Tings are falling apart in the last installment of The Book of Dust, the second of the author's masterful trilogies set in a realm that seems, now more than ever, as a energized and tilted version of our own. Establishments are failing, or reassembling themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An hidden force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Control is flowing away from governments, and pooling in the chambers of religious leaders, the treasuries of business empires, the control of crowds. "An element is at work, very quietly, very subtly", says trader a trader character, keeping a watchful eye on the ancient paths from his place in an city cafe. "Aspects we thought were stable and solid are deteriorating and collapsing."
The Central Mystery and Lyra's Journey
Precisely what that element might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that animates this final volume, which picks up where the previous book concluded. This is, according to many, Pullman's concluding venture into the intricately constructed, deeply captivating world he first unveiled in the distant past, with the publication of Northern Lights. It's a world whose terrain maps on to that of our world, but whose history diverges and shifts with ours; where the people appear and reason and act like us, but are paired by external spirits, souls in beast form; where the skies are populated with enchantresses and mythical beasts, but underneath, vehicles are taken and drinks is consumed, and middle-aged scholars carry fancy shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first introduced to as a child in the first trilogy, and then met once more as a toddler in the prequel, the prequel with which the author began The Book of Dust, is now a adult: still clearly the sharp and determined main character of the previous installments, but more mature, more sorrowful, more cautious, less sure. This restraint is amplified by her division from her daemon, her daemon – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which led him to leave her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
Pan's decision to depart in search of that innocent part of the heroine which she may have forgotten (an aspect which he epitomises as her "creativity"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of the prior book, which followed the protagonist undertake a adventurous voyage across Europe and into the Caucasus, facing with wonder and danger on the way. But from the beginning, profound shifts were in action, and sinister powers at work. The religious council – the faith's governing authority, and Pullman's brilliantly sinister representation of austere, bureaucratic malice – is under new leadership, and flexing its muscles. Marcel Delamare – our protagonist's relative, who holds responsible her for his sister's death – has manoeuvred himself into the office of head of the church's High Council, and is set on using his recently acquired power to extend the church's rule. A key character, who saved young Lyra to refuge along a overflowing Thames as an child in the prequel, is now an university scholar with a sideline in spycraft: he is sent to Geneva to discover more about his aims. And beneath all of this is the enigma surrounding the scarce and costly essential oil which seems mysteriously to be the source of a societal and economic crisis rippling out from the region. The oil is viewed by certain groups as a tradeable good, by others as a research-based or esoteric wonder, and by yet others – the extremist "mountain dwellers" – as a origin of malevolence; an challenge that must be obliterated. The dilemma of its origins, what it stands for, and if it should be removed or safeguarded is escalating in importance.
Like His Dark Materials, our protagonist's deeds, and her destiny, are shown to be inextricably linked with the destiny of the universe
In The Secret Commonwealth, these plots ran largely in parallel. In the conclusion, they converge. As in the original series, her movements and her path are revealed to be inseparably entwined with the future of the realm. Her individual journey to reconnect with her companion and rediscover her imagination becomes the key battleground in a larger battle with an oppressive government which, as these systems typically do, is attempting to suppress autonomy of thinking, originality and art: all the internal, rebellious ways in which individuals can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Philosophical Struggles
The story starts with the finding of a collection of unusual openings in the structure of the world's sky: windows that look to lead to alternate realities. One such opening manifests to be the point of the much debated rose oil. The Magisterium, with its leader at its head, labels these portals as a threat to the institution's beliefs and sets out to eliminate them. As Lyra begins to shift from strict reason and back to instinct, yet, her belief that these locations must be defended – that what they stand for and what they offer is mysteriously essential – grows. "Dust, or the extract, or the imagination, or the Rose Field, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a poetic struggle between naivety and knowledge is established.
Plot Rhythm and Protagonist Growth
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
