Things are collapsing in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the second 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. Organizations are failing, or reassembling themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Control is draining from states, and pooling in the halls of religious leaders, the coffers of corporations, the hands of crowds. "Something is at work, very quietly, gradually", says merchant a trader character, keeping a observant eye on the Silk Roads from his post in an city cafe. "Aspects we thought were stable and durable are weakening and failing."
Key Puzzle and Lyra's Journey
Precisely what that something might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that drives the concluding book, which picks up where The Secret Commonwealth left off. This is, reportedly, Pullman's concluding venture into the carefully crafted, endlessly enchanting realm he first introduced 30 years ago, with the release of the first trilogy. It's a world whose geography maps on to that of the real world, but whose past veers and changes with ours; where the people appear and reason and behave like us, but are paired by daemons, essences in beast form; where the air are populated with witches and mythical beasts, but underneath, vehicles are caught and tea is sipped, and mature academics carry luxury shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first introduced to as a young girl in the first trilogy, and then met once more as a toddler in the prequel, the introductory book with which Pullman began this trilogy, is now a adult: still recognisably the spiky and determined heroine of the previous installments, but more mature, sadder, more careful, more doubtful. This limitation is intensified by her separation from her animal guide, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the cause which made him desert her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
Pan's decision to depart in pursuit of that innocent part of Lyra which she appears to have shed (an quality which he epitomises as her "vision"), and her journey to reconnect with him, were the incitements of The Secret Commonwealth, which saw Lyra undertake a adventurous voyage across the continent and into the Caucasus, encountering with amazement and risk on the way. But from the start, profound shifts were in motion, and sinister powers at work. The religious council – the church's governing authority, and Pullman's deliciously chilling embodiment of rigid, procedural wickedness – is under fresh command, and asserting its power. Marcel Delamare – our protagonist's family member, who blames her for his sibling's death – has manoeuvred himself into the role of head of the church's High Council, and is set on using his fresh influence to broaden the religion's rule. A key character, who rescued infant Lyra to safety along a overflowing Thames as an young boy in La Belle Sauvage, is now an university scholar with a secondary role in intelligence work: he is sent to a key location to find out more about Delamare's intentions. And behind all of this is the puzzle surrounding the rare and precious essential oil which appears in some way to be the cause of a societal and financial disturbance rippling out from Central Asia. The substance is seen by some as a commercial commodity, by alternate groups as a research-based or esoteric wonder, and by others still – the extremist "men from the mountains" – as a source of evil; an challenge that must be eradicated. The question of where it comes from, what it stands for, and whether it should be destroyed or protected is becoming urgent.
As in His Dark Materials, our protagonist's deeds, and her fate, are shown to be inextricably entwined with the destiny of the world
In The Secret Commonwealth, these narratives ran broadly in parallel. In the conclusion, they converge. Like His Dark Materials, Lyra's movements and her path are shown to be inextricably entwined with the future of the universe. Her personal journey to reunite with her companion and rediscover her imagination becomes the key struggle in a wider conflict with an controlling regime which, as such regimes typically do, is attempting to suppress independence of thinking, innovation and art: all the internal, rebellious ways in which people can be liberated.
Dimensional Rifts and Philosophical Struggles
The book opens with the finding of a set of curious cracks in the makeup of the world's sky: gateways that appear to lead to other worlds. An example of a opening appears to be the point of the fiercely disputed mystical extract. The church, with the antagonist at its helm, designates these openings as a threat to the institution's orthodoxy and sets out to eradicate them. As our protagonist begins to move from rigid logic and back to instinct, yet, her certainty that these places must be preserved – that what they stand for and what they provide is somehow vital – increases. "The substance, or the substance, or the imagination, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we name it," she says, "it is necessary." The stage for a philosophical tussle between innocence and knowledge is established.
Plot Rhythm and Protagonist Growth
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
