must be eradicated. The issue of its origins, its meaning, and whether it should be destroyed or protected is escalating in importance.
Like the original trilogy, the heroine's deeds, and her destiny, are revealed to be inextricably entwined with the fate of the realm
In The Secret Commonwealth, these storylines ran mostly in parallel. In this final book, they come together. Similar to the first trilogy, Lyra's movements and her destiny are revealed to be inextricably woven with the destiny of the realm. Her personal quest to reunite with her soul and rediscover her creativity becomes the central conflict in a broader war with an controlling regime which, as these systems always have, is seeking to quell autonomy of thought, innovation and expression: all the personal, rebellious ways in which humans can be liberated.
Cosmic Openings and Philosophical Struggles
The story begins with the unveiling of a collection of unusual cracks in the fabric of the planet's sky: portals that look to give on to alternate realities. A particular opening seems to be the point of the fiercely disputed botanical substance. The authority, with the antagonist at its helm, classifies these windows as a threat to the church's orthodoxy and aims to destroy them. As our protagonist begins to turn away from rigid reason and back to instinct, nevertheless, her belief that these places must be preserved – that their meaning and what they offer is mysteriously essential – grows. "The substance, or rose oil, or the imagination, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we label it," she says, "we need it." The stage for a Blakean struggle between naivety and knowledge is established.
Story Tempo and Protagonist Growth
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
